The guilt was a physical weight, a stone in his gut that made every step an effort. He ran blindly, not with purpose, but with the desperate, panicked energy of a hunted animal. Sharma's hollow eyes, the crumpled fax, the terrible silence of that room—they chased him through the dusty lanes more effectively than any of Swami's enforcers.
He had won. He had exposed the empire. And in doing so, he had condemned a child to die. Kingdoms were built on bones, but he had never imagined his would include the bones of an innocent.
He found himself in a derelict temple, hidden in a maze of crumbling buildings, the idol within stained by time and neglect. It was a place for the forgotten to pray. He collapsed in a corner, his body trembling, the grime on his face streaked with tears of rage and shame.
He had hidden money. The fruits of his first, legitimate rise. The thousands of rupees from the electronics business, stored away in a bank account under the false name "Arun Patel." It was his escape fund, his seed capital for a new life. He had promised it to Sharma. He had failed.
But the money was still there. Useless to him now. Swami's men would be watching the banks, the train stations, the airports. "Arun Patel" was a ghost that could never claim his treasure.
But maybe… maybe the ghost could send it.
The idea was a spark in the overwhelming darkness. He couldn't save himself with that money. But he could still try to save Rohan Sharma.
He waited until deep night, moving through the city's underbelly like a rat. He found a public phone far from the docks, far from anything he knew. His hand shook as he dialed the international operator.
"I need to place a call to London. The Great Ormond Street Hospital for Children." He recited the number from the damned fax, which was now burned into his memory.
The connection was filled with static, the ringtone a strange, foreign sound. A efficient, tired voice answered.
"Hello, I am calling regarding a patient. Rohan Sharma." His voice was rough, barely a whisper.
"One moment please." There was a click, the sound of papers shuffling.
A new voice came on the line, sharper, more official. "This is accounts. Regarding Sharma, yes. I'm afraid the outstanding balance must be settled before any discussion of reinstating treatment can—"
"I am settling it," Harsh interrupted, his heart hammering. "I am wiring the money. The full amount. Today."
A pause. "That… would be highly unusual. The sum is considerable. And the process—"
"You will get your money," Harsh said, forcing an authority into his voice he did not feel. "The name on the account is Arun Patel. You will receive a wire transfer from the Bank of India, Nariman Point branch. The funds will clear. When they do, you will restart his treatment. Immediately. Do you understand?"
He was bluffing. He had no idea if a wire transfer could happen like this, so quickly. He was throwing the only coin he had left into a bottomless well, hoping it would make a sound.
The woman on the other end was silent for a long moment. "The funds would have to be verified. But… if what you say is true, then yes. The treatment could resume."
It was the best he would get. He hung up before she could ask any more questions.
Next was the bank. It was the most dangerous part. He waited until just before opening time, lurking in an alley across from the Bank of India's grand facade. He saw the manager arrive, a portly man named Mr. Iyer who had been more than happy to open an account for a fictional importer with a steady cash flow.
Harsh didn't have the passbook. He didn't have any ID. He only had his knowledge and a desperate need.
As Mr. Iyer fumbled with his keys, Harsh emerged from the shadows, blocking his path to the door.
"Mr. Iyer."
The manager jumped, his face paling as he recognized the grimy, desperate-looking young man who was the source of his best under-the-table commissions. "P-Patel? What is this? What happened to you?"
"I need you to do something for me. Right now. Before the bank opens."
"Impossible! Look at you! You are a mess! Come back later, with your documents—"
"There is no later," Harsh said, his voice low and desperate. He didn't threaten. He pleaded. "A boy's life depends on it. My entire balance. Every rupee. I need you to wire it to a hospital in London. Today. Now."
He recited the bank details, the amount, the patient's name. Mr. Iyer stared at him, his face a mixture of fear and confusion. "This is highly irregular! The paperwork alone… the questions it will raise…"
"You never asked questions before when I deposited cash," Harsh hissed. "Do not start now. The money is there. In the account of Arun Patel. You know it is. Make the transfer. Take your fee from it. I don't care. Just do it."
He saw the calculation in the man's eyes. The fear of being involved in something sordid warring with the fear of what this desperate, dangerous-looking young man might do right here on his doorstep. And beneath it, the greed. Take your fee.
Mr. Iyer swallowed, his eyes darting around the empty street. "Wait here. Do not be seen."
Fifteen minutes later, the bank manager emerged, his face slick with sweat. He handed Harsh a carbon copy of a wire transfer form. It was done.
"The money is gone. Now, please. Go. Never come back."
Harsh took the paper, a flimsy receipt for a child's life. It felt impossibly light.
He didn't go back to the temple. He went to the one place he knew he could get a message through. He found a street kid, paid him a few rupees, and sent him to Dr. Desai with a single, folded note.
The debt is paid. Tell his father.
He didn't sign it. He didn't need to.
He stood on a crowded street corner, watching the city wake up. He was broke. He was hunted. He was wounded. He had nothing left. No money, no allies, no plan.
But the stone of guilt in his gut was gone. Replaced by a cold, clean resolve.
He had started with a hundred-rupee note. He could start again.
Venkat Swami thought the game was over. He thought Harsh was a broken, bankrupt ghost.
But Harsh had just purchased the only thing that truly mattered: a clear conscience. And with it, a bottomless, terrifying freedom.
The empire had wounded him, stripped him, and left him for dead.
But it had made a fatal mistake.
It had forgotten that a man with nothing left to lose is the most dangerous man of all.
(Chapter End)