Aarav did not pick up the call.
The phone rang until it stopped, then rang again.
Unknown number.
He silenced it and returned to the file in front of him. The photocopy of the missing remand order lay open, its edges already worn from handling.
Pressure never announced itself loudly.
It arrived politely first.
The door to his chamber opened without a knock.
Ravi stepped in, eyes uneasy. "Sir… there's someone here to see you."
"Who?"
"He says it won't take long."
That was never true.
The man waiting inside was not dressed like a politician, but he carried the confidence of one. Clean suit. No briefcase. No visible purpose.
"Advocate Mehta," the man said, smiling. "I represent people who prefer quiet solutions."
Aarav gestured toward the chair. "Quiet solutions rarely need visits."
The man sat anyway.
"You're reopening an old wound," he said lightly. "Some cases are better left incomplete."
"Justice does not expire," Aarav replied.
The man sighed. "Idealism is expensive."
He slid an envelope across the table.
Aarav did not touch it.
"What's inside?" Aarav asked.
"Compensation," the man said. "For your client. And professional comfort for you."
Aarav leaned back. "And if I refuse?"
The smile faded slightly. "Then the pressure stops being polite."
Aarav looked at him steadily. "Is that a threat?"
"It's information."
The man stood. "Withdraw from the case. Let the witness forget. Let the file stay missing."
Aarav remained seated. "You assume I work alone."
The man paused at the door. "Everyone does. Eventually."
When he left, the room felt smaller.
Ravi exhaled. "Sir… that didn't sound like a request."
"It wasn't," Aarav said. "It was a test."
Later that day, Aarav went to the jail again.
Raghav looked up as he entered the interview room. "Something changed," he said immediately.
Aarav nodded. "Pressure has started."
Raghav's hands clenched. "On you?"
"Yes."
Raghav looked away. "Then leave the case."
Aarav raised an eyebrow.
"I've seen this before," Raghav continued. "Lawyers stop coming when the calls start."
Aarav spoke quietly. "Do you want me to stop?"
Raghav did not answer immediately.
Finally, he said, "I want this to end. One way or another."
Aarav closed the file. "Then it will."
That evening, Aarav received another call.
This time, it was not unknown.
It was his former senior, Justice (Retd.) Kulkarni.
"I heard you're disturbing old files," the retired judge said calmly.
"I'm reading them," Aarav replied.
Kulkarni chuckled. "Same thing, in practice."
There was a pause.
"Be careful," the old man continued. "The system forgives many things. Persistence is not one of them."
Aarav looked out of the window. "If persistence was a crime, prisons would be full of judges."
Kulkarni laughed softly. "You've always had a sharp tongue."
The line disconnected.
Night fell.
Aarav sat alone, the city lights flickering beyond the glass.
He opened his laptop and began typing.
Application for inquiry into missing judicial records.
Application challenging illegal custody.
Application seeking witness protection.
One by one.
Pressure wanted him to slow down.
He chose speed.
At midnight, Ravi called.
"Sir… your name was mentioned somewhere."
"Where?"
"High Court registry. Informally."
Aarav closed his laptop.
Pressure had climbed levels.
Good.
That meant he was close.
He stood, put on his coat, and picked up the file.
The system was pushing back.
And systems only pushed when something inside them was breaking.