By morning, the city no longer smelled of smoke.
It smelled of anger.
Arvind Rao watched the live feeds in the Situation Room as thousands gathered near the university district. Handwritten placards rose above the crowd like accusations carved in cardboard.
"WHO FAILED US?"
"SECURITY OR POLITICS?"
"WE ARE NOT COLLATERAL."
The slogans were sharp, but organized. Too organized.
"Attendance?" Arvind asked quietly.
"Approximately six thousand and growing," the analyst replied. "Student unions, civil groups… and SPF volunteers."
There it was again. The Suryagarh People's Front.
Not armed militants. Not officially.
Yet.
Arvind folded his hands behind his back. "Any violence?"
"Not yet."
He nodded once. "Keep riot units two streets away. Visible presence increases friction."
"Yes, sir."
The room hummed with screens and low voices. Maps flickered. Social media dashboards scrolled endlessly with outrage.
The blast had killed six people.
But the narrative threatened to wound far more.
At the Chief Minister's office, Devraj Malhotra stood before a cluster of cameras.
His expression was solemn. Measured.
"We grieve with the families," he said, voice steady. "This attack was not just against a political gathering. It was an attack on democracy itself. We will respond responsibly and decisively."
No accusations.
No naming suspects.
Exactly as Arvind advised.
When the statement ended, Devraj stepped back and motioned Arvind into his private chamber.
"You've seen the protests?" the Chief Minister asked.
"Yes."
"And?"
"They're testing us."
Devraj poured himself water. "I don't like being tested."
"Neither do they."
A faint smile touched Devraj's lips. "You're calm."
"Panic is contagious."
Devraj studied him carefully. "The Home Secretary wants immediate arrests. Sweep operations. Public show of strength."
"And you?"
"I want to win the election."
Arvind didn't blink. "Then don't create martyrs."
Devraj set the glass down. "You think SPF wants escalation."
"I think someone intelligent does."
"Pratham?"
"Yes."
The name lingered between them.
"Find him," Devraj said softly. "Before he finds us."
By late afternoon, a second video surfaced.
This time, no mask.
A man in his early forties. Clean-shaven. Thin-framed glasses. Calm eyes.
He sat against a plain white wall.
"My name is Pratham Sen," he began evenly. "I condemn violence against civilians. Let that be clear."
Arvind leaned forward slightly.
"But we must ask why citizens feel unheard. Why land acquisitions proceed without consent. Why activists disappear. Why dissent is equated with treason."
Measured tone. Academic cadence.
Not shouting.
Not emotional.
Calculated.
"We do not seek chaos," Pratham continued. "We seek accountability. If the government truly believes in dialogue, let them meet us publicly. Not through arrests. Not through surveillance."
The video ended.
No direct claim of the bombing.
No denial either.
Brilliant.
He positioned himself as rational.
Moral.
Reasonable.
Arvind muted the screen.
"He's baiting you," the analyst said.
"No," Arvind replied softly. "He's baiting the Chief Minister."
That evening, Arvind requested a closed-door meeting with Devraj.
Inside the dim conference room, only three people sat: the Chief Minister, Arvind, and the Home Secretary.
Devraj tapped the table lightly. "He wants dialogue."
"He wants legitimacy," Arvind corrected.
"And if we refuse?"
"He escalates protests. Gains sympathy."
The Home Secretary scoffed. "Or we arrest him tonight."
Arvind turned his gaze slowly. "On what charge?"
"Incitement."
"Without proof of involvement in the blast?"
Silence.
Devraj leaned back in his chair. "You're suggesting we meet him."
"I'm suggesting we control the optics."
Devraj's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Public meeting?"
"Yes."
The Home Secretary looked horrified. "Sir, that legitimizes an agitator!"
Arvind's voice remained calm. "It also shows confidence. It divides moderates from radicals. And it buys us time."
Time.
In politics, time was oxygen.
Devraj considered the ceiling for a long moment.
"Arrange it," he said finally. "But controlled. Neutral venue. Limited press."
Arvind nodded once.
The game had shifted.
That night, Arvind drove alone.
No escort.
No siren.
The city lights blurred past his window as he headed toward the old industrial district.
A confidential source had requested a meeting.
Warehouse 14.
He parked under a broken streetlight and stepped out, coat collar raised against the wind.
Inside, the warehouse smelled of dust and oil.
A young man stepped from the shadows.
Nervous. Early twenties.
"You came alone?" the boy asked.
"Yes."
The boy swallowed. "They're planning something bigger."
"Who?"
"Some inside SPF don't agree with Pratham's 'dialogue' approach. They want blood. Real retaliation."
Arvind's expression didn't change. "Names."
The boy hesitated. "If I give you names, I'm dead."
"If you don't," Arvind replied evenly, "many others might be."
The boy's hands trembled.
"You don't understand," he whispered. "This isn't just about land or corruption. It's about humiliation. People feel invisible."
Arvind watched him closely.
"And violence makes them visible?"
The boy's eyes flickered with conflict.
"You government people," he said bitterly, "you think order is peace."
Arvind felt a quiet echo of last night's message.
You always mistake control for stability.
"Order prevents collapse," Arvind said calmly.
"Collapse of what?" the boy shot back. "Power?"
The question hung heavily.
Arvind stepped closer. "Give me the names."
After a long silence, the boy nodded shakily and handed over a folded sheet of paper.
Three names.
Mid-level organizers.
Radical faction.
Arvind slipped it into his coat pocket.
"When?" he asked.
"Two days. During the university march."
Arvind's jaw tightened slightly.
Escalation.
Exactly as predicted.
Back in his apartment, Arvind spread the paper on his table.
Three names.
Three lives that might soon end in prison—or worse.
He poured himself a glass of water but didn't drink it.
Instead, he stared at the city skyline through the window.
If he arrested them quietly, the protest might dissolve.
If he waited, violence could justify crackdown.
Either path carried blood.
His phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
He answered.
"Good evening, Mr. Rao," a calm voice said.
Arvind didn't speak.
"You've been busy."
"Who is this?"
A slight pause.
"Someone who prefers dialogue."
Pratham.
"Why call?" Arvind asked.
"Because you're not a fool."
Silence stretched.
"You believe stability is necessary," Pratham continued. "So do I. But fear is not stability. It is pressure. And pressure explodes."
"You're speaking metaphorically," Arvind said evenly. "Six families are not."
A quiet breath on the other end.
"I did not order that blast."
"Convenient."
"I'm trying to prevent the next one."
Arvind's eyes sharpened.
"Then control your people."
"They are not my soldiers," Pratham replied. "They are citizens."
"Citizens don't plant bombs."
"No," Pratham said softly. "Desperation does."
The line went silent for a moment.
"You agreed to meet," Pratham added. "I appreciate that."
"I agreed to listen."
"That's a beginning."
The call ended.
Arvind stood motionless.
This was no ordinary agitator.
This was a strategist.
Someone who understood restraint. Optics. Timing.
Someone who believed in his cause deeply enough to risk conversation.
Arvind picked up the list of three names again.
Two days until the university march.
Two days to decide:
Prevent violence quietly—
or allow it to justify strength.
Outside, the city hummed with restless energy.
Inside, Arvind whispered to the empty room:
"Stability is not fear."
But even as he said it, he wasn't sure whether he believed it.
And somewhere in Suryagarh, another mind was calculating the next move.