Chapter 2 — The Warning

The morning light that slipped through the thin curtains of Ananya’s apartment was pale and water-stained, not the fierce, golden light that made everything seem possible. It was a weak, honest light, the kind that showed cracks. Her pen lay on the open notebook, its tip blotched with ink where her hand had trembled. The outlines of last night — the press conference, his look, the way he had stepped into her apartment as if the door belonged to him — sat like a stone in her chest.

She told herself it would pass. She told herself that the intrusion was a game, a warning designed to rattle her colleagues and make her second-guess herself. But the seat of that not-quite-fear was more complicated. It had a taste that was part anger, part something else she refused to name.

Her phone buzzed. A message from Rishab — a quick joke about the late-night press. Her smile for a breath, but it faded. She scrolled through the rest of the morning: an editorial deadline, a meeting at noon, a line from her editor—text clipped and urgent.

Then a second message, from an unknown number. It read: “Milk neend satayegi, par sach aakhri me jagata hai.” (Milk soothes sleep, but truth wakes you in the end.) She frowned, looked at the sender. No name. No number she recognized. The same chill slid along her spine.

She tried to call the editor but the line was busy. So she brewed coffee, sat at the small round table, and let the city sound move in the background — a persistent hum of traffic and the clatter of a distant metro. She read and re-read the single anonymous message until the sentence became a riddle.

She thought of his voice. Not the public baritone at the conference, precise and practiced, but that soft dangerous whisper by her ear late last night. The memory made the coffee go bitter in her mouth.

She spent the morning at the newsroom like a woman moving through water. Colleagues were sympathetic, some curious, a few glancing with interest as if this were the kind of drama that could boost their pageviews. Her editor, Meera, was all business.

“Tum kal raat kitna evidence le aayi thi?”

(How much evidence did you bring last night?)

Ananya closed her eyes for a moment, let the word ‘evidence’ settle. She had pages of a ledger, names half-scrubbed, an email with a redacted attachment she hadn’t yet decoded. But the ledger was second-hand — a contact had dropped it at a café and vanished. She had followed a trail that smelled of money and petrol and whispers.

“Kuch hai. Par main public report tabhi karungi jab proof pakka ho.”

(There is something. But I will only report when the proof is solid.)

Meera’s eyes were steady, a look Ananya had learned to trust. They were the eyes of a woman who’d been shoved around by ministers and municipal contractors and who’d learned which battles were worth bruises.

“Theek hai. Par dhyaan rakhna ke tum akeli nahin ho. Agar inke paas tumhari family aur life ka koi raasta hai, toh woh chalne mein expert hain.”

(Okay. But be careful—you’re not alone in this. If they have any way to reach your family or your life, they’re experts at using it.)

The newsroom hummed with its own life; phones, printers, gossip. Ananya tried to parse Meera’s warning logically, but logic kept stumbling over last night’s whisper. He had said, “Everyone says until I break them… then they beg in tears.” That was not a sentence one forgot.

She took the ledger to the back room where the senior reporters sifted through raw files like grave diggers. Sandeep, who knew numbers, scanned it with a thin smile.

“Yeh toh match karta hai ek naam se jo pehle se file mein hai.”

(This matches a name already in our file.)

Hope was a dangerous animal — it made her reckless and brave and foolish all at once. The ledger gave her leverage. Leverage made her feel both powerful and exposed.

They worked quietly. The hours passed. Outside, the city shifted — a noon sun that warmed glass and made dust angels on the asphalt. Ananya answered questions, kept her voice even for camera pans, smiled when necessary. But the ledger sat on her desk, boldly accusing.

At about four, Meera called her into a small conference room. The window looked over the narrow alley behind the building. A stack of papers sat between them like a mute jury.

“Koi complaint aayi hai tumhare behavior ko lekar.”

(A complaint has come in about your behavior.)

Ananya blinked. She thought of last night — the unknown message, the man at her door. She thought of his eyes, and the way he had said, “I’m wherever I want to be.” Her stomach lurched.

“Kisne complaint kiya?”

(Who filed the complaint?)

Meera hesitated, then folded her hands as if offering something delicate.

“School se… tumhari maa ka ek call aaye.”

(From the school… we received a call from your mother.)

Ananya’s breath caught. Her mother taught in a small private school outside Raigarh. They were careful — quiet, simple people who’d never tangled with the powerful. She called immediately. Her mother’s voice when it came through was steady but thin.

“Beta, theek ho? School ne phone kiya tha. Kaha hain tum?”

(Child, are you okay? The school called. Where are you?)

Ananya steadied her voice. She didn’t tell her the truth that last night a man with a name that made her stomach drop had been in her apartment. Not yet. She wrapped herself in a casualness that felt like armor.

“Main theek hoon, Maa. Kaam mein late ho gayi. Aap tension mat lo.”

(I’m fine, Mom. I got late at work. Don’t worry.)

On the line, her mother hummed, a protective sound. But the seed of Meera’s warning had bloomed — a worry she didn’t want to give form to.

She hung up, palms damp. Someone had called her mother’s school. The newsroom was small; rumors could find you like rats find crumbs.

Ananya went back to the ledger. The connection to Raghav was not clean but the names were circling each other like sharks. To expose him would mean to tilt a stone that could crush whoever stood upon it.

She thought of the unknown number. The handwritten note. The cold way the man had moved through her door like it was a path he’d signed in his right to traverse. She should have told the police. But the police were not impartial in Raigarh. They were instruments of power. She knew better than to expect protection from men who bowed when ministers walked by.

