The ring around Kiran's neck warmed.
It always looked harmless in pictures—a smooth metal circle, shiny and clean.
But today, it felt heavy. Alive.
Kiran stood in the chamber below the Council Hall while the entire city continued its normal day above him—shops opening, people shouting, cars passing. Down here, everything was quiet. Too quiet.
He felt the Halo press against the back of his neck. Every Pillar wore one.
Seven leaders. Seven Halos.
A reminder that their power could disappear the moment the people decided.
Through the glass wall, Laxman watched him. He looked calm for the cameras, but Kiran could see the slight shake in his hands.
"Stay steady," Laxman mouthed.
Kiran nodded even though his stomach was tight.
A soft chime echoed.
The Halo glowed blue for a moment—normal, harmless.
Then it pulsed again, slower, deeper.
The system had started reading the public votes.
"Citizen petition acknowledged," the machine voice said. "Preliminary review beginning."
Kiran's heart sank.
Three months ago, he had signed an order to close the southern grain depots.
It was supposed to be a smart move—"Strategic Redistribution," the report said.
The models showed it would help the future.
But reality hit harder than any model.
There were protests.
Markets became chaotic.
People fought over water.
And a child died—a video of it spread everywhere.
The whole nation saw it.
Now the Network wanted someone to blame.
"Status?" Kiran asked.
His security officer checked the console. Robot guards stood nearby, motionless and watching.
"There's a voting surge in the Western districts," the officer said. "People are signing petitions quickly. The system is checking for bots."
The Halo glowed again. This time the light felt sharper.
Laxman slid a tablet under the glass.
"Show the people everything," he said. "All the documents. Be transparent."
Kiran hesitated for a second.
If he released the files, everyone would see every detail—who advised him, why he signed, the pressure behind the decision.
Some people involved might get into trouble.
But hiding things would only make things worse.
Outside, screens across the city turned red. People stopped in the streets to watch the live feed. Markets fell silent.
Hours passed quickly as the votes increased.
Numbers climbed across the screens:
40% angry
50% angry
58% angry
60% angry
The Council members appeared on the screen, each in their own window. Their faces were serious. Hard to read. Kiran looked at Aisha, the Pillar of Economy. Her eyes were sharp and calm.
"Show the data," she said.
He nodded and released the logs. The files opened publicly for everyone to see.
The Halo burned a dull red.
"Emergency petition verified," the system announced. "Suspension window opening."
Kiran felt his throat tighten. The Halo's heat spread slightly, like a warning.
Three hours.
That was all the time left before the system decided his fate.
Laxman whispered through the glass, "People won't even eat today. They're too focused on voting."
Kiran stepped forward and faced the cameras.
"I take responsibility," he said. "We will fix this. Relief convoys are ready. We will correct the mistake."
The sentiment numbers shifted but not enough.
The strategist spoke slowly, "We can pause the suspension, but the public is very serious today."
Intervening would mean the Council protecting him.
Not intervening meant the people's anger could remove him—or kill him.
The system didn't care about fear. It cared about numbers.
Another chime.
"Preliminary review complete. Proceeding to suspension protocol."
The Halo brightened.
The chamber went silent.
Kiran stood straight, even as his hands trembled.
His face appeared on every screen across the nation.
The youngest Pillar ever chosen.
The countdown began.
The Trial had started.