A harsh splash of water jolted Ayan awake. He gasped, his senses reeling as he blinked against the glaring overhead light. He was tied to a chair, his wrists bound tightly behind him. The room was dimly lit, the air heavy with the scent of sweat and damp concrete.

A COP stood before him, a file clutched in his hand. The officer's expression was cold and calculating, his eyes never leaving Ayan's face.

"Mr. Ayan Sharma," the cop began, his voice low and menacing as he slapped the file down on the table. "I've been following you for a long time. I've learned that you lead two lives. One is Ayan Sharma, a journalist at Punjab Kesari, living an ordinary life, paying taxes. And the other is '9,' where you share and sell reports on the dark web. Government plans, insights, every piece of information that is illegal to leak."

Ayan's heart pounded in his chest. The cop's words echoed in the small room, each sentence a nail in the coffin of his freedom.

"Now, only one of these lives has a future," the cop continued, closing the file with a snap.

"I have a simple question, Mr. Sharma. Where are you getting this information from? I know you're in contact with some extraordinary individuals." The cop paused, leaning closer. "I believe you're an intelligent man. You'd want to secure a better future for yourself, not repeat past mistakes."

Ayan remained silent, his mind racing. The cop's offer hung in the air like a noose, waiting to tighten around his neck.

"Without wasting our time, just tell me where and from whom you get this information," the cop urged, his voice deceptively calm. "In return, we'll clear your entire police record under '9.' And You'll be a free man again."

Ayan let out a bitter laugh. "Hmm. Sounds like a good deal. But if I say—GO TO HELL? I know my rights. I'm a journalist. So you're going to give me my phone now, and I'll call my lawyer. He'll handle this."

The cop's face darkened. "You've disappointed me, Mr. Sharma."

Ayan held out his hand, defiant. "My phone?"

The cop's lips twisted into a cruel smile. "What good is a phone if you don't have hands to use it?" He signaled to another officer, who grabbed Ayan's arms and pinned them to the table. From beneath the table, the cop slid out a heavy, gleaming cleaver.

Ayan's eyes widened in panic. "What are you doing? You've gone mad! You'll lose your job for this!"

The cop leaned in, his breath hot against Ayan's face. "Who told you we're just regular police? We make the rules Mr. Ayan."

With a swift, brutal motion, the cop raised the cleaver and brought it down on Ayan's hand. A sickening thud echoed through the room as the blade met flesh and bone. Blood splattered across the table and floor, and Ayan's scream of agony filled the air.

The cop put on a pair of black sunglasses, his expression unchanging. "You will help us, Mr. Sharma, whether you want to or not."

The garage was a maze of mechanical parts and virtual setups, the air humming with the soft whir of machinery. Ayan's scream echoed off the cold metal walls as he clutched his hand, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

"My hand! They cut it off!" Ayan yelled, his voice a mixture of pain and terror.