The alley behind the South Kolkata nightclub smelled of damp concrete and stale perfume, but it was nothing compared to the stench of fear that clung to Anjali. Fourteen years old, a girl whose laughter once rang through her small home like chimes, she now shivered in a borrowed cardigan, eyes too large, too hollow, staring at a world that had betrayed her.
Rajiv Sen arrived on foot, the monsoon rain making the streets shine like wet glass. He had known, from the whispers in the police station and the careful surveillance of his Brotherhood, that the "Golden Boys" — the entitled sons of ministers, bureaucrats, and industrialists — had chosen their prey not out of impulse but with the arrogance of those who believed laws applied only to others.
He found her sitting on the floor of the single-room home, clutching a plastic bag of schoolbooks. One of the books had a tear, and on it, smeared pencil marks, as if even the paper had cried. Her small shoulders shook under the weight of her own disbelief.
"They told me to keep quiet," she whispered, voice breaking. "They said if I spoke, they would—" she couldn't finish. The words hung in the air, heavy as iron.
Rajiv knelt before her, careful not to overwhelm. "Anjali," he said gently, "look at me." His eyes burned with quiet fire. "You did nothing wrong. None of this is your fault. None of it. And those who did this… they will answer."
Tears traced silent rivers down her cheeks. Rajiv's chest tightened — not with anger, but with the weight of injustice he had seen since childhood. He remembered the orphanage, the walls of St. Jude's, the way the system had treated him as less than human. He remembered the IAS betrayal, the officials who laughed, sneered, and acted as if they were gods. And now, here was another child crushed by that same arrogance.
"They are untouchable," Anjali whispered, almost to herself. "They can do whatever they want."
Rajiv's hands clenched. "Untouchable? No." His voice was low, a growl buried under control. "They are not gods. They are made of flesh, just like you and me. And flesh can bleed. Bones can break. And laws… laws can touch them where they think they're safe."
He rose, stepping into the open alley, letting the rain wash over him, feeling the anger coil in his stomach. The five boys — Aaryan Deshmukh, Kunal Singhania, Rohan Mehta, Devraj Patil, and Siddharth Rao — had grown up shielded by wealth, by connections, by family names that meant the system would always bend for them. But Rajiv had seen the cracks. Every bribe, every cover-up, every false transfer had left a thread, a weak link. And he would pull them all.
He visualized the investigation, the trial. Not just the boys, but every man who made them believe they were untouchable: the sub-inspector who ignored the CCTV, the hospital director who buried the medical records, the bureaucrat who transferred the honest investigator to a remote post, the minister who smiled while giving their sons impunity. Each thread connected to the Golden Boys, each thread vulnerable.
Anjali flinched at a memory, her hands trembling. Rajiv let her cry, let the storm inside her be witnessed. He would not rush healing, but he would ensure justice. Her pain was the spark; his resolve was the fire.
"The first thing we do," he said, "is make sure they cannot hide behind their fathers, their money, their offices. Every cover-up they think is untouchable… I will expose it."
He outlined the plan silently, a mental chessboard. Akash, his police brother, would provide insider access. Sameer, the clerk in the Land Revenue Department, would dig through shell companies and paper trails. Dev, in audit, would trace the hidden accounts. Every step precise, every move surgical. He would dismantle the network not just to punish the boys, but to make the system itself taste its own corruption.
The child looked up at him, hope mingled with fear. "Will they pay?" she asked, voice fragile.
Rajiv smiled, not in joy, but in certainty. "They will. They will pay. Not just the boys — everyone who let this happen. Every man who laughed, every woman who turned away, every official who thought their badge made them gods. The system betrayed you, Anjali, but it will not escape me. I will tear it brick by brick, till it bleeds as we have."
He placed a hand on her shoulder. "You are not alone. And soon, neither will they be."
The rain fell harder, soaking him to the skin, but Rajiv barely felt it. His mind was already in the courtrooms, the offices, the secret ledgers. He saw the ministers flinch when confronted with their sons' deeds. He saw bureaucrats sweating under cross-examination. He saw industrialists realizing their money, their shell companies, their supposed immunity — all meaningless against a mind that never forgot, never forgave.
Anjali whispered, "Thank you."
"No," Rajiv said, voice firm, "thank me only when justice is done. Until then… you survive, and I hunt."
That night, he walked the streets alone, observing every patrol, every office, every path the Golden Boys could hide behind. Every laugh, every sneer from the so-called untouchables burned in him. And for the first time in months, he allowed himself a small, cold smile. They had no idea what was coming.
By dawn, the plan was complete in his mind. Investigations, evidence gathering, legal pressure — everything ready to strike like a guillotine. And Rajiv knew one immutable truth: the system that had betrayed him and every child like Anjali could not survive the precision of his vengeance.
This wasn't just about punishment. This was about exposing the illusion — the lie that wealth, power, and lineage make a man untouchable. And Rajiv Sen would make sure everyone who ever believed that lie learned what real accountability looked like.
He returned to the empty streets, feeling the city wake around him. Somewhere in the distance, the Golden Boys laughed, thinking their impunity eternal. Rajiv's eyes narrowed. Their laughter would not last. Every stone they thought would protect them would crumble under the weight of truth, evidence, and the mind of a man who had never forgotten, never forgiven, and now, never would.