The sun had barely begun its descent when a fierce wind rushed through the narrow alleys of Dharamshala, stirring up dust and fallen leaves. The mountains loomed in the distance, their peaks kissed by the evening light, but the streets below pulsed with life. Vendors called out their final sales of the day, motorbikes weaved between pedestrians, and the scent of chai and burning incense curled through the air.

Ayan pushed through the bustling crowd, his lean frame tense. He was twenty-five, strikingly handsome, with sharp features and mid-length hair that often fell over his eyes. Yet, in this moment, his usual composed demeanor was fraying. His pulse thrummed in his ears, drowning out the sounds around him. The words from his last phone call still clung to his thoughts like an echo that refused to fade.

"It's important," his boss had said, voice low but urgent. "Come to the office now."

Something about the tone unsettled him. He had spent years working for Punjab Kesari, a small-town newspaper that had seen its fair share of controversies. But this? This felt different.

The newspaper’s printing house stood at the end of the street, its old brick facade illuminated by flickering neon signage. Ayan stepped inside, and the scent of ink and aged paper wrapped around him like a familiar embrace. Machines clanked rhythmically in the background, their mechanical heartbeat steady and unyielding.

Through a glass partition, he spotted his boss sitting at the head of the conference table. But it wasn’t just him. Across from him sat Vinayak Baba, the renowned spiritual guru, his presence exuding an unsettling stillness. His lawyer stood rigidly behind him. And then there was Adya, Ayan’s girlfriend and assistant, perched at the edge of her seat, a notebook clutched in her delicate fingers.

Ayan’s footsteps slowed as he took in the scene. The weight in the air was palpable, pressing against his chest. His boss gestured for him to sit, sliding a freshly printed newspaper across the table.

"Read this aloud," the boss instructed, his voice measured, unreadable.

Ayan hesitated, his fingers brushing against the thin paper. The ink was still drying, smudging slightly under his touch. His eyes flicked to the headline. His stomach tightened.

Taking a steadying breath, he began to read:

"Vinayak Guru called Sanya to his room to prepare for the evening aarti ceremony. As Sanya was arranging the pooja plate, Baba summoned her closer. He said, 'What you are doing is a long path to meet God. Your devotion has pleased me... therefore, I want to make you special in God's eyes as soon as possible. And the simplest way is through the service of your Guru.' Guru called her; Sanya went to him and, following his instructions, began to massage his feet."

The words seemed to stretch across the room, sinking into the silence like stones into water. Ayan’s grip on the paper tightened, his heartbeat quickening.

He forced himself to continue:

"Then Baba told her to lie on the bed to properly teach her how to massage his feet. According to Sanya, Baba's hand slowly moved up her thigh, and he told her to remove her pajamas. Despite her refusal, Baba insisted, saying that to learn the path correctly, she must do this. After removing her pajamas..."

Ayan’s breath hitched. His eyes flickered toward the Guru.

The old man sat unnervingly still, only his fingers moving—slow, deliberate rotations against his thigh, as though reliving a memory. Ayan swallowed hard, nausea curling in his gut.

The boss's voice took over, continuing the passage in the same steady, impassive tone:

"After removing her pajama, Baba instructed her to remove all her clothes..."

Ayan felt the air leave his lungs. The weight of the words pressed down on him, but even heavier was the knowing smirk now playing at the corners of the Guru’s lips. His fingers had gone still, resting lightly on his thighs, as if savoring something unseen.

Ayan tore his gaze away, his knuckles white around the newspaper. Behind him, Adya shifted uneasily, her pen frozen above the page. The lawyer exhaled sharply, adjusting his tie, his discomfort written plainly on his face.

And then, the final blow.

"FIFTEEN-YEAR-OLD Sanya's family filed a RAPE report against Vinayak Guru at the nearest police station."

The words crashed like a hammer. Silence gripped the room, thick, suffocating. Ayan's jaw clenched as a storm brewed in his chest. He could feel the Guru's gaze still on him, unwavering. Challenging.

Ayan inhaled slowly, forcing himself to meet the old man’s eyes. The smirk was still there, a silent taunt, a reminder of power woven through decades of manipulation.

But something inside Ayan shifted. The unease coiled into something sharper. More dangerous.

And for the first time since stepping into that office, he wasn’t just listening to a story.

He was standing at the edge of one.