December, 2007.

  The evening light fell across the neighborhood park like someone had smeared gold on grass.

  Children ran from one corner to the other— loud, bright and alive. Their parents sat on benches, half-laughing, half-tired, but all of them shared one thing— an unsettled glance towards the swing.

  He sat alone.

  A twelve year old kid in a hospital gown too thin for winter. The gown was smeared with dried blood, and the faint brown of dirt.

  But something about him was too quiet— like hunger was eating him up from inside, but he still managed to smile.

  A small, gentle smile that a kid should not know how to make.

  The kind that felt rehearsed.

  He looked at all the children, and for a moment— just a moment— he looked happy simply because they were.

  And then a sound broke the evening.

  A tiny thud.

  And a gasp.

  A five year old boy— round cheeks, trembling lips— hit the ground after tripping near a slide.

  His knees scraped open, skin tearing just enough to reveal a thick shine of red blood.

  The parents stirred, but before anyone could react, the boy on the swing was already on the move.

  The hospital gown fluttered behind him, bare feet slapping against the dust.

  He instantly slid to his knees beside the crying child the way that somehow felt fake.

  "What's your name?" He asked softly.

  The kid sniffled, "M-Mihir…"

  The older boy nodded, the same smile stuck to his face like it was stuck there.

  "I'm Sahil. Sahil Malhotra."

  He gently brushed off the dust from the kid's knees, looking at the bloodstains for too long.

  "Does it hurt, Mihir?"

  Mihir tried to be brave— the same way kids always try to. He shook his head too fast, like he could not accept the pain at all.

  But that's when Sahil's expressions changed.

  Not slowly… neither humanly.

  The smile twisted, like a mask peeled off in one quick movement.

  Before Mihir could speak, Sahil drove his thumb straight into the raw scrape.

  The word shrunk into a single sound— Mihir's scream. High, sharp, rising so fast it seemed like it would tear the sky open.

  The playground froze.

  The parents stood.

  And then— only silence.

  The scream died mid-air, choked by shock or terror— no one truly knew.

  But the quiet that followed was worse.

  Because in that quiet, Sahil laughed.

  A bright, delightful sound.

  It was like he never tasted anything sweeter.

  ——————————————

  2019, Early months.

  Harinarayan’s office always smelled like old registers and phenyl—the kind of room where every secret feels out of place.

  Sahil sat across the wooden desk, feet nervously tapping against the floor in a rhythm he tried to hide behind his gentle smile.

  Harinarayan typed something on his laptop, eyes squinting behind his glasses.

  Finally, he leaned back.

  “Sahil… born on 4th of May.”

  He scrolled again, then looked up with a subdued but impressed nod.

  “You’ve got the talent. And your records are… spotless.”

  He pushed his chair back, extended his hand across the desk.

  “Welcome to the orphanage, son.”

  Sahil shook his hand with both of his, holding it a little longer than normal—warm, soft-eyed, almost grateful. The kind of handshake that made people trust you.

  He stepped out of the office, closing the door gently behind him.

  But the warm smile stayed.

  Only when he reached the empty corridor did he take out his phone.

  A faint voice was already on the other side—he had never disconnected the call.

  Sahil lifted the phone to his ear and whispered, in a tone completely different from the one he used inside.

  “Good job. He didn’t find a thing.”

  He ended the call and slid the phone back into his pocket with the same soft smile—just as a small boy came sprinting past him, laughing, chasing a paper plane.

  Sahil’s eyes didn’t even blink.

  His foot simply shifted—half an inch, maybe less.

  The boy’s leg collided with Sahil’s shoe.

  He fell forward, palms scraping the floor.

  A startled yelp.

  Tears brimming.

  But Sahil didn’t look back.

  Didn’t slow down.

  Didn’t acknowledge anything.

  He just kept walking down the corridor, with calmness as if nothing had happened.

  ——————————————

  Sunlight slipped through the orphanage classroom.

  Tara D'Souza sat on the first bench, writing out all the notes on the board even when no one was there.

  Her hair was messy, with sunlight lighting her face like she was an angel.

  All the other children made the classroom a place swallowed with chaos and laughter.

  But, there was one boy who was not a part of it.

  Ronak Chaturvedi.

  His gaze couldn't move from Tara, her bare look being a treat to his eyes.

  He walked to her, looking at her wrist with nervousness.

