The constable's name was Suraj Singh.
Uniform neat. Mustache oiled. Eyes always scanning. Not for justice — but for opportunity.
He wasn't corrupt in the way that broke systems. He was corrupt in the way that oiled them — just enough to keep the wheels turning and his pockets full.
Vikram noticed him outside the spice stalls, collecting bribes without words. A glance here. A head tilt there. Coins passed folded in betel leaves or cloth scraps.
The man never asked.
He expected.
Vikram didn't approach him directly.
He waited.
On the fourth day, near the chai stall behind the press, Vikram placed a copper coin next to the man's tea glass. Their fingers brushed as Suraj picked it up.
Three seconds.
The thread locked.
Inside his mind, Suraj's world was predictable. Petty payoffs. Weekly cash drops at his brother-in-law's sweet shop. He kept nothing at home. He trusted no one. He had one weakness:
A sealed book ledger in Urdu, hidden inside a flour drum.
Vikram memorized every line in seconds.
Names. Locations. Dues paid. Dues pending. Loyalists. Smugglers. Buyers. Men with knives. Women who whispered secrets for safety. And above all, those who paid to stay untouched — merchants, clerks, even British messengers.
And one more thing.
A small safehouse in Ballimaran, maintained by a British liaison for emergency cases. Weapons. Cash. Uniforms.
Vikram didn't take anything.
Yet.
He walked out, letting Suraj sleep without dreams.
The next morning, Suraj walked past the press and paused.
He looked at Vikram.
Then looked away.
Then turned back.
"Printing boy," he muttered. "If anyone asks… I never saw you yesterday. Or the day before."
Vikram smiled. "Then I was never there."
Two days later, Vikram passed the Ballimaran safehouse.
Empty.
He returned at night.
Inside: three pistols, one shotgun, rolls of British-stamped currency, and three sealed envelopes marked for local agents.
He took the cash.
Left the weapons.
Burned the rest.
That money — the first bundle from a corrupt network — didn't buy land.
It bought silence.
Two new boys hired. One cleaner. One runner. Paid in advance.
And a box of tiffins delivered daily to the families of two press workers who never asked for help, but whose sons worked without shoes.
Vikram didn't announce it.
He didn't need to.
Suraj Singh continued his rounds, unaware that half his operation now belonged to someone else.
And the network that protected British interests?
Now had a new silent partner.