Palika’s office was bigger and brighter than Sai’s, the walls painted in shades of peach and off-white.

Beyond that, the two chambers were nearly identical. The furniture, upholstery, fixtures, and layout all seemed to have been designed from the same template.

The only difference? In addition to the large picture windows, Palika’s office featured a small balcony overflowing with potted plants and their colorful, fragrant flowers.

Stepping further into the office, I carefully clicked the wood-and-glass door shut behind me. And shot a quick glance at the two security cameras on either side of the chamber. Hoping the technician had kept her word – that they’d both been properly disabled.

Excitement and dread churned in my belly, tightening into a painful knot.

I made myself breathe in, then out; again and again.

No use stressing over it at this point. I was in too deep. I hadn’t just dipped a toe in; I’d dived in headfirst with no life jacket.

Sink or swim, there was no getting out of the water now.

I settled into one of the plush visitor chairs across from Palika’s massive oak desk. It was surprisingly tidy. Aside from a small stack of files on one side, the desk held only a sleek silver computer and an ornate silver lamp, angled to illuminate the computer screen when needed.

I sat in the chair, tapping my foot lightly against the polished marble floor. Just in case Tara decided to check in on me, offer to bring me a coffee or some such.

I fiddled with the flash drive in my pocket to try and steady my nerves.

Well, at least I didn’t need to feign my impatience. It pulsed through every fiber of my being.

Ten minutes ticked by, and still no Tara with a solicitous offer of caffeine. I muttered a quick thank-you to whatever deity had yet to abandon me. And forced myself to my feet, heart hammering.

Moving cautiously around the big desk, I made my way over to Palika’s side.

My hand shook as I touched the sleek computer, bringing the screen to life. Zintra’s unmistakable logo flickered on the display. Followed a moment later by the usual slideshow of their products, beautiful child models munching gleefully on Zintra’s brightly-packaged treats.

One of the largest conglomerates in Hastinar, Vance Industries produced everything from children’s snacks to military gear, through its various subsidiaries.

Yet Zintra, a modest division launched two decades ago to sell trail mix and chocolate-covered nuts, had somehow grown into their second-most profitable venture. Which made it a key revenue source not only for Vance, but also for the HPA.

Because Vance had always been one of the staunchest supporters – and financial backers – of the Hastinar People’s Alliance. Meaning that whatever made money for Vance, also funded the HPA and its election campaigns.

I tapped the touchpad on Palika’s computer once again. Immediately, the screen flashed a prompt: passcode or fingerprint required.

Neither of which I possessed.

I pulled the flash drive from my pocket. Willing my hands to be steady, I slid it into the appropriate port on Palika’s sleek silver device.

A soft beep. The screen flickered and went black.

I stole a quick glance at the door. Still shut. No sign of movement. My heart threatened to claw its way up my throat and escape through my mouth.

The display jolted back to life, rapid streams of indecipherable code flashing past too quickly for me to catch a single word.

Not that I understood any of it.

My domain was finance. Spreadsheets, balance sheets, income statements, and quarterly forecasts? Those I could make sense of.

Computer code? It was less a foreign language to me, more an extraterrestrial one. The lines cascading down the screen couldn’t have been more incomprehensible if written in an alien script.

What rudimentary lessons I’d received in high school had been promptly forgotten over the last seven years.

It was my misspent college days paying dividends, now. The finance department had been right next to the computer science one. And I’d made friends in high places.

Well, they weren’t in high places back then. They were broke students surviving on boiled khichdi and instant noodles.

And me? Well, let’s just say that what I lacked in charm, I made up for in deep pockets. Or rather, in my willingness to dip into my father’s deep pockets, when the occasion called for it.

And so it was that I’d befriended a handful of computer prodigies. And occasionally used my connections to fast-track their climb up the corporate ladder. Or the academic one. Never let it be said that I’m not flexible in my nepotism.

Being friends with the son of the internal security minister (and stepson to a former governor of the reserve bank) had its perks, after all.

Any favor I owed was repaid many times over – nobody knew that better than my friends.