  A spiral tattoo burned into her wrist and ink embedded deep in her skin.

  The fresh tattoo made her wrist swollen and red.

  "Uh… does it hurt?"

  Ronak asked, shivering the moment she looked into his eyes.

  "Pain is temporary, you know?" She smiled, a bright but staged one.

  Ronak smiled awkwardly, and ran back to his seat— talking to her felt like a war too.

  The very next moment, the door creaked open.

  Sahil walked in.

  A five-year-old sat on his shoulders, laughing freely, clutching Sahil’s hair. Sahil held a bunch of balloons—bright reds and yellows.

  He lowered the child gently and began handing out the balloons one by one, smiling warmly at each kid, as if he knew every single heartbeat in the room.

  He clapped his hands once.

  “Today we enact a scene from the Ramayana! Rama versus Ravana!”

  Instant excitement. Desks shook. Several kids jumped.

  “For Ravana…” Sahil scanned the class, raising an eyebrow. A tiny boy lifted his hand, eager. Sahil laughed softly and chose him.

  “And who will play Rama?” he asked.

  Every child raised their hands at once.

  But Sahil’s eyes had already found someone.

  A small girl in the third row—shy, quiet, almost invisible. But her eyes were bright, lit with a kind of excitement she didn’t know how to express. She raised her hand a little slower, but with more hope.

  Sahil walked to her and held her hand gently.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  The girl stared at him as if the world had narrowed to just his smile. Not a single word came out of her mouth.

  “She’s Anaya,” a voice said from the back.

  Sahil turned.

  “And your name?” he asked, still smiling.

  “Ronak,” the boy replied, shoulders tensed.

  And as Sahil thanked him, the play began.

  The children cheered. Wooden swords clacked. Anaya, playing Rama, smiled shyly as she lifted her small cardboard bow with proud seriousness.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Then it happened.

  The boy playing Ravana swung his wooden sword wide and accidentally grazed Anaya’s arm. A thin line of blood trickled down her skin.

  Sahil’s eyes locked onto it.

  The scratch.

  The slow form of blood.

  The tiny flinch of pain.

  He stared—too long, too still—his pupils dilating the way a starving man stares at food. Something inside him shivered, not in fear but pleasure.

  But then—

  “Sir! Sir!” Ronak’s voice snapped through the moment. “She’s bleeding!”

  Sahil blinked. The trance broke.

  He rushed forward, kneeling next to Anaya.

  “Oh—oh no. Let me see.”

  He held her arm, and without thinking, pressed the wound a little too hard.

  Anaya winced sharply.

  Sahil froze, then immediately softened his touch.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart. You’re very brave,” he said, his tone warm.

  He reached into his pocket and handed her a small toffee. "This is for being strong."

  As Anaya smiled shyly—holding her toffee like treasure—and Ronak watched her with worry.

  Sahil stood a little behind them.

  Still smiling.

  ——————————————

  A few weeks later, the orphanage had turned into chaos. The children played football in the dust, shouting, kicking, running with all the energy the day had left in them.

  Sahil stood among them, playing along. A pair of wireless earphones rested in his ears, invisible beneath his messy hair.

  From them a leaked faint, muffled audio— broken cries, strained breathing, the trembling whimpers of people in pain. He nodded slightly, almost to the rhythm of the suffering.

  But he kept on playing with the kids normally. Until—

  “Sahil sir!”

  The voice snapped behind him.

  Sahil jolted as though pulled from deep water. His hand shot to his ear, shoving the earphones into his pocket in one smooth motion before turning around.

  Ronak stood there — fingers fidgeting with each other, eyes darting everywhere except at Sahil’s face.

  “Ronak?” Sahil asked gently, wiping the warmth back. “Everything okay?”

  “Uh… can we talk? Just… somewhere else?”

  He looked nervous. Sahil nodded and followed him toward the back corridor, far from the children and the sounds.

  Ronak took a breath as if preparing himself. “Sir… Anaya really likes you. I mean—she trusts you. So I thought… maybe I should tell you.”

  His voice grew smaller. “Anaya said something about… herself. And I don’t know what to do or how to react.”

  Sahil lowered himself slightly, tilting his head with patient concern — the perfect teacher.

  “What did she tell you?”

  Ronak hesitated, swallowing hard. “She… she said she likes girls. And I didn’t know who else to talk to. I thought… maybe you’d know what to say.”

