"It is the heart that stays at the farthest of corners."
Vikram sat by the metallic window, his gaze fixed on a faint flare burning in the distance. The small light shimmered in the night like a stubborn flame refusing to die. His mind drifted into questions that gnawed at him endlessly.
Why have I not been good? Were my decisions wrong? Could I have chosen differently?
Images pressed against his thoughts—Father, Mother, Ambika—faces that once carried expectation and now lingered like silent judges. Did I ever live up to them? Egypt… everything changed in Egypt. If only I had never gone there.
The silence fractured.
"Where have you been?" Andrich's sharp voice pierced the stillness. "I've searched everywhere. Don't you realize we're the only ones in this godforsaken place?"
Vikram lifted a finger to his lips, wordless.
"Don't shush me," Andrich snapped. His voice carried the grating pitch of frustration. "I'm done with your moods. I'll tell Lorenzo to move me. I know my rights. I won't spend another minute with a madman like you."
Vikram remained unmoved, eyes still on the distant light. Andrich lingered a moment longer, muttering under his breath before stomping away. On his way, he brushed past Sir Mitusawa, who steadied himself with a small shake of his head. Without acknowledging Andrich, the old man turned toward Vikram.
"Admiring the moon, young man?" His tone was soft, almost kind.
Vikram didn't turn. "What joy is there in staring at the same tired moon?"
Sir Mitusawa's lips curved into a smile. "Old, yes. Yet it has endured longer than you or I."
"Just like you," Vikram murmured, a bitter edge in his voice.
The elder walked closer and lowered himself onto the bench beside him. His presence carried the quiet weight of patience. "I have met men of all kinds—clever, cruel, delusional. I have seen them rise, and I have seen them fall. But you…" His eyes softened. "You are different. Perhaps it is my age, or perhaps I still have some mercy left in me. You do not seem the barbarian they call you."
A faint smirk touched Vikram's lips. "And what do you know of me, old man?"
"Enough." Sir Mitusawa laid a gentle hand upon his. "Enough to see why you sit here, staring into the dark. I am not one to dwell in the past, but I will tell you this—your future will not be any different if you let your wounds fester."
Vikram pulled his hand away sharply. "My future is not your concern. A comrade of yours destroyed my life. Are you here to remind me of my scars?"
The old man rose, his smile touched by sorrow. "Do not carve new ones, son. Life does not stop for the broken-hearted. Whether you rise or fall depends on you."
From his pocket, he drew a silver chain. The dim light caught against it, throwing a fragile shimmer into the room. He held it for a moment, then tossed it lightly toward Vikram.
"We may bury memories," Sir Mitusawa said, his voice low, "but we can never erase them."
His footsteps faded into the corridor. Alone again, Vikram picked up the chain. For the briefest moment, a shadow of a smile touched his face—weak, uncertain, but real.
"Vikram was twelve when his father, proud of his boy's growing confidence, bought him a new cycle. Bhushan sulked, Ambika scolded, but Vikram couldn't care less. He had discovered freedom on two wheels—peddling from hood to hood, the world seemed to blur past him, life itself rushing at his side.
But one afternoon, something happened that would mark him forever.
As he cut through a narrow street, a sound stopped him—a chorus of snarls echoing from a shadowed alley. He braked, curiosity pricking at his young mind. In the gloom, a pack of dogs circled a girl curled on the ground, her cries too frail to pierce the chaos of traffic and shouting vendors beyond.
Without a thought, Vikram threw his cycle down and ran. His heart hammered—he had always been terrified of strays. To him, they were monsters of the street. Yet, he bent, scooped stones in his small hands, and hurled them with desperate aim.
The dogs turned on him.
Fear surged like fire in his veins. He ran, legs pumping, skin tearing against rough concrete. A knee split open, a hot bite seared his calf, but he didn't stop. He ran until his lungs burned and his vision blurred. Somehow, he stumbled into safety, heart still clawing at his ribs.
When he returned, panting and bloodied, both the girl and his cycle were gone.
He sank to the ground, tears welling. What would he tell at home? His father had worked hard for that cycle. His mother would beat him, Ambika would scold, and Bhushan would laugh at his failure. Vikram wept—scared, wounded, ashamed.
Through the haze of tears, something glimmered on the ground. A silver chain.
He picked it up, his small fingers trembling. A fragile smile broke across his bloodstained face. She will come back, he thought. She must. Perhaps she took the cycle to fetch her parents. Perhaps she'll return for her chain. When she does, I'll give it back.
