Reception Area
The reception area of Gamescape was a masterpiece of calculated intimidation. The walls were obsidian black, reflecting the dim golden glow of recessed lighting. A glass sculpture of the company's insignia loomed behind the sleek marble desk, a silent guardian over the room's immaculate perfection. Even the air felt curated, cooled to an unnatural crispness that sent a subtle shiver down the spine.
At the desk, the receptionist sat poised—too perfect to be incidental. Every movement, from the way she adjusted her hair to the flick of her manicured fingers, felt rehearsed. But today, her usual air of effortless control was disturbed by the presence of six uniformed policemen flanking Viren.
Viren sat with a quiet authority, his presence an imposition in the otherwise serene space. His gaze, sharp and unyielding, swept across the room before landing on the woman approaching him—Vlada. Her stride was deliberate, unhurried, as if she were the one in control of the situation, not him.
"Let him in," she instructed, her voice smooth, devoid of concern.
Inside the glass-walled office, modernity reigned. Sharp lines, minimalist decor, and an unmistakable air of power filled the space. Viren stood in the center, holding up an ID card between two fingers, his expression unreadable.
"Is this yours?" His tone carried a quiet edge of suspicion.
Vlada barely glanced at it before meeting his gaze. "It appears to be."
"You'll need to come to the station."
She tilted her head slightly, as though considering the absurdity of the statement. "Why?"
"We both know what goes on behind this building," Viren said, his patience thinning.
Vlada laughed, the sound light, almost musical. It was the kind of laugh that made a man feel small without knowing why.
"Arrest them," Viren ordered, his voice hard.
Before his men could move, a voice cut through the tension.
"Officer, what's this about?"
Nitya walked in, her presence shifting the room's energy. Her smile was warm, inviting, but there was steel beneath it. She carried herself like a woman used to getting her way.
"You show up unannounced, throw around accusations, and now you insult my family in our home? That doesn't seem very professional."
Viren's jaw tightened. "I've stopped caring about professional."
Nitya smirked. "Wahhh! Great dialogue. I'll write it in my Bible."
Vlada and Nitya shared a quiet chuckle, a sound that shouldn't have been unnerving but was.
Then, as if flipping a switch, Nitya's expression turned unreadable. "You might want to check with your superiors. See if they have room for her."
Viren's phone vibrated in his pocket. He hesitated before answering.
"Yes, sir?"
A voice, cold and authoritative, came through. "Never go there again, or you'll lose your job. It's an order."
"But—" The line went dead.
Viren stared at his phone, his grip tightening as frustration simmered beneath his skin. He looked up, meeting Nitya's gaze.
"You heard the minister," she said softly.
For a long moment, no one spoke. Then, Viren exhaled sharply, shoving the ID back into his pocket. Without another word, he turned and walked out, his men following in tense silence.
Behind him, Nitya and Vlada stood victorious, their smiles untouched by doubt.
The Bar
The bar was a haze of cigarette smoke and muted conversations, neon reflections bleeding through rain-streaked windows. The low hum of jazz curled around the patrons like a whisper, filling the spaces between clinking glasses and murmured deals.
Ayan sat in the farthest corner, nursing his whiskey. The amber liquid swirled lazily as he traced the rim of his glass with one finger. His mind was a battlefield, but his face gave away nothing.
The barstool beside him creaked as someone sat down.
"Ayan Sharma?"
Ayan didn't look up immediately. "Who's asking?"
"Haider. Gamescape Ltd., Mumbai."
Ayan finally turned his head, taking in the man beside him. Haider was in his early thirties, sharp features softened only by the dim lighting. His suit was impeccably tailored, his presence calculated.
"We've been following your work," Haider continued. "Yesterday's report was impressive."
Ayan smirked, a bitter edge to the expression. "Sure, sure. Lots of people say things like that. Sting operations, competitive reporters, this and that."
Haider leaned in slightly, voice dropping. "Ten thousand dollars. Per month. A house in Bandra, Mumbai."
Ayan let out a dry chuckle. "Mumbai? Nice try. Whose prank is this, Kumar? You're good, but I'm not falling for it again."
Haider didn't flinch. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out an envelope, and slid it across the bar.
"Flight tickets. Hotel booking."
Ayan hesitated before picking it up. Haider placed a business card beside it.
"Come to this address tomorrow. If you're interested."
Haider stood, preparing to leave. Then, just as he turned, he spoke again, voice lower, deliberate.
"And yes, the agencies are watching what you publish on the dark web under '9-reporter.' Be careful."
Ayan's breath hitched. His fingers, which had been idly tracing the rim of his glass, stilled. The noise of the bar seemed to recede, leaving only the sound of his heartbeat pounding in his ears.
"Who… How do you know?"
But Haider was already walking away, disappearing into the dimly lit haze, leaving Ayan alone with the weight of an impossible choice.