  For a moment, Sahil didn’t blink. Then his face relaxed to look soft, reassuring, the kind adults are supposed to.

  “That’s alright, Ronak,” he said gently. “There’s nothing wrong. She’s still Anaya. And if she ever needs anything, I’ll be there. Don’t worry."

  He placed a comforting hand on Ronak’s shoulder. “Go play. She’s lucky to have a friend like you.”

  Ronak nodded — the relief on his face genuine — though his steps were slow, unsure as he walked away.

  And the moment he vanished from sight, Sahil’s posture changed like a whole new man.

  His lips stretched.

  Not into a smile — but something sharper, colder.

  A quiet, private grin that didn’t reach his eyes.

  A grin meant for no one.

  A grin that belonged to the boy on the swing from years ago.

  ——————————————

  Wrath had soon settled over the orphanage like a storm that refused to pass.

  Every television, every computer screen, every tiny board in every corridor flickered with the same line:

  “ANAYA KAPOOR IS LESBIAN — RONAK KNEW.”

  It wasn’t there neatly. It was jagged, taunting.

  Children stood in clusters, whispering and smirking because someone else was bleeding that day

  One girl kicked aside the paper airplanes scattered near Anaya, each one scribbled with slurs.

  "Anaya doesn't even like boys."

  "She's disgusting."

  "Isn't that why she's always with Tara?"

  Cruel and sharp laughter exploded all around, and reached the corner that held Anaya shedding her tears.

  All of a sudden, she raised her head to see a hand— Ronak's hand.

  But Anaya's eyes were gleaming with hatred.

  Her eyes were red and the voice was trembling with rage and betrayal.

  "You told them, Ronak! You were the only one who knew all of it!"

  Ronak's throat burned like he swallowed fire. He wanted to scream so much that the sky would tear apart, but what came out was a broken whisper.

  "I…didn't…"

  But Anaya's glare had already turned to ice.

  A bond that was once unbreakable shattered that day.

  And in the far corner of the hallway, leaning against the wall like he was watching a puppet show he’d paid for— Sahil smiled.

  A smile that looked like a knife pretending to be a mouth.

  He just watched Anaya crumble. Watched Ronak break. Watched the orphanage rot— and enjoyed every second of it.

  After a while, he pushed himself off the wall and walked calmly toward Harinarayan’s cabin, who was hunched over his desk, his brows pulled tightly together.

  He was handing a small envelope of money to a young boy—one of the older orphans—thanking him for helping with some task.

  Sahil knocked once, softly, as if he was the polite one in this room.

  Hari looked up with tired eyes.

  “Sahil? Come in.”

  Sahil stepped forward, expression apologetic but perfectly fake. He placed a neatly folded envelope on the table.

  “Sir… I’m really sorry.”

  His voice trembled just a little, the way he knew people trusted.

  “I know this is the worst time to leave. Anaya really needs support right now, and maybe I could help her, but… I’ll have to resign.”

  Hari exhaled heavily, rubbing his forehead.

  “You’ve done so much for the kids here,” he said, placing a hand on Sahil’s shoulder.

  “You’ve seen them grow… Midnight Jam is finally stabilizing… I only wish you could stay longer, but if you must go, I’ll handle things here.”

  Sahil lowered his head, as if grateful.

  As if he cared.

  “Thank you, sir. Really.”

  He turned and walked out of the cabin, closing the door quietly behind him.

  The moment the latch clicked, the softness on his face evaporated.

  In the hallway, the same boy who had just received Hari’s money was walking past, counting the notes, smiling lightly as if life had thrown him a small mercy.

  Sahil didn’t break stride.

  He brushed past the boy, his hand moving with the skill of someone who’d been stealing since childhood.

  By the time the boy took five more steps, he looked down… and the envelope was gone.

  Sahil kept walking without looking back, tucking the stolen money into his pocket with the same smoothness with which he once handed out balloons.

  ——————————————

  Vikrant Chauhan’s office always felt colder than the rest of BLC—too clean, too silent, too intentional.

  And in 2025, Sahil sat opposite him, back straight, hands politely folded in his lap, smile warm enough to look human and empty enough to feel wrong.

  “I know you were going to buy EdBridge in 2020,” Sahil began, voice soft, respectful, practiced. “But then COVID happened… the deal broke. I’m glad you finally secured it now.”

