The phone trembled in my hand as it rang, each tone stretching like an eternity in this nightmare haze. My knees still dug into the rough street gravel, the whispers of neighbors fading into a distant buzz. Unfaithful. Suicide. The words looped in my skull, poison I couldn't spit out. This couldn't be my life—Priya gone, her memory stained. Rajesh had to have answers; he always did, the steady one in our group, the guy who'd talk me down from any edge. The call connected, and his voice came through, heavy with something I couldn't place. "Arjun? Bro, it's you. What's going on?"
Silence stretched on his end after my desperate plea. I could hear his breathing, ragged, like he was bracing for impact. "Rajesh, please—tell me this is a joke. Priya... they say she's..." I couldn't finish, the words choking me.
Another pause, then a sigh that carried the weight of the world. "Arjun... man, I don't know how to say this without ripping the band-aid. She's gone. Suicide, they ruled it. But you know the truth—or at least, what we pieced together." His voice cracked, pained, like reliving it hurt him too. "It started with that water mafia case. Priya exposed them—her from the inside as collector, and digging up the dirt. Remember? The borewell thefts, the tankers siphoning aquifers. She was able to take down some low-level guys, but the big fish... they fought back dirty."
I leaned against a wall, the rough brick grounding me as the street spun. "What do you mean? She was suspended?"
"Yeah," he said bluntly, his tone turning grim. "Accusations hit like a storm. They said she had an affair—with some junior intern in her office, a guy tied to water policy NGOs. Photos leaked, chats 'found'—all fabricated, we think. But it spread fast: news channels, social media. 'Corrupt collector in bed with mafia links.' She fought it, denied everything, but the damage was done. Suspended pending inquiry. You stood by her, bro—got that new IT job to keep things afloat while she battled the smears. We all saw how it broke her, the shame, the isolation. Then... you found her with her wrist slit, a pool of blood beneath her chair. Overdose, they said. TV was still on when you called me—some channel rehashing the scandal, calling her unfaithful."
The phone slipped in my grip, tears blurring the screen. Unfaithful— that word again, a knife twisting. Priya, my rock, the one who'd proposed boldly in an auto. This narrative... it was a hit, engineered to destroy. "Who did this?" I growled, voice low.
Rajesh hesitated. "The mafia higher-ups. They sacrificed their small fry to look clean, then turned the screws on her for revenge. You know how it goes—money buys silence, fakes evidence. We tried digging after, but... it's deep, man."
The call ended with his promise: "Hang in there. We'll talk soon." But I was already numb, staggering back to the house. The empty rooms mocked me—echoes of a life shattered. In my old room, I collapsed at the desk, firing up the laptop. If this was real—or a dream's cruel mimic—I'd dissect it. Forensic mode: search history first. Tabs from weeks ago: "water mafia networks," "borewell regulations," drafts of reports I'd fed Priya anonymously. Notes on the aquifers, the tankers—evidence we'd used to crack the case.
Deeper: email archives. Threats buried in spam—anonymous warnings: "Back off or pay." Social media logs: the scandal's spread, viral posts with doctored photos of Priya and some faceless intern. Timestamps too perfect, shares exploding from bot accounts. It clicked—the mafia didn't just expose; they orchestrated. Sacrificed low-level "escape goats" to seem defeated, then launched this character assassination. Swift, total, designed to isolate her, drive her to the edge. My hands shook; grief solidified into rage. She hadn't been unfaithful—that was their poison pill.
I stood before her photo, the garland mocking me. Tears fell, but my voice steadied. "Priya, I couldn't save you here... in this dream, or prophecy, or whatever this is. But when I wake up, I swear, they are going to pay." The oath hung in the air, a vow etched in my soul.
No time for wallowing. I dialed the group—Aryan, Kamalesh, Rajesh, Vel. "Come over. Now. It's urgent." They arrived fast, bikes roaring into the yard. In the living room, faces grim, I laid it out—the evidence pieced from the laptop, the mafia's revenge plot. "This isn't just loss; it's murder by smear."
Silence fell, thick and tense. Then Aryan broke it: "You think we'd sit idle after this? What do you take us for—strangers?" Kamalesh nodded fiercely: "She was our sister-in-law. They messed with family." Rajesh: "We hunt them down—quiet, smart." Vel: "I've got contacts in real estate; those plots hide more than dirt."
The team forged in that moment—loyalty igniting like a spark to dry tinder. We mapped first steps: Aryan on tech traces, Kamalesh on police angles, Rajesh on forums, Vel on land records. As night fell, they split, bikes revving into the dark city, a montage of determination: Aryan speeding toward his lab, Kamalesh to old contacts, Rajesh vanishing into alleys, Vel toward shadowy deals. Truth awaited—and vengeance.