At seven she left the newsroom and took the long way home. The streetlights made the wet pavement possible mirrors of a different life — her life, when she was small and fearless and caught hope like fireflies. But fear had taught her different lessons.

Her apartment was the same as she had left it. Her door locked. The kettle quiet. Still, when she stepped inside the living room, there was a single envelope on her coffee table.

No handwriting. No stamp. Just a thin card with three words.

“Milna zaroori hai.” (Meeting is necessary.)

She turned the card over. No name. A time — 9:30 p.m. A place — a little café on the riverfront where press and politicians sometimes crossed paths. The cup of air around the card tasted like something old and old accusations.

Her first instinct was to burn it. Her second — the one that always lurked under every instinct — was to go. She had spent years following corners where dangerous truths hid; she had never once backed away because a man in power intimidated her. Yet the man who intimidated her now was different. He made her blood feel too loud.

She thought she could prepare. She could tell Meera, get two colleagues to come with her. She could warn her family. But the note was intimate in its emptiness, and that intimacy pulled.

At 9:25 she sat across from the café window, hands wrapped around a cup so cold she could feel the ceramic like a dare. Ananya watched people move along the river promenade; couples, cyclists, a stray dog sleeping under a bench. The world was ordinary and treacherous at once.

At 9:28, a man took the stool at the corner of the café, not facing her at first. He sat like he belonged, slow and deliberate. The silhouette of his jaw was familiar. For a moment she allowed herself a breath that was not fear.

He didn’t look at her when the waiter placed his tea. He didn’t need to; he had always known where she would sit. The waiter left. Then he turned, not with thunderous movement but with a quiet that made the room hush.

“Tum aayi.”

(You came.)

She kept her voice controlled, a flat edge.

“Aap ne bulaya tha.”

(You asked me to come.)

He smiled without humour.

“Tum sach ko likhna chahti ho. Par kabhi tumne socha bhi hai ke sach ka kya asar padta hai? Logon ki zindagi toot jaati hai.”

(You want to write the truth. But have you ever thought about what truth does? People’s lives break.)

Ananya folded her hands around the cup like it was the only solid thing left.

“Sach likhna mera kaam hai. Agar zindagi toot jaati hai, toh bhi sach ka hisaab lena zaroori hai.”

(Writing the truth is my job. Even if lives break, truth must be accounted for.)

He reached across the small table as if to touch her hand, but stopped an inch away. The micro-movement was designed — a promise, a threat, a claim.

“Tum samjho ya na samjho, har action ka reaction hota hai. Main tumhare liye reaction kam nahin, zyada hi hoon.”

(Whether you understand or not, every action has a reaction. I’m not just the response for you; I’m the magnitude.)

Her jaw clenched. There was a rawness in his tone now, a closeness that stripped the conversation to bone.

“Kya chahte ho mujhse?”

(What do you want from me?)

He looked at her with a patience she’d seen in men who collected debts.

“Tumse kuch nahin chahiye… bas ek faisla.”

(I don’t want anything from you… only a decision.)

The words were velvet. The meaning was iron.

“Kis tarah ka faisla?”

(What kind of decision?)

He aimed his eyes at her like aiming an accusation.

“Tum apni report rok do. Humari taraf se kuch log tumhare liye nuksan na karein — ya phir tum un cheezon ko sabke samne la do aur phir dekhna tumhara nuksan kaise hota hai.”

(Stop your report. We can make sure no harm comes to you — or you can bring things out into the open and watch how much you lose.)

That was not a question. That was an ultimatum dressed as courtesy.

Anger pushed hot and hard under her ribs, and for a fracturing second she forgot the ledger, forgot her colleagues, forgot the ledger’s names. She saw only this man who thought his will could tilt the world.

“Main apne kaam se piche nahin hatungi.”

(I will not step back from my work.)

He nodded slowly, eyes like polished stone.

“Tum bolti ho hero ki tarah. Par heroes ko bhi tod diya ja sakta hai.”

(You talk like a hero. But heroes can be broken too.)

The waiter came, placed tea. The steam fogged the little world around them, and the scent was momentarily ordinary: bergamot and boiled milk and sugar. She took a sip. It tasted like a stand.

She left the café with the ledger in her bag and the ache of choice in her chest. She’d expected to come out furious, and she was. But she was also quieter now, calibrated. The ledger wasn’t just ink and paper — it was a risk. She could expose him and watch the city shake, or she could find a way to blow wind into the right corners and let the truth be a quiet ruin.

When she reached the edge of the river the night had become a glassy absence, broken only by the parade of lights across the water. Her phone buzzed — a single message from Meera: “Tum safe ho?” (Are you safe?)

She typed: “Haan.” (Yes.) And then deleted it. She was not safe. But she was not defeated.

Because within the choice — to go public or to hold back and strike smarter — burned the essence of why she was a journalist. To make truth a shape people could see and not just a rumor in a dark room.

She sat on the low wall by the river and let the city breathe around her. She thought of the ledger and the faces attached to those names. She thought of the man who moved through doors like they owed him toll. She thought of Meera’s caution and of her mother’s meek voice. And she resolved — as quietly and heavily as a vow — that she would not be the person who let fear choose her life.

Somebody would break, she told herself — maybe her, maybe him, maybe the system. But the ledger would be found.

She rose with the finality of a person who had decided to swim in deep water with a stone in her pocket. The storm that Raghav hinted at was not only his to brew. She would find the currents and ride them.

As she walked home under the pale halo of streetlamps, she did not look back. The warning was a rope thrown across the river; she could grasp it, tug, and see what moved. Or she could cut it.

Either way, the game had changed.