The courtroom schedule changed overnight.
What had been adjourned for twelve years was now listed for hearing every single day.
Aarav read the cause list twice to be sure.
"Daily hearings," Ravi said quietly. "That never happens."
"It happens," Aarav replied, "when delay stops being useful."
The prosecution was ready.
Too ready.
Fresh photocopies. Neatly tabbed files. Witness lists suddenly complete.
Aarav flipped through the documents. "These records were 'missing' for twelve years."
Ravi nodded. "They found them in one night."
Aarav closed the file. "Or recreated them."
Inside the courtroom, the judge spoke briskly. "This matter will be concluded within three weeks."
The prosecutor stood. "The State welcomes the direction."
Aarav rose slowly.
"My Lord," he said, "speed does not cure contamination."
The prosecutor smirked. "Justice delayed is justice denied, Mr. Mehta."
Aarav looked at him. "Justice rushed is justice buried."
The courtroom stirred.
During recess, Aarav was called into chambers.
No record. No stenographer.
Only the judge and the prosecutor.
"This case has drawn unnecessary attention," the judge said evenly. "It must end."
"With a verdict?" Aarav asked.
"With closure," the judge corrected.
The prosecutor leaned forward. "Your client has already lost twelve years. A plea bargain could secure his release."
Aarav's eyes hardened. "In exchange for a confession?"
"A technical admission," the prosecutor replied smoothly. "Time served. Case closed."
"And the truth?" Aarav asked.
The judge's voice dropped. "Truth is not always practical."
That evening, Aarav visited the jail.
The accused listened quietly as Aarav explained the offer.
"They will let you go," Aarav said. "But the record will say you were guilty."
The man stared at the floor.
"Twelve years," he said softly. "My parents died waiting. My son grew up without me."
Aarav said nothing.
"If I say yes," the man continued, "this ends?"
"Yes."
"And if I say no?"
Aarav met his eyes. "They will try to finish this fast. Not clean."
The man laughed once. "After waiting so long… now they are in a hurry."
The next day, a new witness appeared.
Witness No. 5.
Name unfamiliar. Statement typed, unsigned by time.
Aarav stood for cross-examination. "You were not listed earlier."
The witness shrugged. "I was scared."
"Scared for twelve years?" Aarav asked.
The prosecutor objected. "Argumentative."
The judge sustained it instantly.
Ravi whispered, "Sir… they're closing ranks."
Aarav nodded. "Fast-track doesn't mean fair-track."
Outside court, Aarav's phone buzzed again.
Unknown number.
Accept the deal. Heroism is expensive.
Aarav typed back nothing.
Instead, he filed an application that evening.
Request for court-monitored inquiry into delayed prosecution.
Ravi stared at the draft. "Sir… this challenges everyone."
Aarav replied calmly, "So did Section Zero."
That night, Aarav sat alone, reviewing the case timeline.
Delay. Silence.
Now speed. Pressure.
Two weapons. Same hand.
He wrote one line in his notebook:
Justice isn't slow or fast. It is resisted.
In the holding cell, the accused asked one last time, "Sahib… what would you do?"
Aarav answered honestly. "I would refuse to confess to a lie."
The man closed his eyes.
"Then," he said quietly, "so will I."
The next morning, the plea bargain was formally rejected.
The courtroom fell silent.
The judge looked displeased.
The prosecutor looked satisfied.
A storm had been chosen.