The city never seemed so small as when Rajiv walked its streets that morning. Every corner, every office building, every marble staircase held echoes of the people who had looked down on him, who had dismissed his existence, who had believed their wealth and caste made them untouchable. Those same people would soon discover that power was only as untouchable as they allowed it to be.
Rajiv's first target was a cluster of ministers and bureaucrats who had systematically siphoned public funds. He didn't attack blindly. Each lawsuit was meticulously prepared, each piece of evidence cross-checked, every loophole that had protected them stripped away. It was like a chess game, but instead of pawns, he had truth, logic, and justice.
The courtroom became his battlefield. He moved like a predator—calm, observant, deadly precise. Every corrupt minister who had once laughed at the sight of a young, orphaned boy trembled now at the sight of him. Rajiv's reputation had preceded him; whispers of "the orphan who humiliated Saxena" spread through the bureaucracy like wildfire.
The first case was brutal in its execution. Rajiv exposed a minister who had diverted funds for a children's welfare program into personal offshore accounts. The irony wasn't lost on him: children, the very symbol of innocence the system claimed to protect, had once suffered because of men like this. And now, through Rajiv, the law became their voice.
He didn't rely solely on documents. Psychological precision was his secret weapon. In every cross-examination, he cornered his opponents, forcing them to reveal their lies, their arrogance, their greed. Publicly, they had projected confidence. Privately, under his scrutiny, they collapsed. The courtroom cameras captured every twitch, every forced smile, every bead of sweat.
But Rajiv's work didn't end with exposure. He ensured punishment followed—asset freezes, criminal charges, and legal sanctions. Every case was a message: no one, not caste, not money, not connections, could shield themselves from the law when wielded with intellect and determination.
And while the ministers fell, industrialists were next. Benami accounts, shell companies, hidden transfers—Rajiv uncovered them all. He methodically traced every rupee back to its origin, dismantling the network of deceit. Every revelation hit the news, sending tremors through the corridors of power. Boardsrooms were no longer safe; corridors of bureaucracy no longer a refuge.
He remembered the humiliation of his IAS interview vividly—the condescending tone, the hidden smirk. That memory was fuel. Every corrupt official, every industrialist, felt the weight of their past arrogance as Rajiv's methodical dismantling continued.
Rajiv's approach was surgical. He didn't merely destroy reputations; he exposed them in their entirety, leaving no corner unexamined. For some, it was financial ruin; for others, it was public disgrace. He made sure that the very things they believed made them untouchable—their wealth, positions, and influence—crumbled under the weight of accountability.
By the end of the month, a pattern had emerged. The system that had once rejected him, humiliated him, and used caste and connections as shields for injustice, was now frantically trying to plug holes in a dam that Rajiv himself had created. And like a patient architect of chaos, he watched.
Every night, alone in his apartment, he revisited the faces of those who had wronged him. But there was no malice, only cold calculation. "Justice isn't revenge," he whispered. "Justice is precision, patience, and inevitability."
Rajiv's phone buzzed—a tip about another politician attempting to divert land meant for public housing into a private real estate project. He smiled. The game was just beginning. Each player who thought themselves above the law would soon understand that the orphan they had dismissed had become the storm they could not survive.