Amidst the whirlwind of changes that had swept the nation in the past three years, the Hunter Quarter of the South Ragah Division remained an oasis of steadfast constancy. It had stayed largely unchanged over the seven-plus years since Ruban first started working here.

The worn but gleaming wooden floors, the exposed brick walls, and the haphazardly placed teakwood desks – all together they provided him with a comforting sense of normalcy. Familiarity. And he was determined to enjoy it while he could.

It had been less than forty-eight hours since his passionate outburst to the press outside the IAW headquarters. And he braced himself for an imminent summons, likely accompanied by a suspension notice, any moment now.

Kitty, the oversized gray cat lounging on Hema’s desk, meowed aggressively at him every time he walked by. As if she’d been recruited by the higher-ups, a feline spy reporting his every move.

Ruban chuckled at the thought, before scratching her obligingly behind the ear. Much to her vocal displeasure. Despite all the yowling, however, she refused to budge. If anything, she’d press her furry little head deeper into his palm, crying bloody murder all the while.

Playing hard to get.

She wasn’t very good at it. But she tried. And that’s what counted, in Ruban’s book. In recognition of her efforts, he produced a treat and let the irascible cat lick it off his palm.

From across the expansive space, Simani called his name sharply.

Ruban turned, surprised.

Simani’s face was unreadable; her voice strained, almost distraught.

Unease coiled in Ruban’s gut. Nevertheless, he offered his partner a small, reassuring smile. Allowing Kitty to finish her treat, he forced himself to walk over to Simani’s desk on the other side of the room, one deliberate step at a time.

“What is it?” he inquired; hands tucked in his pockets as he came to stand beside her desk.

“It’s—” she cut herself off, voice tremulous. Biting her lower lip, she tried again. “It’s Ashwin.”

Ruban frowned, the unease in his belly morphing into dread. It was not like Simani to be hesitant in her speech, much less stumbling over her words as she was doing now. A simple call from the IAW, even a suspension notice, wouldn’t have rattled her to this extent.

He gestured to Faiz (who occupied the desk beside Simani’s) and sent him off on a brief errand to one of the outer cabins. Faiz shot him a skeptical glance, but eventually scampered off with a shrug.

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Their side of the room now almost empty, Ruban placed a comforting hand on Simani’s shoulder and said seriously: “Please, tell me what’s going on.”

Simani cast a swift, cautious glance around. As if to ensure no prying eyes lingered nearby. Satisfied, she angled her computer screen a fraction, gesturing for Ruban to draw closer. He did, leaning in for a better view of the screen.

What he saw made his heart clench painfully in his chest.

It was Ashwin, sprawled on the unforgiving surface of a filthy, grimy stone floor.

Wide, silver eyes stared right through the camera, vacant and unfocused. He gave no indication that he knew he was being filmed; simply continued to stare unblinkingly into the distance. His glazed eyes fixed on some remote horizon only he could see.

His hair, usually sleek and lustrous, spilled about him in matted, unkempt tangles. His upper body, only partially visible on screen, lay bare: a brutal tableau of bruises and jagged lacerations. Light seeped leisurely from the open wounds, creating an almost ethereal glow around Ashwin’s recumbent form.

On his left shoulder, just below his collarbone, the skin bore a raw and searing wound – a fresh brand emitting a faint, ominous glow.

Ruban would recognize that brand anywhere. Janak Nath’s name, seared into Ashwin’s flesh over a year ago, at Reivaa’s castle. Which meant this was an old recording. The footage wasn’t live.

For a moment, relief coursed through Ruban so powerfully that his knees threatened to give way.

The video continued playing, unfazed by his tumultuous emotions.

Every few seconds, Ashwin’s body spasmed with violent shivers. The brand had seared the skin raw, leaving behind ragged, singed edges. As he watched, Ruban felt the acidic churn of bile in the back of his throat. Beside him, Simani sucked in a horrified breath.

They’d both seen this before, back at Reivaa’s castle last year. Hell, Simani had probably seen worse, considering she was trapped there far longer than Ruban.

Somehow, that didn’t make it any easier.

Less than sixty seconds into the video, a large shadow fell across Ashwin’s prone figure on the filthy stone floor. The silhouette of a big man, looming ever closer.

Ashwin’s vacant eyes focused for a moment, widening in what could only be described as fear. His lips parted, but no sound came out.

The footage lacked audio.

Ruban felt a moment of relief, followed quickly by guilt. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, the nails digging painfully into his palms.

On the screen, Ashwin recoiled instinctively from the approaching figure. Trying in vain to curl in on himself, even as his injured body refused to cooperate.

A large, meaty hand entered the camera frame. Thick, calloused fingers grazed Ashwin’s flesh, eliciting violent spasms as he struggled to get away.

Ruban’s hand shot to the keyboard. “That’s enough,” he said gruffly, halting the video with a decisive keystroke.

The screen froze, locking onto Ashwin's panicked, wide-eyed face.

Even with the video paused, Ruban’s heart pounded a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Beside him, Simani deflated into her chair, her face ashen.

They took a moment to regain their composure. To simply breathe.

“Dhriti wasn’t bluffing,” Simani said at last, minimizing the video app on her computer. Her fingers trembled slightly as she did so. “She really did have those videos.”

Videos.

Ruban swallowed thickly, stifling the revulsion and fury that surged in his gut, at the thought that there were more such videos.

Of course, the logical side of his mind told him that there must be. Dhriti Pathak wouldn’t reveal her hand so casually if this were her only card. Or even her strongest. Ergo, there had to be more where that came from. Additional videos waiting to surface any time she felt cornered or slighted.

This was just the first volley in a long battle that had only now begun.