He waited. Morning stretched into afternoon, afternoon into dusk. The alley swallowed the light, but the girl never came.
That night he returned home to the scolding, the beating, the disappointed stares he had feared. He bore it all in silence, clutching his secret hope. Every day after, he waited for the girl. Every day he returned empty-handed.
A year passed. At last, he folded the silver chain away into his cupboard, along with a fragment of his young heart."
Vikram stared at the silver chain in his hand, then leaned his forehead against the cold iron bars with a dull thud. He let the sting linger before turning back toward his cell, dragging himself to the narrow bed.
"What did that old bugger say?" Andrich's voice cut through the silence, sharp and edged.
Vikram exhaled, weary. "Nothing much."
Andrich let out a bitter laugh that curled into a snarl. "Nothing much. Hah. Why is it everyone here treats you like some damned prince? Don't they see what you are? Don't they know how evil you are?"
Vikram didn't bite back. His thoughts were elsewhere, drowning out Andrich's noise. The man's anger was just another echo of the prison walls—claustrophobic, repetitive, meaningless. Three months of UCID confinement had been nothing but the same tasteless meals and the same dead-eyed guards. Even the most patient of souls would have snapped by now.
Vikram slipped the chain around his neck, fingers lingering on the cold metal. Where did Mitusawa get it? Did he know her? Where would she be now? Does she even think of me…?
His muttering only seemed to grate on Andrich further. With a sound of disgust, Andrich spat on the floor and rolled over, surrendering himself to sullen sleep.
Vikram descended from the bed, walked to the basin, and splashed icy water across his face. For a brief moment, the cold numbed the storm raging in his chest. He lay down on the hard floor, the chill seeping into his bones, and let his eyes fall shut. At last, sleep found him.
Sir Mitusawa entered his room and sat heavily on the edge of the bed. A long, weary sigh escaped him, the kind that carried both age and burden.
A sudden knock on the door made him flinch.
"I need a word with you, Sir Mitusawa," came Sir Henderson's heavy voice.
"Come in," Mitusawa replied, sounding more tired than annoyed.
The door creaked open. Henderson stepped in with deliberate poise, his boots pressing into the carpet with measured authority. He pulled a chair, sat across from the old man, and leaned forward.
"I hope I am not disturbing you. But the weight of this conversation is too great—I couldn't wait until morning."
Mitusawa offered a faint smile, one that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I know what troubles you, Albert. VPS isn't going anywhere. His allies and enemies alike would rather see him rot inside those walls."
Henderson grimaced. "Even so, we can't keep him as a guest forever. Something has to be done—and done soon."
Mitusawa glanced at his watch, the silver glint catching the lamplight. "It's late. This old man needs his sleep. I won't waste it on baseless speculation. VPS is not your burden anymore. UCID has already lost its grip. The British Government prefers to hand him over to the Americans. Their prisons are… more advanced. For now, VPS remains quiet. But silence should never be mistaken for weakness. His reach is long. His power… deeper than you can imagine."
Henderson rose, his shadow stretching across the room. At the door, he paused and turned.
"And what of the Indian boy?"
Mitusawa rubbed his temple, as if the question itself carried weight. "He knows better. I trust him."
Henderson gave a brief nod and left, the sound of the door closing lingering like an unanswered question.
Sir Henderson stormed into his quarters, fury etched into every line of his face.
"That old fool has lost his mind!" he snarled, slamming the door shut. "Idiot thinks this place is a bloody circus. Every time something arises, he hides behind his damned sensitivity and throws it in my face."
His hands shook as he reached for the whiskey bottle. He yanked it open, poured nothing, and drank straight from the neck, letting the fire scorch down his throat in one long gulp.
Slamming the bottle onto the table, Henderson grabbed the telephone and dialed. After a few tense rings, the line clicked alive.
"Did he agree?" came the voice from the other end, rough and cold.
"No," Henderson snapped. "The fool thinks VPS is some harmless doll, content to sit quietly in his corner."
A low grunt, then words laced with threat: "I didn't give you money to bring me excuses. I want answers. I want results. And I want them soon."
The line went dead.
Henderson stared at the receiver for a heartbeat, his jaw tightening. Then he slammed it down with such force the desk rattled.
"Damn it!" he bellowed.
For a moment, silence pressed in on him. He sank into the chair, muttering darkly to himself. "Something has to be done… Mitusawa has grown soft. He needs to retire."
He pulled the whiskey back to his lips, draining what was left before sprawling across the bed, his mind still burning with schemes....