The triumph of the defense boards was a fire that burned bright and fast, leaving behind not warmth, but ash. The repeat order from the defense contractor was a monstrous thing, a volume that would require Sigma to run three shifts, seven days a week. Mr. Iyer, once on the brink of collapse, was now buoyed by a manic, terrified energy. He was rich, successful, and utterly enslaved.
For Harsh, the victory was hollow. The emperor's satisfaction was a heavier yoke than his displeasure would have been. Success meant expectations. And expectations, in Venkat Swami's world, were preludes to greater demands.
The first demand came through the ghost, as always. "The gold operation will expand. A new retail front. In a five-star hotel. The Oberoi. You will manage the liaison. The face of the operation must be… presentable."
It was a promotion. A move from the shadows into the glittering light of high society. It was also a golden cage with better furnishings. He was to become a public symbol of Swami's legitimacy, a well-dressed clerk in the empire's newest store.
But the true threat wasn't the ghost's new orders. It was the silence from Mr. Dalal.
The promised audit of the gold workshop's swarf recovery had not materialized. Dalal had said nothing more about the 0.3-gram discrepancy. He simply watched, his pinched face a mask of quiet calculation, his eyes noting every movement, every conversation. The jackal was not attacking; he was stalking, waiting for the prey to make a fatal mistake.
Harsh knew the mistake was coming. His double life was unsustainable. The phantom regulator business was a drain on his time and focus. The secret of Yevgeny and the garage was a ticking bomb. And the skim, however small, was a trail of breadcrumbs leading right to him.
He decided to shut it down. The phantom had served its purpose. It had given him a taste of true independence and funded his first, fragile steps toward self-reliance. But now, its risk outweighed its reward. He would fulfill his existing orders, then vanish.
He made the rounds one last time, telling his handful of shop-owner clients that his supplier had dried up. There were groans of disappointment, even offers of higher payment. He refused them all, melting back into the night, severing the connection.
A week of tense quiet followed. He focused on the plans for the Oberoi boutique, losing himself in fabric swatches and interior designs, playing the part of the ambitious young executive. He almost convinced himself he'd escaped.
Then, the jackal struck.
He was summoned not by the ghost, but by a terse message delivered to the alcove: Mr. Dalal requires your presence at the Kalbadevi workshop. Immediately.
The workshop was silent when he arrived. The craftsmen were gone. Only Rohan was there, his face pale, and Mr. Dalal, who stood behind the main workbench like a judge behind his bench. On the bench lay a single, clean white cloth. On the cloth sat two objects.
The first was one of Harsh's phantom regulators.
The second was a small, lumpy, unrefined gold button—the kind produced by a amateur melting skimmed gold dust over a butane stove.
Harsh's blood turned to ice. He kept his face a mask of calm confusion. "What is this?"
"This," Dalal said, his voice dripping with venomous satisfaction, "is evidence of theft. And this," he pointed to the regulator, "is evidence of a competing, unauthorized enterprise."
He picked up the gold button. "This matches the chemical signature of the gold we supply. It is from our stock. It was sold three days ago to a pawn shop in Dadar by a municipal clerk named Ajay Joshi. When… encouraged… to talk, he said he acquired it from you. A gift, he said. For helping you purchase gold."
He then picked up the regulator. "This was purchased from a repair shop in Borivali. A shop that claims its supplier is a phantom who sells flawless components. The shop owner, also under… encouragement… provided a pager number. A number that, when traced, is linked to a false identity. An identity that, upon deeper investigation, leads back to a bank account with modest but curious deposits. An account under your name, Mr. Patel, that does not appear in the ledgers I manage."
Dalal let the words hang in the air. He had not just found a breadcrumb; he had followed the entire trail. He had connected the skim to the phantom business. He had unraveled Harsh's entire, delicate web of defiance.
Rohan looked at Harsh, a mix of betrayal and fear in his eyes. He had been managing a gold workshop while his boss was running a side hustle with stolen materials.
"I can explain," Harsh said, his mind racing, searching for a lie, any lie, that could possibly cover this.
"There is no explanation," Dalal interrupted, his voice cold and final. "Only confession. You have been stealing from the employer. You have been operating a competing business. You have used the empire's resources to build your own. This is not incompetence. This is treason."
He picked up the two items, holding them aloft like trophies. "I am presenting my findings to the management this evening. I suggest you prepare your defense. Though I doubt it will matter."
Dalal turned and walked out, taking the evidence with him. Rohan fled after him, not daring to look back at Harsh.
Harsh stood alone in the silent workshop, surrounded by the beautiful, cursed products of his ambition. The walls, once symbols of his success, now felt like the walls of a tomb.
He had been so careful. So clever. But he had underestimated the quiet, resentful accountant with a ledger and a grudge. Dalal hadn't wanted to catch a thief; he'd wanted to destroy a rival.
The game was over. The phantom was dead. And tonight, he would have to answer to Venkat Swami for his betrayal.
There would be no defense. There was only consequence.
(Chapter End)