The city believed in cameras.
Ayaan didn't.
He sat alone in his room, lights off, the glow of his screen carving shapes out of the darkness. Code moved under his fingers like instinct—no pauses, no second guesses. He entered the public CCTV grid first.
Nothing.
Static. Corrupted feeds. Missing frames. Convenient gaps.
He let out a quiet breath through his nose. Predictable.
Systems didn't fail by accident.
So he expanded the search.
Private networks. Residential routers. Unregistered feeds. Devices never meant to testify.
One house. Two streets away. An old camera. Low resolution. Forgotten by updates and oversight.
There.
The night played back—not as memory, but as data.
A couple walking. Soft laughter. A moment so ordinary it almost hurt to watch.
Then movement.
Figures peeling out of the dark.
Hands. Panic. Resistance.
One face stood out.
The boy who grabbed her wrist.
Not the loudest. Not the one giving orders. The fastest.
The one who moved first.
Ayaan paused the frame.
Zoomed in.
Saved it.
The next day at school unfolded like any other.
Teachers praised him. Friends asked for help with assignments. Someone joked that he should work for the government someday.
Ayaan smiled when required.
At lunch, he sat in the library, fingers resting on the spine of a book he'd already read. History. Revolutions. Consequences recorded years later by people who never bore the cost.
After sunset, he went home.
Dinner. Casual conversation. Television murmuring in the background.
Normal.
Then he returned to his room and locked the door.
He didn't make the call right away.
He reviewed everything again.
Name.Age.Address.Patterns.
The boy wasn't remarkable. That was the point.
Odd jobs. No criminal record. Shared housing. A life built on the assumption of invisibility.
Ayaan opened a private file. Then named it 'Justice' and saved all the information.
He activated the secure line.
Ariyan answered on the second ring.
"I knew you'd call," Ariyan said.
"Good," the distorted voice replied. "That means you're ready to listen."
Ayaan spoke with measured calm.
"He's twenty-two. Lives three blocks from the river. Works nights twice a week. Walks home alone."
Ariyan's breathing steadied.
"He was the one," VOID continued. "The first hand. The decision."
"Are you sure?" Ariyan asked.
"There is no doubt," VOID said. "Doubt belongs to people who don't bury bodies."
Silence followed.
Then Ariyan asked, quietly, "What do I do?"
Ayaan leaned back in his chair.
"You live your life tomorrow," VOID said. "Go to work. Eat. Sleep."
"And then?"
"Tomorrow night," VOID replied, "I'll tell you when to move."
Ariyan swallowed. "And if I fail?"
"You won't."
"How do you know?"
Because the plan already accounted for failure—but VOID didn't say that.
Instead, it said, "Justice doesn't gamble."
The line disconnected.
Ayaan stared at the ceiling, hands folded across his chest.
No guilt.
No fear.
Only certainty.