Aryan stayed in the alley long enough to let the figure disappear into the night. The rain had slowed to a fine drizzle, leaving the streets slick and shimmering. Each puddle reflected the city’s fractured lights, making the world look like a distorted mirror of itself. Distorted, yes, but truthful—more truthful than the people who walked its streets pretending nothing had happened.
He opened the folder carefully. The pages were damp, smeared with ink that ran like spilled blood. Names, dates, locations—all meticulously recorded. Some were familiar. Others sent a chill through him. It was everything he had feared: a map of corruption, betrayal, and unfinished business stretching over years.
And at the very bottom, written in a different hand, almost like a signature:
"The eleventh bulle
