Sera's POV
The place hadn't changed.
That disturbed me more than if it had.
The abandoned stretch lay exactly as Nehra had described—cracked pavement, a broken streetlight hanging like a snapped neck, rusted shutters watching silently. The air felt heavier here, as if it remembered what had happened and refused to let it go.
I crouched, fingers brushing the ground.
Nothing visible. No stains. No discarded evidence.
"They always clean what matters," I muttered.
Raghav stood a few feet behind me, scanning the surroundings. "Locals avoid this place. They don't like questions."
"Or they've been taught not to answer," I replied.
I stood, frustration tightening my chest. For a moment, it felt pointless—this month, this fight, this illusion of justice.
Then—
"Sera," Raghav said quietly.
I turned.
"There's someone."
The Kid
He stood half-hidden behind Raghav, barely taller than my shoulder, clothes torn and oversized, hair matted with dust. His eyes darted around like trapped birds, scanning exits that didn't exist.
"Who is he?" I asked, my voice softer now.
"I found him near that hut," Raghav said, pointing behind the abandoned building. "He was talking to himself. Mentioned... a car. A woman crying."
My pulse skipped.
I crouched to his level. "Hey," I said gently. "What's your name?"
Silence.
His hands clenched tighter around the torn fabric he wore.
I didn't push. Instead, I stood and turned to Raghav. "Take him to the office."
Raghav blinked. "Now?"
"Yes. Get him food. Clean clothes. Water." I paused, eyes never leaving the boy. "No questions yet."
The kid flinched when Raghav moved closer.
I held up my palm. "No one's going to hurt you. Not today."
That last part—not today—hung heavier than I meant it to.
Back at Sera's Office
The boy sat on the couch, now dressed in clean clothes that didn't quite fit. A plate of food rested untouched on the table.
Raghav whispered, "He won't eat."
I pulled a chair closer and sat, not facing him directly.
"When you're ready," I said, "you can talk. Or not. Both are fine."
Minutes passed.
Then, barely audible—
"There was a car."
My spine stiffened, but I didn't interrupt.
"Black," he continued. "Shiny. It stopped fast."
Raghav's pen froze mid-air.
The boy swallowed. "The man inside... he didn't look scared."
I finally looked at him. His eyes met mine for a split second before dropping.
"Men who aren't scared," I said quietly, "usually think they're protected."
The boy nodded. Once. Slowly.
As the boy spoke in fragments—half sentences, broken memories—I realized something terrifying and hopeful at once:
This wasn't about proving Arvind guilty.
This was about proving the truth existed at all.
And truth, once spoken—even by a scared child in borrowed clothes—had a way of refusing to die.
Sera's POV
The boy's hands wouldn't stop shaking.
Not violently—just enough to notice. Like his body was trying to warn him before his mind could catch up.
Raghav crouched beside him, slow, careful. "You're safe here," he said, voice low, almost fatherly. "No one's going to shout. No one's going to rush you."
The boy didn't look at him.
His eyes were fixed on the door.
I noticed that immediately.
I pressed the recorder between my fingers, then placed it gently on the table. The red light blinked to life.
"That's just so I don't forget," I said softly. "You don't have to look at it."
The boy's breathing hitched.
He swallowed. Once. Twice.
Then—
Silence.
Too long.
I watched his shoulders stiffen, his fingers curling inward like claws. He wasn't scared of us.
He was scared of memory.
I reached out and switched the recorder off.
The red light died.
Instantly, his shoulders dropped a fraction.
Raghav glanced at me, surprised.
I shook my head almost imperceptibly.
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. "Forget the machine," I said. "Just tell me what you saw. That night. Nothing else."
His lips parted.
Closed again.
Then finally—
"There was a car."
His voice cracked on the last word.
I didn't write. I didn't nod. I didn't interrupt.
"It stopped fast," he continued. "I thought it was... police. Patrol cars come there sometimes."
My jaw tightened.
"Then I heard shouting," he said. "A girl. She was angry. Not crying at first. She was... arguing."
Arguing.
I felt something shift in my chest.
"She was shouting at one man," the boy said. "Not all."
Raghav's pen moved slowly now.
The boy's hands clenched. "But there weren't one man," he whispered. "There were three."
The room seemed to shrink.
Three.
"She kept screaming at one of them," he went on, voice trembling. "Like she knew him. Like he did something wrong."
I felt my pulse thud in my ears.
"And then?" I asked, barely louder than a breath.
The boy squeezed his eyes shut.
"They pulled her," he said. "By her hair. She tried to hit them. She tried to run."
His voice broke completely now.
"They dragged her inside the car. She was screaming. Loud. They didn't stop. They didn't care."
He opened his eyes then.
And looked straight at me.
"There was no pity."
Silence
Raghav froze.
I didn't realize I was holding my breath until my lungs burned.
No pity.
That wasn't the language of a child.
That was observation.
That was truth.
I stood slowly, careful not to startle him. "You did the bravest thing," I said. "You remembered."
The boy shook his head. "They saw me."
The words landed like a gunshot.
I crouched again, closer now. "Who did?"
"The man she was shouting at," he said. "He looked at me."
I felt cold spread through my spine.
"He smiled," the boy whispered. "Like I wasn't real."
Raghav escorted the boy to the adjoining room to rest.
I didn't sit.
I paced.
Three men.
One she recognized.
Dragged, not lured.
Resistance, not consent.
This wasn't just an assault.
This was silencing.
I finally pressed the recorder again—but this time, only my voice filled the room.
"Note," I said quietly. "Victim confronted one suspect verbally. Indicates prior knowledge. Indicates betrayal."
I stopped the recording.
And for the first time since the trial, fear didn't own the room.
Purpose did.