The night air was cool and crisp, yet it did nothing to ease the heat suffocating Ayan from within.

He stood on the balcony of the Punjab Kesari newspaper office, fingers wrapped around a cigarette that had burned down to its last embers. He exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl and dissolve into the darkness, much like his resolve. His gaze flickered through the window to the television inside, where the ever-present voice of Spiritual Guru Vinayak echoed from a local channel.

"You think you understand life, but life is far different from what you know. What you have seen and understood is not the truth—"

The Guru’s voice dripped with authority, wrapping around his followers like an intoxicating spell. Ayan scoffed under his breath, tapping ash onto the worn railing. The irony of it all gnawed at him. The very man preaching about truth had buried it beneath a mountain of deceit.

The streets below pulsed with the usual late-night chaos—fading headlights, the occasional bark of a stray dog, the distant hum of an auto-rickshaw sputtering through narrow alleys. And yet, none of it felt as loud as the war raging inside him.

A soft shuffle of footsteps.

Adya stepped onto the balcony, her presence cutting through his solitude like a blade. There was something ethereal about her, a quiet intensity in her dark eyes that made her seem almost unreal against the city’s neon-lit backdrop. She was the only person who still looked at him like he was human, like there was still a soul worth saving beneath the layers of moral compromise.

“You’re not going to write that report, right?” Her voice was steady, but the tremor in her hands betrayed the storm beneath.

Ayan took another slow drag, his silence stretching too long before he finally exhaled. “Do I have a choice?”

“Yes,” she pressed, stepping closer. “Say no to the boss. We won’t write lies. We’ll get justice for the girl. He raped a fifteen-year-old, Ayan. You can’t turn this into a ‘misunderstanding.’”

Ayan turned to her, the cigarette dangling from his lips, his expression unreadable. “My job is to write. It’s up to others to decide what’s right or wrong.” His voice was cold, but his grip on the railing had tightened just enough to betray him.

Adya’s face contorted with anger and heartbreak. “Reaching the top won’t fix what you’re breaking inside, Ayan.”

For a fleeting second, his steps faltered as he turned back toward the office. But then, just like that, he was gone, swallowed by the dimly lit newsroom. The balcony, once thick with unspoken words, now stood silent.

Through the window, the television continued broadcasting Guru Vinayak’s teachings. His voice remained steady, unwavering, a god among men. But in Ayan’s mind, it had never sounded more hollow.

The Office – Three Days Later

The newsroom buzzed with celebration, an atmosphere thick with victory. Punjab Kesari had broken the story before anyone else, and the scent of success was intoxicating.

The Boss stood in the center, holding the newspaper aloft like a trophy. His eyes gleamed with unrestrained glee as he basked in the glory of their apparent triumph.

“What a report! We’ve outdone every damn paper in the country!” He grabbed Ayan by the cheeks, his grip a mix of pride and something dangerously close to madness. “You’re a gem, baby, a real gem!”

Ayan forced a smile, but it felt like swallowing glass. The room erupted with applause, but all he heard was the deafening roar of his conscience.

The Boss turned to a junior reporter, shoving the paper into his hands. “Read it! Read what our genius has written!”

The young man cleared his throat and read aloud: ‘Sanya’s accusations were nothing more than a scheme, a carefully orchestrated attempt by her parents to extort Guru Vinayak’s trust fund. The villagers confirm that this was never about justice. It was about greed.’

Laughter rippled through the room.

Ayan felt the walls closing in. The air was too thick, the sound of celebration grating against his skin like nails on a chalkboard. His fingers curled into fists by his sides, but no one noticed the tremor beneath his carefully constructed mask.

At the far end of the room, Adya stood still, her eyes locked onto his. There was no anger now—just quiet, crushing disappointment. It was worse than hatred. She didn’t need to say a word.

Ayan had won.

And yet, looking into her eyes, he had never felt more like a failure.