  Vikrant didn’t even blink. His eyes were unmoving, studying Sahil the same way he studied contracts—checking for loopholes, lies, and leverage.

  “Get to the point,” Vikrant said, voice flat. “Your email was really dramatic.”

  Sahil nodded, as if he had expected that. He pulled out a thin folder—papers too neatly arranged, diagrams too clean, ideas too rehearsed.

  “EdBridge can be something bigger,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “Not just three branches in Lucknow. A nationwide model. A new era of tuition centres.”

  Vikrant’s eyebrow lifted barely a millimetre. Encouragement, in his language.

  Sahil continued.

  “No teachers. No inconsistency. Only one operator. One voice. One method.”

  His eyes glimmered—controlled, excited, sinister.

  “Every branch connected through cameras and speakers. Every student receiving the same instructions at the same time. Perfect standardisation.”

  Vikrant folded his arms.

  “And you?”

  “I’ll handle it,” Sahil said immediately. “I’ll operate all three Lucknow branches.”

  He spoke like he was describing a machine.

  Vikrant leaned back slowly, expression unreadable. Sahil kept speaking, weaving the picture like a salesman with a knife behind his back.

  “We can control student flow. Equal batches. Perfect output. It’ll look like modern education… but it’ll be efficient education. No errors. No unreliable staff.”

  His smile grew—warm enough to fool anyone who didn’t know him.

  “And to do this,” Sahil said, lowering his voice, “I’ll need full operational control of EdBridge.”

  He bowed his head slightly.

  “I promise I will never disappoint you, sir.”

  The room went silent for a moment.

  Too silent.

  Then, unexpectedly, Vikrant let out a short, low chuckle—like a man who didn’t trust easily but appreciated ambition when he saw it. He snapped his fingers once.

  Two employees entered with three black suitcases full of money, placing them gently beside Sahil.

  “Welcome to EdBridge,” Vikrant said, cold smile curling into place. “Don’t disappoint me, Mr. Malhotra.”

  Sahil stood, bowing slightly, but there was something in his eyes—something that flickered like the first spark before a wildfire.

  Inside, Sahil Malhotra was already building his kingdom.

  He was already imagining the screens.

  The children. The control.

  And EdBridge—unknowingly—had just handed itself to the worst possible man.

  ——————————————

  That was how Sahil’s game finally began.

  The three EdBridge classrooms buzzed with the usual chaos— fans groaning, chairs scraping, students whispering before the metallic click of the speaker cut them all into silence.

  The voice they obeyed every day was warm, patient, reassuring.

  None of them knew the man behind it.

  Down below—far below—under a police station no one cared about, a damp basement glowed sickly green from half-dead monitors. Wires hung like vines.

  And in the center of it all sat Sahil Malhotra, headset on, face lit by three classrooms at once.

  He taught them like he always did—gentle, steady, almost tender.

  But his eyes were not on the syllabus.

  They were hunting.

  His fingers drummed lightly as each camera feed flickered in front of him.

  Hazratganj. Gomtinagar. Alambagh.

  And then, one feed caught his attention.

  Vivek Kaushal.

  Vivek—sweaty, clumsy, shoulders hunched, eyes darting like every breath was a confession.

  His notebook slid off his desk. His bag almost toppled. Each mistake made the kids around him snicker.

  And Sahil watched, not annoyed, but interested.

  Very, very interested.

  He leaned closer to the screen, the warm smile on his face sharpening into something colder, more precise. His hand reached toward a notepad lying beside the keyboard.

  It was already filled with handwritten names of students, each one underlined, circled, marked.

  All potential pieces. All potential games.

  His pen hovered only for a second before he wrote it down:

  VIVEK KAUSHAL

  He let the pen rest there, the ink still wet, his gaze lingering on the name.

  “Found you,” he murmured—too soft for the microphone to catch, but loud enough for the basement walls to hear.

  The act kept moving above him—students scribbling, chairs creaking, the world unaware that their teacher taught from the bottom of the city—but for Sahil, that was the moment.

  ——————————————

  Sahil began to hunt soon after.

  Vivek’s face was damp with sweat. He attempted to look calm, but it didn’t help that his hands refused to stop shaking.

  He could barely focus, could barely tell if it was his heart or his head pounding harder. One slip, one wrong placement, and everything he’d risked would be gone.

  He crouched, pressing the first package gently onto the floor.

