Viman Rai sat in his office, glancing through the script for the day’s programme, sent over by the output desk for his perusal before it was finalised. Usually, he liked editing his scripts. People didn’t often realise how much of a role ‘voice’ played in a news broadcast. It wasn’t always just about the facts; it was almost never just about the facts. It was about who was giving you the facts, and how well they were giving it. You couldn’t sound sincere or honest if you were speaking in somebody else’s voice. Not even the most skilled writer could perfectly imitate another person’s tenor. All the best anchors that he had ever known had significant input in their own scripts. They made sure their ‘voice’ was in it.

Today, though, he felt a vague sense of restlessness that he couldn’t really put a finger on. He wanted to go for a walk, although he knew it was a ridiculous notion. They’d start filming in less than an hour; there was no time for dithering. He forced himself to concentrate on the script.

He looked up, surprised, when the door to his office banged open. Menaka, his rundown producer, burst in with what looked like a brown envelope clutched to her breast, her eyes wild. Viman sat up in his chair, mildly alarmed. Menaka was an excitable woman, but he had not seen her in quite such a state since the Parliament attack story broke last year. “What’s wrong?” he asked, trying to make his voice as soothing as possible.

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“I think you would want to see this,” she said, holding the envelope out to him, her eyes wide and anxious.

“What is it?” he asked, examining the package. He flipped the envelope over. It was unmarked save for a single name scribbled across the plain side – Brij. He frowned, looking up at Menaka. What about this package had put her in such a state? “Brij sent something? Something we need to include in today’s broadcast?”

Brij was one of his old sources, back from his reporting days, a young pickpocket he had befriended back when he had been covering crime for a local daily. It had been a long time since Viman had last been on the field, but Brij still sent him little titbits of information whenever he came across something interesting, though usually he just called or texted. In return, Viman took him out for dinner and drinks every couple of months. He couldn’t imagine what Brij might have sent that would warrant such a reaction from one of his producers, though.

Reaching into the envelope, his fingers found a small pen drive. Viman frowned; this was unusual. Taking the pen drive out of the package, he inserted it into the appropriate slot on his desktop. The folder opened to reveal a single file, a video of some kind. “What is this?”

“You need to see it for yourself.”

Well, he certainly wasn’t going to get any answers out of her. Viman sighed and quickly double-clicked the video icon.