"Aarav, try to complete these tasks before the end of the day, or else you won't be able to get any form of justice for you or your family," J.A.D.E. said, steady and without pity.
The words landed like a cold hand on his neck. Arjun felt the full absurdity of it — a day to live, a list of exercises, and the fate of his old family tied to a score sheet. Beneath the outrage there was a thin thread of something else: responsibility. Guilt carved itself into purpose.
He stood. His knees protested. The suite's silent luxury felt obscene. He had one thing to do first. "Before the tasks, there is one thing I have to do as a responsible son," he told the empty room.
The night air of Mumbai cut into him as he slammed the suite door. He ran for the elevator, fingers pressing the button until it chimed. The doors parted, and for a breath he froze—no keycard. Panic rose as he patted every pocket. Empty.
A bellboy noticed and hurried over. "Sir, need help?"
"I… just to the lobby," Arjun said, voice raw.
The boy nodded and tapped the elevator control. Ting. The doors opened onto the lobby. The Taj's grandeur—chandeliers, polished marble, the faint scent of roses—made him feel smaller, not elevated. He didn't look around. He pushed through the revolving doors into the humid night.
A black Porsche 911 eased up to the curb, the engine a low, predatory purr. The paint drank the lamp-light; the silhouette was perfect. Valet Walley stepped out and extended a key. "Sir—your car. I brought it up."
Arjun's eyes flicked over the machine. A 3.0‑litre twin‑turbo's promise hummed in its body; the leather seats, the polished dashboard, the way the hood fell away into the street — all temptation. He should have paused. He didn't. He took the keys, slid into the driver's seat, and felt the strange, unfamiliar comfort of a life he had never lived.
He knew the route by instinct and grief: the spot on the main road where his life had been ripped away. The streets were empty, near‑silent—3:00 a.m. in a sleeping city. He drove hard and fast, not for pleasure but to close the distance between then and now.
"Drive slowly," J.A.D.E. said, voice cool and faint. "It would be ironic to survive one life, only to…"
"Shut up," he snapped, gripping the wheel. The memory of headlights, the wheelchair spinning, his mother's scream pushed him forward.
At the location everything looked ordinary. No cones, no blood, no photographs. A commuter's lane stretched on like any other stretch of tarmac. The markers were gone; the city had already swallowed the night's violence whole. He knelt on the road, palms on hot asphalt, and let grief come uninvited.
"J.A.D.E., where is my mother? I need to see her. I need to say goodbye." His voice cracked.
For a long moment the AI stayed quiet. Then, softly: "It is too late, Arjun. Her soul has moved on."
"I don't want miracles. I only want a last duty," he said. "Where is she now?"
"Very well," J.A.D.E. replied at last. "But be prepared. Seeing the past will not undo it."
He climbed back into the Porsche and drove to Bandra Police Station. The black car drew attention like heat draws flies; night‑shift constables straightened. A man stepping from a Porsche at that hour was not a common thing. They watched him approach.
"Where are the bodies from the accident on the main road?" Arjun demanded.
A constable checked him quickly, then shrugged. "If it's an accident case, they were sent to Bandra Government Hospital for post‑mortem. Nothing special, sir."
The man's tone was casual, the kind of detachment made of routine and paperwork. When one of the constables noticed the set of keys and the look on Arjun's face he blinked, then looked back to the car as if reassessing who stood before him. A silent warning. Arjun didn't care for the warning. He drove to the hospital.
Government Hospital, Bandra, Mumbai
The hospital corridors were clinical and cold. It was nearly six in the morning; staff moved with half‑asleep feet. Most turned their heads away when he asked; bureaucracy and exhaustion made them blunt.
When asked about the situation, all were pointed towards Mortuary ward, which was closed or "I Don't Know" answers
One ward boy, smaller and faster than the rest, caught Arjun's eye as he scuffed past.
Arjun pulled his aside to ask his assistance.
"Please… I need to know about the accident. It's important," Arjun said, his voice low.
The boy looked at him, then away. Arjun loosened the leather strap from his wrist—an expensive watch he had no business wearing—and slid it into his palm. The gesture was clumsy, pleading.
The boy stared at the watch, then at Arjun. He swallowed. "Wait here," he said. A few whispered calls later, he returned with a face that had been softened by mercy and by the small bribery of a piece of luxury.
"They were orphans, sir," the boy said, voice thin. "Police brought them in. Post‑mortems were done—fast. Names recorded. Hospital planned a cremation tomorrow, but… there wasn't any family. They were prepared for disposal earlier than usual. The staff… they assumed no one would come. There was a task to fetch papers last evening; everything was so rushed, so they moved them to the burning ground the same day."
It hit Arjun like wind knocked loose. The world inside him folded down to one narrow point of unbearable cold.
"No," he whispered. "No. That can't be — they couldn't just—"
"They did," the ward boy said, eyes avoiding his. "Nobody looked for them. They were burnt."
Arjun doubled over on the cold tiles. Sound left him. For several breaths he didn't know which was sharper—the grief at the loss, or the anger at the casual efficiency with which the city had disposed of lives.
J.A.D.E. was quiet. "I am sorry," she said finally.
"Sorry doesn't—" He broke the sentence. There were no words that could stitch that raw place back together.
He rose like a man carrying a weight and told himself he would still do the last thing he could: visit the cremation site. He drove to the gates as dawn began to grey the sky. The yard was closed; the main gate padlocked and the staff were not due until nine. He paced once, then twice. The Porsche idled, patient and indifferent.
He sat down on the pavement outside the locked gate and leaned his back against cold metal. A thin wind cut across his face, drying tears he hadn't realized were falling. Around him, Mumbai woke up—rickshaw horns, vendors, a morning commuter fixing his scarf—but the world's ordinary life felt obscene beside the small, terrible business of his own.
He thought of his mother—the hands that had smoothed his hair, the way she whispered courage into him. He thought of the promises he'd made on old nights when they'd counted dreams like prayers. All of it, apparently, fit into paperwork and a burnt heap without ceremony.
The keys in his pocket felt heavy as judgement. The Porsche gleamed in the dull light, magnificent and useless. He had a car that could outrun any thought—but none of its speed could outrun the empty space inside him.
Dawn brightened. The gate would not open until nine. He sat, body numb, mouth dry, and waited. Waiting, he found his resolve hardening into something like promise.
I will survive, he told himself without irony. I will deliver justice. I will not fail again.
The city moved around him, indifferent and stubborn. He remained, a single figure on the pavement, waiting for the gate to unlock and for the last thing he could do for the life that mattered to him.