  A faint green glow reflected on his skin, casting his anxious features in ghostly light. His lips pressed together, jaw tight. Pain shot up his legs from the fall he’d barely avoided moments ago.

  Yet he forced himself to rise, wiping the sweat from his brow, muttering under his breath that he couldn’t afford to fail.

  The second package went down slower. His fingers grazed the surface, hesitated, then released. Every small noise—the distant hum of a fan, the faint creak of a floorboard—made his stomach twist.

  The hope he had felt seemed to falter, a thin thread almost snapping in the pressure. He could feel the weight of it, of everything depending on these tiny, silent actions.

  By the third placement, Vivek’s breathing had gone shallow. His palms were clammy, his knees stiff, his mind a chaotic tangle of fear and hope. He lowered the final item with painstaking care, stepping back to glance around.

  The branches—Hazratganj, Gomtinagar, Alambagh—each now held the packets that he had placed, and somewhere in the shadows, three swift shapes moved.

  Figures too quick for him to see properly, too precise, taking what he had just risked everything to secure.

  His stomach dropped. But he couldn’t stop. He ran home, each step a hammering drum in his chest.

  The streetlights blurred past his vision as adrenaline fought against exhaustion. When he finally reached his house, his legs nearly gave way under him.

  He staggered into his room and sank to his knees, placing the last object beside the carefully stacked question papers. His eyes gleamed with something between hope and terror.

  “Vivek, have you seen the money I was storing?”

  His mother’s voice broke through the haze. He didn’t answer.

  He couldn’t. Not now. His attention remained fixed on the papers, on the fragile plan he had constructed in secrecy.

  The packets he placed had money in them— hard earned money that his mother had saved from years of work, but all of it went to get leaked question papers.

  Every hope, every piece of courage, was now tangled in the unseen gaze of someone else. And somewhere, far away, those eyes were already planning their next move.

  ——————————————

  Vivek was deep in the trap, and now the only help he had was from Yug and his group— all of them stood in front of the Hazratganj branch.

  "Wasn't there a tuition center here?" Kritika stepped forward, wiping her face with a handkerchief. "EdBridge Tutorials?"

  The worker raised an eyebrow, genuinely confused.

  "What? Kid, this place has been under construction for the past two months. There is going to be an apartment."

  Rishabh blinked, parting his lips and mumbling under his breath. "Two months? What have we dragged ourselves into?"

  As the group huddled into an isolated corner, murmuring plans, one of the workers slipped away, his phone pressed to his ear. The words were quiet, measured, but every syllable carried weight.

  “One of the people we targeted… Vivek… he’s not alone. There are kids helping him.”

  The words reached Sahil’s ear instantly. He knew exactly what this meant.

  Innocent faces, unsuspecting hands. They were perfect instruments, just as he had always loved to play with.

  “Where?” he asked softly, voice calm but edged with anticipation.

  The worker hesitated, then gave a brief update. Sahil’s eyes gleamed, calculating, savoring the moment.

  And then—like a spark in the dark—Yug’s voice cut through the silence. “It’s Manav! Manav Prakash can help us!”

  Sahil’s grin widened even further. The game had begun, and the pieces were moving not as he had planned— but as he would like.

  ——————————————

  Down in the basement, Sahil Malhotra sat cross–legged in front of his forest of screens, his fingers dancing lightly on the keys as if warming up before a recital.

  One monitor flashed a location—Silver Oak Academy.

  Another blinked with streams of code—Manav Prakash.

  The boy’s digital footprint pulsed softly, unaware that a predator was tracing every breath he took.

  Sahil leaned in.

  One more keystroke, one more quiet exhale, and he slipped into Manav’s laptop like it was nothing more than an unlocked diary.

  A soft chime confirmed the breach.

  The corner of his mouth tugged upward.

  He glanced at the digital clock on the upper-right monitor.

  2:34:55 PM.

  Five seconds.

  Four.

  Three.

  He reached toward the rusty backup computer beside him—an ancient machine patched together with spare parts and bad decisions.

  Its screen flickered, waiting.

  Two.

  One.

  2:35 PM.

  Sahil clicked the switch.

  Instantly, the basement lit up with new life—servers booting, encrypted signals firing, automated bots awakening. A timer appeared on the main screen, glowing in bright red.

  2:35 — 2:34 — 2:33…

  He looked at everything with steady amusement… until a warning box blinked red across the screen.