Unsurprisingly, they were happy to lend me their expertise from time to time. So long as their names remained untarnished by the muck I chose to frolic in.

The scrolling code was soon replaced by a stark blue screen, featuring a string of numbers and letters in a blocky, old-school font.

A dialogue box popped up, issuing precise instructions for a file transfer in crisp white text.

Pulse hammering in my ears, I scanned the steps. Then followed them carefully, keeping half an eye on the door. Still shut, still no sign of movement outside.

A few keystrokes later, I’d initiated the file transfer process. One by one, the files – 987 in all – started copying onto my flash drive. A progress bar crawled forward, agonizingly slow, each percentage point stretching into an eternity.

A shadow flickered past my peripheral vision.

My breath hitched, fingers clenching around the edge of Palika’s desk. It was a miracle I didn’t scream.

My eyes darted to the door – shut. No movement outside. No footsteps. No sound betraying any presence beyond. Everything was exactly as it had been moments ago.

With deliberate effort, I wrestled my attention back to the screen.

And no sooner had I managed to regain some fraction of my focus, when…

Another shadow whipped past, too fast for my eyes to track.

My body jolted, heart slamming against my ribs as I scanned the spacious office.

Nothing.

Yet, goosebumps prickled across my arms. Something felt off. Something…my gaze snapped to the open balcony door. Potted greenery and vibrant flowers crowded the space beyond, sunlight spilling through the leaves and into the office.

I stared, frowning. My unease refused to fade.

Seconds ticked by, and I forced myself to look away, back at the screen.

36 of 987 files copied. The progress bar inched sluggishly forward.

Reluctantly, I glanced back at the balcony.

What could it be?

Just the wind? A bird? Or something else? A hidden camera I’d missed, perhaps?

Someone watching from one of the nearby buildings?

The thought chilled my blood.

But I had to check. Had to know. Even in the worst-case scenario, it’d be better to know than stew in uncertainty, flinching at every shifting shadow.

My steps silent against the marble floor, I slowly rounded the large oak desk. Each footfall measured; I crept toward the balcony. Keeping half an eye on the office door the entire time.

My nerves screamed at me to turn back, to sit down, to wait it out.

I kept moving forward, the distance from the desk to the balcony stretching endlessly.

I was being ridiculous. Paranoid.

But something prickled at the base of my spine. Just one quick look. Just in case…

I crossed the threshold onto the balcony, stepping into the sunlight.

Glossy green leaves and ceramic pots surrounded me. The scent of rich, damp soil and fresh flowers overwhelmed my senses, so different from the smog and exhaust fumes of the city outside.

Delicate vines curled around the railing, their bright red, yellow, and white blossoms nodding gently in the breeze.

I exhaled, my body stiff with tension. Was I just spooking myself? My paranoia looping around to swallow its own tail? Had it all just been a trick of the light?

A sudden rustle, quick and sharp.

I spun, pulse skidding, as my hand shot out instinctively to grip the railing for support. My gaze darted frantically, searching for the source of the noise.

A sharp sting sliced through my palm.

Paying it no heed, I scanned the buildings beyond, their windows glinting in the sunlight. The street below was teeming with traffic, a blur of rushing vehicles. Tiny figures weaved along the footpaths, pausing now and then at one of the shops that lined the street. The few trees that dotted the sidewalk swayed gently in the breeze. A dog barked at a passing car.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

Nothing. Or at least, nothing that seemed out of the ordinary. Searching was no easy task when I didn’t know what I was looking for.

At last, I tore my gaze away. Fingers loosening around the railing, I glanced down to examine the source of the sudden pain.

Blood pooled in my palm, welling slowly from a fresh cut. What the—

The sting had dulled, settling into a steady throb. But how had it…

It called to me. That familiar blend of terror and pain and despair – a combination I hadn’t tasted in over a decade.

A vision.

It beckoned to me, eager to sink its claws deep. I shouldn’t let it. I knew better.

Leena would be so upset. Ammi would worry.

