After some time, Krishna stepped out of the News 24 channel building.
The glass doors slid shut behind him with a soft mechanical sound. Outside, the noise hit immediately. Traffic, horns, people arguing on phones, life moving fast without waiting for anyone's interview result.
Krishna stopped near the stairs.
For a second, he didn't move.
His mind replayed his own answer from inside the room. Every word. Every pause. The way Kapil Sharma's eyes had stayed on him, sharp but unreadable.
He exhaled slowly and started walking.
"Jo bola, wohi sach tha," he muttered under his breath.
"Ab usse zyada kya bolta main?"
Kapil's words echoed in his head.
"Aaj shaam tak bata denge."
By evening.
Not yes.
Not no.
Just suspended in between, exactly where uncertainty hurts the most.
Krishna adjusted the strap of his bag and crossed the road carefully, eyes scanning the traffic automatically, mind somewhere else.
"Ajeeb log hote hain yeh editors bhi," he said quietly to himself.
"Sach chahiye hota hai, par sirf woh sach jo unke format mein fit ho."
He let out a small breath that almost sounded like a laugh, but wasn't.
Inside the building, on the third floor, Kapil Sharma stood near the glass window of his cabin.
From there, he could see the front gate clearly.
He watched Krishna walk out.
The boy didn't look back. No hesitation. No dramatic pause. Just steady steps, like someone used to walking away without answers.
Kapil folded his arms slowly.
"Interesting," he murmured, eyes still following Krishna until he disappeared into the crowd.
Then Kapil turned back toward his desk.
The file was still there.
Open.
Waiting.
On the other side of the city, inside an abandoned building, one room was lit by a single yellow bulb.
The light barely reached the corners.
Eight men were on their knees in the center of the room. Backs bent. Hands shaking. Eyes fixed on the floor. Fear had stripped them of any courage to even look up.
A few other men stood near the walls. Silent. Armed. Watching. They weren't part of the punishment. They were here to witness it.
In front of everyone, a man sat on a chair.
Comfortable.
Relaxed.
One leg crossed over the other. One hand resting on the armrest. In the other, a pistol.
Beside him stood Asif.
The scar across his face was old and ugly, running close to his eye. His gaze stayed on the kneeling men, hard but uneasy. Even he looked tense today.
One of the kneeling men gathered courage and stood up.
His legs trembled.
"Bhai… hamen pata nahin tha ki police vahan kaise aa jaayegi," he said quickly, panic spilling out.
"Hamen bilkul idea nahin tha aur—"
"BANG".
The shot exploded through the room.
The bullet came straight from the chair. Clean. Precise.
It tore through the man's forehead and smashed into the pillar behind him. His body collapsed instantly.
Dead.
The room froze.
The remaining men flinched violently. One of them let out a broken sound before forcing it back. Terror spread like poison.
Asif stiffened.
He hadn't expected that.
For a brief second, his eyes flicked toward the man on the chair.
Fear flashed there.
Not of the kneeling men.
Of the one holding the gun.
The man on the chair didn't even look at the body. His pistol lowered slowly. Then his eyes lifted.
Cold.
Bored.
Asif swallowed and pointed at another kneeling man.
"You."
The man crawled forward on his knees, sweat dripping, breath uneven. He stopped a few steps away, unable to move further.
He looked up.
And broke.
"Bhai… humne ladki kho di thi," he said desperately.
"Par… par humne dobara dhoondh liya tha…"
His words rushed, tangled.
"Lagbhag pakadne wale hi the," he continued, voice cracking.
"Palak jhapakte hi kisi ne hamen buri tarah peeta…"
His eyes widened as the memory hit him.
"Aur hamen gali ke dusri taraf fenk diya," he whispered.
"Uske baad… hamen kuchh bhi yaad nahin."
Silence filled the room.
The man on the chair leaned forward slowly.
"So," he said calmly,
"tum bhi fail hue."
Asif's face went pale.
The gun rose again.
Asif opened his mouth, hesitation clear, but no words came out.
"BANG".
The second body dropped.
No warning.
No mercy.
Out of eight, six remained.
Blood spread across the cement floor. The smell of gunpowder hung thick in the air.
The man on the chair lifted the gun again, barrel moving slowly across the kneeling men.
"Khade ho jao," he said quietly.
"Aur aage aakar bolo."
One of the remaining men stood up. His knees felt weak. His throat was dry.
He already knew the truth.
If he stayed silent, he would die.
If he spoke, he might still die.
Still, he stepped forward.
"Mujhe nahin pata main aapko yeh baat kaise kahun," he said slowly, forcing the words out,
"par us aadmi ne hamare saare containers rok diye."
A pause.
"Aur ladkiyon ko bhi usne bacha liya."
The words landed heavily.
For the first time, the gun lowered.
The man on the chair turned his head slightly toward Asif.
Asif hesitated, then spoke carefully.
"Boss Abdul… in logon ka kya karna hai?"
Now, up close, the man on the chair was clearly visible.
Abdul Rashid.
A name that carried weight in Mumbai.
Late forties. Thick beard trimmed perfectly. Sharp eyes that showed no panic, only irritation. A black kurta, expensive but simple. A gold ring. A heavy watch worn by men who never waited for time.
Abdul leaned back and exhaled slowly.
Today was not a good day.
"Pehle," Abdul said calmly,
"pata lagao ki woh aadmi kaun hai."
His fingers tapped once on the armrest.
"Aur yaad rakhna," he added,
"next assignment par mujhe koi gadbad nahin chahiye."
Asif nodded immediately.
"Samajh gaya, boss."
Asif looked once at the six men still kneeling on the floor.
Then back at Abdul Rashid.
"Boss," he asked carefully, voice low,
"aur in sab ka kya karna hai?"
