The court clerk searched the shelf twice.
Then a third time.
Finally, he turned to Aarav with an uneasy smile. "Sir… the order is not here."
Aarav looked at the empty space on the wooden rack. A thin layer of dust covered it, undisturbed. Too clean.
"Which order?" he asked, though he already knew the answer.
"Remand Order dated 12th June," the clerk said. "The original copy."
Aarav's jaw tightened.
That was the order.
The one that should not have existed.
He stepped into the record room himself.
Rows of steel cupboards lined the walls, each marked with faded numbers. The smell of paper and neglect hung in the air. A ceiling fan rattled above, struggling against the heat.
A junior staff member followed him nervously. "Sir, files don't usually go missing."
Aarav opened another register. "Files don't disappear on their own either."
The register showed the entry clearly.
Remand Order – Received. Stored. Signed.
But the file was gone.
"Who accessed this file last?" Aarav asked.
The staff member hesitated. "It doesn't show."
"That's not possible."
He lowered his voice. "Every movement leaves a trail."
The staff member looked around and leaned closer. "Sir… some trails are erased."
Later that evening, Aarav stood in the corridor outside Courtroom No. 4.
The public prosecutor passed by without slowing down.
"Counsel," Aarav said calmly, "do you know where the remand order is?"
The prosecutor stopped.
"Forgetting something?" he asked lightly.
"That order is part of judicial record."
The prosecutor's smile did not reach his eyes. "Records are old things, Mr. Mehta. They get misplaced."
"Only the dangerous ones," Aarav replied.
The prosecutor's voice dropped. "You are chasing shadows. This case has survived longer than most careers."
Aarav held his gaze. "So have mistakes."
That night, Aarav sat alone in his chamber.
The file lay open on his desk. Photocopies. Notes. Timelines drawn in blue ink.
Arrest: 14th June.
Remand: 12th June.
FIR: 15th June.
The sequence made no sense.
Unless it was never meant to.
His phone rang.
Unknown number again.
He answered.
"Stop digging," a voice said. Calm. Controlled. "You are disturbing settled matters."
"There is nothing settled about illegal custody," Aarav replied.
A pause.
"Be practical, advocate," the voice continued. "Orders can be replaced. People cannot."
The line went dead.
Aarav stared at the phone.
The threat was no longer subtle.
The next morning, he visited the trial judge's chamber.
"My Lord," Aarav said, placing the photocopy on the table, "the original remand order is missing."
The judge adjusted his glasses. "Missing?"
"Yes, My Lord. From the record room."
The judge studied the copy. "This order was passed in open court."
"Exactly," Aarav said. "Which means its disappearance is deliberate."
The judge leaned back slowly.
"Mr. Mehta," he said, "you are suggesting interference with judicial records."
Aarav met his eyes. "I am stating it."
Silence filled the room.
The judge finally spoke. "I will direct the registry to conduct an internal inquiry."
Aarav nodded. "Thank you, My Lord."
As he turned to leave, the judge added quietly, "Be careful. Courts remember those who embarrass them."
Aarav paused. "Courts also exist because someone once did."
Outside, court staff whispered.
Files moved. Doors closed.
The system had noticed him.
That evening, Ravi entered Aarav's chamber, pale.
"Sir," he said, "someone came asking about you."
"Who?"
"They didn't say. But they knew your schedule."
Aarav closed the file slowly.
The missing order was no longer just evidence.
It was a warning.
And warnings, he knew, came before consequences.