But…

A drop trembled at the edge of my palm. The blood sliding along the creases until it had gathered into a perfect bead.

I watched, transfixed, as it clung stubbornly to my skin – suspended, resisting defiantly the pull of gravity.

Until it lost.

And fell.

The crimson liquid flooded my vision, smearing the edges. Staining the world red.

Something buzzed in my ears. Buzzed? No, more like…babbled.

Babbled like a brook. Isn’t that what they say? A babbling brook. A blood-red brook, babbling incoherently in my ear.

And I-I wanted to listen. I wanted to know what it was saying to me. I had to know.

Tearing my gaze away from the bloody brook, I looked up at the sky.

The sky was black as ink. Midnight black.

I-I can’t be here. Not now. I’ve got a meeting early in the morning. A shareholder meeting.

The entire board. Waiting. Watching.

I need to go home. Need to get some sleep.

I choked back a laugh.

Sleep. As if I could sleep. As if I’d managed to sleep through the night – a full night, just one – since the…the leak.

But I had to. I had to. For the meeting. The entire board will be there. What will they say? What will I say?

I had to show up. Speak. Defend myself. Defend Zintra.

But how? What could I say? That I’d driven the company into the ground? Sent share prices plummeting to a ten-year low?

That I’d reduced one of the most profitable companies in the country to a charred shell of itself, in under six months? Scorched it to the bone, leaving behind nothing but a hollow, decaying carcass?

Would they fire me?

They would fire me.

It’d almost be a relief. Almost.

But then what?

I reached out, gripped the vine-covered railing with trembling fingers. The sweet scent of freshly bloomed bougainvilleas drifted to my nose, a fleeting comfort.

The leaves obscured my view, but I knew they were down there.

The protestors. Still here. Always here. There was no escape, not even in the middle of the night.

Candles flickered in the dark, waiting. Waiting for me.

They weren’t leaving. They would never leave. Not until they had their pound of flesh.

My flesh.

They’d claw at my skin and tear out my flesh. Shred me to bits until there was nothing left. Not a body. Not a soul. Not even a memory. They wouldn’t even spare that.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

The company was my only shield. The only thing keeping them at bay. The title of CEO – Zintra’s CEO – was the fragile, cracking wall between me and them. The rabid, vengeful masses slamming repeatedly at my door with their battering rams.

And when that title was gone?

I knew what would happen.

I couldn’t see their signs, their placards, from up here. But I knew what they said. Had the words carved into my brain with the sharp edge of a knife.

“Down with Zintra.”

“Death to Palika – Children’s Killer.”

“We Want Justice – Hang the Perpetrators.”

“Death to Those Who Poisoned Our Children.”

And they meant it. They meant every word. They would kill me. Even if I was arrested. Even in prison. There was nowhere in this country I would be safe. Not now. Not ever again.

I knew it as surely as I knew the sun would rise in the east, come morning.

Hot tears streamed down my face, searing my skin.

I could tell them.

The thought snaked in, unbidden. I could tell them everything. The truth.

Another laugh clawed at my throat, rising, manic, desperate. What a joke. Who would believe me?

And what if they did believe me?

It would end the same for me. Perhaps worse.

Being torn apart by an angry mob might actually be preferable to…whatever sadistic punishment they’d dream up for me. For betraying them. For tattling.

They were patient, after all. Unlike the mob, they’d take their time.

No, I couldn’t say anything. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t breathe.

But if I didn’t – I gasped, hand gripping the railing tighter. There was no escape. Not that I deserved an escape.

This was my fault.

I’d agreed. I’d signed the papers. I’d let them talk me into it. The new aspartame-alternative. Cheaper. More cost-effective. Would improve our margins by 8% year-on-year.

Poisonous too, as it turned out. Deadly. But I hadn’t known it back then.

And the leak. I shouldn’t have—

Shouldn’t have what?

How did that—

Well, it didn’t matter. What was done was done. Nothing mattered now but what would happen tomorrow.

Tomorrow, the board will fire me. And I’d deserve it. I’d deserve everything that came after, too. The arrest. The cameras flashing. The trial. The humiliation. The verdict.

