Chapter 3: The Service Ledger

Heer looked at the screen, then at Daksh. Her voice was flat, almost empty. "My dad’s been dead for three years. Why is his name on a transfer from last Tuesday?"

​Daksh didn't move. He didn't even look at the laptop. "Because he’s not in that grave, Heer."

​The silence that followed was suffocating. Heer felt a sudden, sharp ringing in her ears. "What did you just say?"

​"The accident, the funeral... it was a setup," Daksh said, his voice dropping. He sounded tired, not threatening. "He was drowning in debt. He thought if he 'died,' you’d be safe and the money would vanish. He was wrong."

​Heer’s hand went to her throat. "You were at the funeral, Daksh. You held my hand while I cried. You knew?"

​"I'm the one who drove him to the border," he said quietly.

​Heer lashed out, her palm stinging as it hit his chest. She didn't care about the expensive suit or the dangerous man in front of her. "You let me mourn him! I spent three years thinking I was alone!"

​Daksh grabbed her wrists—not to hurt her, but to keep her still. "Listen to me. He’s in a safe house in Kathmandu, and he just tried to move three million dollars of their money to buy his way out. Your audit caught it. If that flag stays on the system, they’ll realize he’s alive and they’ll kill him just to make a point."

​"So you’re here to save him?" she spat, trying to pull away.

​"I’m here to save you," he snapped, his eyes finally showing a spark of something raw. "They don't just want the money anymore, Heer. They want to know how an auditor in Mumbai found a ghost's account. They’re coming for the person who clicked that button. That’s you."

​Heer stopped struggling, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "What do I do?"

​"Sit down," Daksh said, releasing her wrists. He pointed at the screen. "Delete the trace. Clear the flag. Make it look like a system glitch. We have twenty minutes before their IT team syncs the server."

​"And then?" Heer asked worriedly

​Daksh looked at the door, his hand instinctively reaching for the heavy shadow of a holster under his jacket. "And then we leave. You can’t stay here another night."

Heer looked at the sink. There was a half-eaten plate of poha sitting there from breakfast. The plants she’d bought last week were drooping. "I can't just leave, Daksh," she said, her voice sounding flat. "I have work tomorrow. My boss will call. My mom will call."

​Daksh didn't even look up from her laptop. He was staring at the screen, his face pale under the cheap yellow light of her kitchen bulb. "Heer, the people who own that money don't care about your boss. They don't even care about the three million anymore. They care that someone found the name. That's you."

​He stood up and grabbed a plastic grocery bag from her kitchen counter, shoving her charger and a pair of socks into it. It looked messy—unplanned.

​"What are you doing?" she asked.

​"Finding a way to keep you from getting arrested or worse," he said. He didn't sound like a hero; he sounded stressed, his voice low and jagged. "Go get your ID. And your bank passbook. Just do it, Heer."

​"You’ve been gone for ten years, Daksh! You don't get to just walk in and tell me to pack my life in a grocery bag!" Heer protested

​Daksh finally looked at her. He looked exhausted. He didn't look like the boy she remembered, but he didn't look like a killer either. "I've spent ten years making sure these people never heard your name. But today, you typed it into a public audit report. I can't protect you if you're the one holding the evidence."

​Down the hall, the neighbor’s dog started barking. Then, they heard the heavy thud-thud of someone walking fast in the corridor.

The barking got louder, that sharp, annoying yelp from the Aunty’s dog, was constant now. That usually meant the milkman or a courier was at the door. But it was nearly midnight. Then came the footsteps—slow, heavy thuds in the hallway that stopped right outside her door.

Heer’s breath hitched. She looked at the main door, then at the small kitchen balcony. "Daksh, we can't stay here," she whispered, her voice trembling.

​Daksh looked at the door, then at the window. He realized she was right—hiding behind a thin laminate counter was useless if they walked in with a flashlight. "The utility balcony," he muttered, grabbing her arm. "Is the service ladder still there?"

​"It’s rusty, but it leads to the ground-floor compound," Heer said, already moving. She didn't wait for him to agree. She grabbed her phone from the table and ran toward the small balcony behind the kitchen where the washing machine stood.

​They scrambled over the low wall, the cold iron of the railing biting into Heer’s palms. Below them, the narrow gully was dark and smelled of damp concrete. Behind them, in the living room, they heard the distinct click-clack of the front door finally giving way.

​Heer didn't look back. She swung her legs over the edge, her heart in her mouth, as Daksh followed right behind her. They began to climb down the narrow metal rungs, praying the old bolts would hold their weight before the men inside looked out the window.

​He just pulled her down to the cold tiled floor—no, he pushed her toward the edge, both of them moving with frantic, quiet urgency.

The sound coming from the living room as door slowly opens and they both heard the heavy thud of boots hitting the laminate floor inside her living room.

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