The scooter's engine coughed, sputtered, and died.
Rahul didn't move.
His hands gripped the seat so tightly his knuckles looked like bone. His eyes locked on the building ahead—the cracked walls, peeling paint, and a rusted sign that swayed in the faint morning breeze.
Daily Truth Newspaper.
Too many people. Far too many.
Every face looked like a threat. Every passing glance burned like recognition. His chest clenched as his thoughts spiraled.
What if someone recognizes me? What if my face is already on the front page in there?
"Oi, Rajesh!"
Rahul flinched. The name didn't register immediately.
Devaraj Sen was already off the scooter, striding toward the entrance with the lazy authority of someone who owned the place. A half-burned cigarette dangled from his lips.
"You coming or what? I don't have all day."
Rahul's throat went dry. His legs turned to stone.
Run. Just run. Get out of here while you still can.
But he couldn't.
Two security guards stood at the entrance, their khaki uniforms half-buttoned, eyes dull but watchful. One of them was reading a newspaper. If Rahul bolted now, they'd notice. Question him. Maybe even stop him. In front of a journalist office, no less—where suspicion was an everyday sport.
If I run, I look guilty. If I stay, I might get caught. If I—
"Boy!"
Devaraj's voice cut through the panic like a blade. He flicked his cigarette to the ground and crushed it under his shoe, irritation sharp in his tone.
Rahul swallowed bile. It's safer inside. For now. Just stay calm.
He forced his body to move.
One step. Then another.
He slung his bag over his shoulder; the infected wound beneath his shirt screamed in protest, hot pain flashing down his arm. He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.
The security guards didn't even glance at him as he entered.
Inside, chaos ruled. Reporters darted through the lobby, notebooks in hand, phones ringing in every corner. Somewhere, a typewriter clacked with desperate rhythm. The air was thick with the smells of cigarette smoke, old ink, and chai that had boiled too long on a stove.
"Morning, Dev sir!"
"Good morning, sir!"
"Sir, about that municipal scandal—"
Devaraj brushed them all aside with a grunt, not breaking stride. He moved through the room like a shark through a reef—effortless, commanding, and slightly dangerous.
Rahul followed close behind, head down. Sweat trickled down his back despite the ceiling fans spinning lazily above.
Don't look up. Don't make eye contact. Just keep walking.
They turned down a narrow corridor lined with frosted-glass doors. At the end, Devaraj pushed one open.
The cabin was a mess. Newspapers were stacked in teetering piles, old files burst from drawers, and the ceiling fan groaned with every rotation. A couple of chai glasses sat forgotten on the windowsill, brown rings marking their long stay. The stale mix of coffee, smoke, and dust clung to the air like a second skin.
A nameplate caught the weak sunlight filtering through the blinds:
DEVARAJ SEN
Criminal & Crime Journalism Department
Rahul's stomach twisted. Crime journalism. Of course. Perfect.
Devaraj dumped his bag on the desk with a thud and pointed to the chair opposite. "Sit."
Rahul obeyed, clutching his own bag like a lifeline.
Devaraj rummaged through a drawer, muttering curses until he pulled out a sheet of paper and a pen. He slid them across the desk.
"What's your name?"
Rahul froze. His mind blanked out.
"Ra…"
The sound slipped before he could stop it.
Devaraj's eyes lifted. "Ra...?"
Panic clawed up Rahul's throat. Manish Sir's voice echoed in his head, urgent and low:
"From today onwards, your name is Rajesh Mishra. You're my nephew. Don't forget it. Not even for a second."
He forced the words out. "Ra... Rajesh. Rajesh Mishra."
The lie tasted like rust.
Devaraj studied him for a long, quiet moment—the kind of look reserved for liars and suspects. "Nervous?"
Rahul tried to smile, his voice trembling. "First time applying for a job, sir."
"Hmm." Devaraj began writing. "You'll get used to it. Or you won't. Most don't last here."
He signed something and pushed the paper back.
Rahul read it slowly, his heart stuttering with every word.
JOB APPOINTMENT LETTER
Position: Junior Reporter
Department: Criminal & Crime Journalism
Effective Immediately
He blinked. A job? He's actually hiring me?
His hands shook as he held the paper. The inner voice whispered, dark and amused:
You're a fugitive accused of murder... and now you're joining the crime desk. Congratulations. Irony just died laughing.
His pulse thundered in his ears. He could already see the headline:
ACCUSED MURDERER CAUGHT INSIDE DAILY TRUTH OFFICE.
"Something wrong?"
Devaraj's tone snapped him back.
"N-no, sir. Just surprised. Didn't expect to be hired so quickly."
Devaraj leaned back, lit another cigarette, and blew a thin stream of smoke toward the ceiling. "Manish called me two days ago. Said you needed work. Said you were smart but... a little lost. We're short-staffed. Crime doesn't sleep, and neither do we. You want the job or not?"
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
"Don't thank me yet," Devaraj muttered. "You'll be covering petty thefts, drunk fights, domestic nonsense. The boring crap no one else touches. Think you can handle that?"
"Yes, sir."
Devaraj's eyes narrowed through the haze. "You look like hell. Haven't slept?"
"I... I've been traveling," Rahul murmured. "Long journey."
Devaraj nodded slightly, still watching him. The silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable.
Then—
THUD.
Rahul flinched. Pain shot up his wounded arm.
A young man, maybe mid-twenties, stumbled into the cabin, arms full of files. Papers exploded everywhere, fluttering like panicked birds.
Devaraj didn't even glance up. "Soma! What the hell, yaar? Still drunk from last night?"
The man—Soma—flushed red. His shirt was wrinkled, hair sticking up like it had fought with gravity and lost. "S-sorry, sir! I was just—excited. Lost my balance."
He scrambled to collect the scattered pages and dumped them on the desk, nearly toppling an ashtray. His eyes gleamed with manic energy.
"Sir! New case! It's insane!"
Devaraj sighed. "You say that every week."
"No, sir, this one's different." Soma jabbed a finger at the top page. "Police found human organs stuffed inside a puppet doll near the city outskirts. They said it's the most brutal killing they've seen—heart, everything removed."
The room went still.
Rahul froze. The words echoed through the air like a curse. The floor seemed to tilt under him.
His heartbeat thundered louder than the newsroom outside.
Not again.
He couldn't tell if it was the sound of his pulse... or his entire world cracking apart.
To be continued...