Maybe even the mob. Their wrath. I’d deserve it all.

But would I be able to take it? I shuddered. No. I know myself, know what I am. And I’m a coward. Deep down, at my core. A selfish, reckless coward who agreed to experiment with an untested artificial sweetener…and for what? To save a few pennies per unit of candy?

God, what had I been thinking? Why’d I let myself be talked into—

It didn’t matter. A life for a life. It was only fair.

I laughed, tears streaming down my face.

A life for a few dozen, more like. How many of them had died already? How many were on the way there, hanging on only by the wires of their life support equipment?

But if I was going to die – if there really was no way out – why let them do it?

Why let them stretch it out? Enjoy it? Enjoy taking me apart bit by bit, as I screamed and bled and begged. First, the media frenzy, the smear campaigns. Then the trial, the sentencing, the public disgrace. The shame, the fear. The suffering of prison. And all this for what?

Just counting down the days, waiting for the noose to end it all?

Why not just—

I peered over the railing at the crowd below. A tide of candle-holding protesters spilling from the footpath into the street, their placards waving.

Tearing my gaze from them, I looked down at the unforgiving concrete – of the path stretching from the building to the street.

It was oddly inviting. Comforting, even.

Fifteen stories should be enough, shouldn’t it? Enough to finish it, once and for all. Enough for one final escape.

On shaky legs, I hauled myself onto the narrow ledge of the balcony railing.

Strange. It felt almost liberating. I was weightless, a leaf caught in the wind, teetering on the edge, ready to fall. Ready to drift away.

The protestors below couldn’t see me. My office was pitch dark. As was most of the building.

But I could see them.

Waiting. Always waiting. Like ravenous hyenas circling their prey; biding their time.

Well, they wouldn’t get the satisfaction.

I smiled.

This prey would slip through their fingers. Disappear right before their eyes, right before they could sink their claws in.

I wiped the moisture from my face. Then, with one trembling foot, I stepped out into the empty air.

And let myself fall.

“Maa! Maa, don’t!” A child's voice rang out, shrill with panic. “Please, Maa, don’t leave me! Don’t leave me alone with him!”

A child? Here? On Palika’s office balcony?

A jolt, intense and disorienting.

More voices – louder, sharper. “You should’ve informed me immediately! Is this what I pay you for?” A man’s voice, harsh and demanding.

My eyes snapped open.

The late-morning sun lit the sky above me, once more. My fingers gripped the railing, vice-like; my lips parted in a silent scream.

“He said he didn’t want to disturb you.” A woman’s voice, calm and coaxing. “Didn’t want to interrupt your meeting. He was being harassed by the protestors downstairs. What was I supposed to do? He’s Darpan Naag’s son.”

That was Tara’s voice. The realization of what that meant hit me like a punch to the gut.

Palika was back.

Forcefully shaking off the lingering haze of the vision, I dashed back to the desk, moving as silently as I could.

I glanced down at Palika’s computer screen.

“Transfer complete,” it said in blocky white font.

Heavy footsteps approached the closed office door.

“987 of 987 files copied.” The progress bar stretched fully, glowing green.

Fighting back nausea, I yanked the flash drive from the port, jamming it into my pocket with one hand as I shut down the computer with the other.

The doorknob clicked softly, began to turn.

Without waiting for the screen to go black, I flew back to the other side of the desk. And dropped into the visitor chair I’d occupied less than half an hour ago, though it felt like a lifetime had passed.

I pulled out my phone. Trying desperately to steady my breath, still the tremor in my hands.

The door swung open.

Sumedh Palika stepped into his office, his footsteps stretching unbearably between the frantic beats of my pulse.

I forced myself to stand, to turn around. Meet Palika with what I hoped was a normal smile – pleasant, mildly interested. Anything but the manic mix of terror and triumph coursing through me.

And as if that weren’t enough, the aftereffects of the vision were starting to take hold. My head ached as though someone had taken a sledgehammer to it. A high-pitched ringing in my ears. Nausea churned in my gut, growing more intense with every passing second.

