The warehouse stood on the edge of the river, far from the hum of Kolkata, far from the surveillance of microphones, far from the fragile constructs called democracy. Rusted corrugated sheets shivered in the night breeze, and the walls bore the grime of decades, the smell of damp concrete hanging thick in the air. Only one bulb swayed lazily above, swinging as if it had its own heartbeat, slicing the darkness with its jaundiced light.

A voice broke the silence, trembling, frayed, almost dissolving into the air:
“Sa… Sarkar…”
(Ma… Master…)
The man was on his knees. His hands trembled uncontrollably, pressed against cold, unyielding concrete. His shirt clung to him — soaked, not with rain, but with fear so pure it seemed to have seeped into his skin. Every breath rattled like a fragile wind chime.