Abdul Rashid didn't answer immediately.
He stood up.
Adjusted the cuffs of his black kurta calmly. Brushed invisible dust from his sleeve.
Then he looked at the kneeling men.
One by one.
Slowly.
A thin smile appeared on his lips.
Not amused.
Not angry.
Just familiar.
He turned slightly toward Asif and said quietly,
"Wahi karo,"
"jo hum pehle karte aaye hain."
That was all.
Abdul Rashid walked past the kneeling men. Paused for half a second near the door. Looked back once.
The smile was still there.
Then he left.
The door closed behind him.
Inside the room, only fear remained.
Asif stood still, staring at the six men.
They stared back at him.
And they all understood.
The next morning, Krishna stood right outside the News 24 channel building.
For the first time in a long while, there was a faint sense of relief inside him.
A decent job.
Regular work.
And finally, some money in his pocket.
He allowed himself a small smile, but it didn't last long.
His mind drifted back to his previous job. The pressure. The silence. The way things had ended without warning.
"Woh sab yahan dobara nahin hona chahiye", he told himself.
And if it did?
Krishna was clear about one thing.
Agar situation phir wahi rahi,* he thought,
toh main yeh job bhi chhod dunga.
No attachment. No begging.
He adjusted his bag and walked straight inside the building.
Instead of heading toward the stairs, he turned toward the lift.
The doors were already sliding shut.
"Wait—" Krishna muttered and quickened his steps.
He slipped inside just in time.
The doors closed.
The lift started moving.
Krishna let out a slow breath.
Then he noticed the other person inside.
A man stood near the control panel, hands relaxed at his sides.
He was already looking at Krishna.
It took half a second for recognition to hit.
Kapil Sharma.
Krishna's stomach tightened.
His spine straightened instinctively.
"Good morning, sir," Krishna said quickly.
"Sorry… lift band hone hi wali thi."
Kapil looked at him.
Just a glance.
No reaction. No expression worth reading.
"Hm," he said quietly.
Nothing more.
The silence inside the lift suddenly felt heavier.
Krishna nodded to himself and looked straight ahead. He took a deep breath, slow and controlled.
"First day hai", he reminded himself.
"Last day banane ka koi plan nahin hai".
The lift continued upward, numbers changing one by one.
Kapil didn't say anything.
Krishna didn't either.
But Krishna knew one thing for sure.
Today mattered.
And he wasn't about to ruin it.
Both of them stepped out of the lift on the third floor.
It was already late afternoon.
Kapil walked a little ahead, his pace steady, eyes scanning the floor the way experienced people do without thinking about it. Krishna followed him, trying to keep up, absorbing everything silently.
Kapil slowed near the glass partition and turned slightly toward Krishna.
"Pehle HR department jao," he said in a normal tone.
"Jo bhi important kaam hai, ID, joining formalities, sab complete kar lo."
Krishna nodded quickly.
"Ji, sir."
Kapil didn't sound like he was giving an order.
He wasn't asserting authority.
He wasn't doing any favour either.
He was simply guiding him, the way people do when they don't want small things to become problems later.
"Uske baad waiting area mein baith jaana," Kapil added.
Before Krishna could say anything more, Kapil moved on, already pulled back into work. Someone stopped him midway, whispering something urgently. Kapil listened, nodded once, and disappeared toward the newsroom.
Krishna stood there for a second, then headed toward HR.
---
It was 4 in the evening.
Krishna's eyes opened slowly.
For a moment, he felt blank.
Then he straightened up in the chair.
"Orientation khatam", he realized.
"Forms, rules, ID… sab ho gaya".
It felt strange.
Like an exam had just ended.
He stretched his neck slightly and stood up. His eyes felt tired, but his mind was alert. He decided to go to the waiting area for a few minutes. Just to sit. Just to observe.
As he walked out and adjusted his glasses, he noticed it immediately.
The atmosphere had changed.
Completely.
Morning had felt calm. Curious. Controlled.
Evening was different.
Phones were ringing continuously now. Not one or two. Everywhere. Editors stood behind desks instead of sitting. Producers moved fast, papers in hand, voices sharp and clipped.
"Is clip ko ready rakho."
"Free recording ka backup hai ya nahin?"
"Raat ke slot ke liye kya-kya material hai?"
Multiple screens played raw footage again and again.
No music.
No edits.
Just visuals.
Field recordings.
Night visuals.
Street footage.
Crowds.
Police lights.
The same clips looped endlessly.
Krishna slowed down.
He watched carefully.
The people responsible for handling news were gathering everything. Every free recording that had come in during the day was being pulled together. Hard drives were passed from hand to hand. Pendrives changed desks. Links were shared quickly.
This was preparation.
Because by night, there would be no time.
Whatever had to be shown would be shown from this material.
"Yeh night package ke liye hai."
"Isko evening bulletin mein daal sakte hain."
"Breaking ke liye rakh lo, baaki sab hold pe."
Voices overlapped. Decisions were made instantly. Some clips were rejected within seconds. Others were marked important and replayed again.
Krishna understood it slowly.
Morning was planning.
Evening was execution.
This was the real pressure time.
Everything felt like a festival, but not the happy kind.
A festival of urgency.
Everyone was busy.
Everyone was tense.
Everyone was racing against time.
Krishna reached the waiting area and sat down quietly.
From here, he could see the entire floor moving.
Morning had introduced him to the place.
Evening showed him the truth.
This was where news wasn't just reported.
This was where news was decided.
Krishna leaned back slightly and took a deep breath.
Tomorrow, he wouldn't just be watching.
Tomorrow, he would be part of this rush.
And he wasn't sure yet whether that thought excited him…or scared him.
END OF THE CHAPTER