I shoved it all down. There’d be time to deal with all that later.

Not here. Not now.

Through my blurred vision, I saw Palika’s lips move.

I blinked, forcing myself to focus on his words through the dull roaring in my head.

“Lekh, what’s the matter with you?” He was closer now. His gaze flicked over me, assessing. “You look terrible. And what happened to your hand?” he asked, one eyebrow arched.

The faint scent of sandalwood and vetiver clung to him. Expensive cologne. I’d have to ask him for the brand before… Before. My brain stuttered to a stop.

I couldn’t help but take a closer look at him.

Palika stood half a head taller than me, and significantly broader. Sharp features, a receding hairline. His thick, expressive eyebrows could have housed a small family of squirrels.

He seemed a little tense. A little stiffer than the last time I’d seen him. A few new lines creased his brow. But nothing that hinted at…

It was hard to imagine this man – self-assured, even slightly arrogant – teetering on that balcony ledge. Hollow with fear, despair. Making the decision to…

He made an inquisitive sound, snapping me back to the present moment.

I followed his gaze to my palm, slick with blood. Oh. That.

“I was admiring your flowers,” I said, glancing over at the balcony. “The way you’ve set it all up. It’s stunning.”

Palika preened. “Impressed? You should see my garden.” He waved me back to my seat, circling his desk. “I must say, this is a surprise. Should I have someone bring you some ointment? Bandages, perhaps?” His eyes lingered on my hand.

“That won’t be necessary. It’s a shallow cut.”

He leaned back in his chair, studying me down the length of his patrician nose. “So what brings you here? What’s so urgent that you couldn’t give me a call?”

Now this, I was prepared for.

“The SEZ in Fagrihi is all but approved. But these recent… allegations have thrown a bit of a wrench in our plans.” I dipped my head, pretending I didn’t see Palika flinch. “Papa thinks we should ease up, let the dust settle. The news cycle is fickle; and the people will lose interest eventually. Find something more interesting to protest about. A murder, maybe. Or a rape. Perhaps both. Those kinds of things always grab headlines. Chemical imbalances in mass-produced confectionary can only hold public attention for so long.”

As I spoke, my vision swam; breakfast threatening to claw its way back up my throat. My head pounded, ready to split apart.

The vision exacting its price; pulverizing my body from the inside out.

“But the loans for the factory in Fagrihi have already been secured,” Palika protested. “The materials bought; contractors already paid their advances. Every day we drag our feet, the company loses more money.”

We went back and forth for a few minutes, but we both knew it was all for show.

The real power lay with my father, as it always had. The factory would be built only when he wanted it built.

And with Zintra’s reputation in the gutter, Palika had no leverage to force Papa’s hand. On this issue or any other.

A few minutes later, I made my excuses and rose from the chair. My lacerated palm, loosely bandaged with my own handkerchief, was useful in this regard. It made for an easy exit.

Stepping out of the CEO’s chamber, I said my goodbyes to Tara. Promising to meet her at the airport later that evening.

Then, I headed back down to the lobby. Completely numb; the sights, sounds and smells around me barely registering. As my brain compulsively replayed the last moments of my vision—

Palika stepping off the ledge. Falling to his death. Over and over and over again.

I took the stairs on my way down. Fifteen floors was a lot, but the thought of cramming into an elevator with half a dozen strangers made me want to puke.

As I strode through Zintra’s brightly lit corridors, I pulled out my phone. And scrolled through my recent contacts until I found the name I was looking for.

Ex-Snake Charmer.

Despite the pounding in my head, the nausea and the confusion, I smiled. Brushing my fingers against the smooth, cool surface of the flash drive in my pocket, I pressed call.

She picked up on the third ring. “Where are you? Moyna says you’re ignoring her calls. How many times do I have to tell you—”

“Leena,” I cut in, my voice raw, unsteady. “Open a short position on Zintra, ASAP.” I dragged in a deep breath. “Sumedh Palika’s about to throw himself off his balcony.”