  SERVER BREACH — BLC MAINFRAME — FOREIGN ACCESS DETECTED

  His eyes sharpened.

  Not fear.

  Not panic.

  Just an irritated flick of attention.

  He redirected one monitor to the hacked camera feed from Manav’s laptop— and there, reflected in the shaky grain of the webcam, he saw a face bent over a keyboard.

  Rishabh Tiwari.

  The small, sharp-eyed boy from Silver Oak, hacking with his jaw tightly clenched.

  Sahil didn’t move at first.

  Then, slowly, he leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and pressed a single key.

  A signal fired to the BLC servers.

  A system admin jumped on the alert from miles away, patching the breach exactly the way Sahil had predicted he would.

  Rishabh never stood a chance.

  Satisfied, Sahil dragged the hacked feed onto a separate laptop, expanding it until the entire screen filled with the chaotic scene around Vivek.

  He watched it all even after hours passed.

  Tarun Singh discovered his gaming ID the next day, a totally unexpected move.

  Sahil blinked, mildly surprised— but he was eager to crush them in the game.

  Then the game itself began— everyone dead serious, Manav pressing keys with a desperation that almost made Sahil chuckle.

  Then—

  Manav defeated Sahil.

  Sahil’s smile dropped instantly.

  His knuckles tightened on the armrest. His face twitched once, a storm swirling under his ribs.

  Then Yug lost the game, but he pushed Sahil to the edge.

  And finally, he was able to defeat Vivek, but something about that victory was not satisfactory.

  Sahil closed his eyes for a beat.

  When he opened them, something colder had settled behind them.

  And with a slow exhale, he made a decision.

  He would bring them all here.

  Every one of them.

  He would ensure their screams made the basement walls remember their names.

  But not yet.

  Rishabh, he thought, would figure things out.

  And that made him… entertaining.

  So Sahil leaned forward again, fingers hovering above the keys, and deliberately typed one message into the game’s chat.

  Just one.

  A name. His name.

  A clue, disguised as arrogance.

  He watched Rishabh freeze as the letters appeared on their screens. The panic, the realization, the spark—that was all part of the performance.

  Sahil allowed himself a small smile, as if enjoying a private joke.

  “Figure it out, kid,” he murmured into the dim room, looking towards Rishabh.

  “Now find me.”

  ——————————————

  The sun was dipping low over Alambagh, turning the glass panels of the EdBridge branch a dull, rusted orange.

  Yug, voice tight with urgency, added, “We’re not here to crack jokes. We need to act before someone hunts us.”

  Tarun turned sharply toward him.

  “Don’t start lecturing. You’ve barely done anything from the start. And you want us to walk into danger?”

  “And what have you done?" Yug stepped closer, unsteady but defiant. "Besides irritating the entire group like a headache?”

  “I… I knew it. I knew I’d get you all in trouble…”

  Vivek’s voice broke from behind them.

  “Oh, here we go again! You’ve been nothing but a burden! You bring problems and then cry about it!” Manav whirled, grabbing Vivek by the collar.

  “Seriously? Is this the time?" Kritika shoved Manav away hard. "And don’t forget what you tried to do at school. So let’s stop dragging up past mistakes and focus on the threat right in front of us!”

  The group kept bickering. Their voices bounced off the street, off the passing vehicles, off the locked shutters of nearby shops.

  None of them turned around.

  None of them noticed the shadow.

  A few steps behind them, matching their pace with quiet precision, walked a man in a black hooded jacket.

  His hands were in his pockets. His head was bowed slightly. Not enough to draw attention—just enough to hide his face.

  Sahil Malhotra.

  His footsteps were soundless, practiced, patient. His presence was invisible in the way only a predator could make itself invisible.

  He quickly lifted his phone without breaking stride, eyes still on the group—on the camera Manav held, on the chaos in their conversation.

  He brought the phone to his ear.

  “They’ve found the camera,” Sahil said quietly, voice thin and flat. “And they'll use it.”

  A soft exhale. Satisfaction.

  “It’ll be an easy target. Set the traps to scare them, break them.”

  The voice on the other end listened—brief, hurried, obedient.

  The kids turned down the next street, still arguing. Still unaware.

  Sahil stopped walking.

  He lifted his head ever so slightly, and let a slow, smile spread across his face—nothing like the warm smiles he showed the world.

  This one belonged to him alone.

  “I’ll set the final game for them."