CHAPTER 22: "TIME"

  Two and a half years in Tihar Central Jail. Nine hundred and twelve days. Twenty-one thousand, eight hundred and eighty-eight hours. Vikram counted them all.

  He had fallen into a routine. Wake at 6 AM to the clanging of the cell doors. Breakfast of watery tea and stale bread. Work in the prison carpentry shop, where he learned to build furniture with his hands—hands that had once coded software, that had killed men. Lunch. More work. Dinner. Lights out at 9 PM.

  In between, he read. Arjun sent him books—philosophy, history, novels. Vikram devoured them, losing himself in worlds that weren't made of concrete and iron bars.

  Priya visited once a month. The visits were painful. Aanya came twice—once when she turned ten, and once on Vikram's fortieth birthday. She had grown taller, more serious. She asked fewer questions now. She was learning to live without him.

  "Papa, when are you coming home?" she asked during the birthday

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  visit.

  "Soon, beta. Soon."

  But "soon" was a lie parents told children to keep hope alive.

  In prison, Vikram met others like him—men who had been pushed to the edge and fallen over. There was Dinesh, who had killed his daughter's rapist. There was Gopal, who had murdered the loan shark who drove his brother to suicide. They were the grey men, the ones the justice system didn't know what to do with.

  They weren't career criminals. They were collateral damage.

  One evening, during recreation hour in the yard, Vikram was

  approached by a large, scarred man named Chhote. He was a member of a rival gang to Khanna's.

  "You're the guy who took down Khanna," Chhote said, lighting a beedi.

  "He took himself down," Vikram replied carefully. "I just... survived."

  Chhote laughed. "Surviving in this city is harder than killing. Respect, bhai. You know Khanna is in Block 7? High-security wing. He's isolated, but word gets around."

  Vikram felt a chill. "What word?"

  "He still has reach. Money, connections. He's planning an appeal. Might get his sentence reduced. Politicians are getting nervous about the corruption charges. They want it buried."

  Vikram's hands clenched into fists. "He's going to walk?"

  "Maybe. Maybe not. But if he does, bhai... you better watch your back. And your family's."

  That night, Vikram couldn't sleep. The thought of Khanna free, hunting Priya and Aanya, was a knife twisting in his gut. He had sacrificed everything to stop the man. If Khanna walked free, it would all have been for nothing.

  He lay on his bunk, staring at the ceiling, and made a decision. If Khanna walked, Vikram would find a way to finish what he started. Even if it meant never leaving this place.

  But for now, he waited. Time, the slowest torture, ground on.