Rudra didn't go back to his dorm that night.
Neither did Bhairav.
They sat in the forest clearing, backs against cold stone, staring at the phone screen as they scrolled through the photos. Evidence of something far worse than either had imagined.
"Project Rekha," Bhairav muttered, reading the documents again. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
Rudra zoomed in on one of the files. A consent form. Legal jargon. Medical terminology. But one phrase kept appearing:
"Psychological resilience assessment under controlled stress environments."
"They're experimenting on students," Rudra said quietly.
Bhairav's face went pale. "That's... that's insane. Who would authorize this?"
Rudra flipped to another photo. The signature at the bottom of every document.
Dr. Avinash Malhotra.
Director of the Kupam Research Institute. Respected academic. Published author. Someone who'd been running this place for fifteen years.
And apparently, someone who'd been using students as lab rats.
"We need to go to the police," Bhairav said. "Show them this. Shut this place down."
Rudra shook his head. "No."
"What do you mean, no?"
"Look at the dates on these files. This has been going on for years. Multiple field programs. Different schools. And no one's ever reported it. No investigations. No media coverage. Nothing."
Bhairav frowned. "So?"
"So that means someone's protecting him. Police. Local officials. Maybe higher." Rudra's jaw tightened. "We go to them with this, and we disappear. Just like the others."
"Then what do we do?"
Rudra was silent for a long moment. Then he stood, pocketing his phone.
"We gather more evidence. We figure out how deep this goes. And we find someone we can actually trust."
"Like who?"
"I don't know yet."
Bhairav stood too, frustrated. "Rudra, we can't just—"
"We're not doing anything tonight," Rudra interrupted. "We're exhausted. We nearly got caught. We need to be smart about this."
Bhairav exhaled slowly. "Fine. But we're running out of time. October's almost over. If this pattern holds, someone's going to disappear soon."
Rudra knew he was right.
They walked back to the compound in silence, slipping through the shadows like ghosts.
Morning After
The next day felt wrong.
Rudra went through the motions—breakfast, lectures, note-taking—but everything felt hollow. Like acting in a play where everyone knew their lines except him.
He kept expecting someone to notice. To call him out. To drag him to the principal's office.
But no one did.
The day passed quietly. Too quietly.
During lunch, Rudra sat alone, watching the crowd. Looking for patterns. Signs of surveillance. Anything out of place.
That's when he noticed her.
A girl. Sitting two tables away. Local student. He'd seen her before but never paid attention.
She was staring at him.
Not the way people usually stared—curious or judgmental. This was different. Intense. Calculating.
When their eyes met, she didn't look away.
She smiled.
Then she stood, picked up her tray, and walked over.
"Mind if I sit?"
Rudra's instincts screamed. But he kept his face neutral. "Free country."
She sat down, setting her tray across from him. Up close, she was striking—sharp features, dark eyes, hair pulled back in a tight braid. She moved with purpose. Confidence.
"I'm Anvi," she said. "Anvi Rao."
"Rudra."
"I know."
Rudra's expression didn't change. "Everyone seems to know me lately."
Anvi smiled faintly. "That's because you're interesting. Most people here are predictable. You're not."
"Is that supposed to be a compliment?"
"It's an observation."
They sat in silence for a moment. Rudra studied her, looking for tells. Nervousness. Hidden agendas. But she was calm. Too calm.
"What do you want?" Rudra asked finally.
Anvi leaned forward slightly. "I want to know what you found in the old wing last night."
Rudra's blood went cold.
He didn't react. Didn't blink. But inside, alarms were blaring.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes, you do." Anvi's voice was quiet but firm. "You and Bhairav. 2 AM. The basement archives. You took photos. Lots of them."
Rudra's mind raced. How did she know? Was she working with them? Was she surveillance?
"Who are you?" Rudra asked, voice low.
Anvi sat back, expression unreadable. "Someone who's been watching this place longer than you have. Someone who wants the same thing you do."
"Which is?"
"The truth."
Rudra didn't trust her. Not even a little. But he needed information.
"Why should I believe you?"
Anvi reached into her pocket and pulled out a small flash drive. She slid it across the table.
"Because I have files you don't. Records. Audio recordings. Evidence that goes back ten years."
Rudra stared at the drive. "Where did you get this?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yes."
Anvi smiled sadly. "My sister was part of a field program here. Three years ago. She went missing. Police said she ran away. I never believed them."
Her voice was steady, but there was pain underneath. Raw. Real.
"So I came here. Enrolled in the local institute. Started digging. And I found... things."
Rudra picked up the flash drive, turning it over in his hand. "What kind of things?"
"The kind that get people killed."
She stood, picking up her tray. "You've got twenty-four hours to decide if you want to work with me. After that, I'm doing this alone."
"Doing what?"
Anvi looked down at him, eyes hard. "Burning this place to the ground."
Then she walked away, leaving Rudra alone with the flash drive and a hundred new questions.
The Flash Drive
That night, Rudra sat in his dorm room, door locked, curtains drawn. He'd borrowed a laptop from the library—old, slow, but functional.
He plugged in the flash drive.
It was encrypted.
Of course it was.
But the password hint read: "What my sister called this place."
Rudra thought for a moment. Then typed: hell.
The drive opened.
Inside were folders. Dozens of them. Each labeled with a year.
Rudra opened the most recent one.
Audio files. Video clips. Scanned documents.
He clicked on the first audio file.
A recording. Poor quality. Background noise. But voices were clear.
"—can't keep doing this. Someone's going to notice—"
"No one's noticed for ten years. Why would they start now?"
"Because we're pushing too hard. The last subject barely—"
"The last subject was weak. This batch will be different. Malhotra's screening process is better now."
"And if it's not?"
"Then we adjust. Like we always do."
The recording cut off.
Rudra's hands were shaking.
He opened another file. A video this time. Grainy. Night vision.
A room. Concrete walls. A student—young, maybe sixteen—sitting in a chair, blindfolded, hands bound.
A voice offscreen: "State your name."
The student's voice trembled. "P-Priya. Priya Sharma."
"Do you know why you're here, Priya?"
"N-no. Please. I just want to go home."
"You'll go home. After the assessment."
"What assessment? I don't understand—"
The video cut to black.
Rudra felt sick.
He spent the next two hours going through everything. File after file. Recording after recording.
Students screaming. Begging. Pleading.
Doctors taking notes. Measuring responses. Discussing "optimal stress thresholds."
And always, at the center of it all, Dr. Malhotra's voice. Calm. Clinical. Detached.
By the time Rudra finished, the sun was rising.
He sat in the dim light of dawn, staring at the screen.
Anvi was right.
This wasn't just a conspiracy.
This was systematic. Organized. Evil.
And it had been happening for years.
Rudra closed the laptop, his decision made.
He pulled out his phone and sent a single text to Anvi:
I'm in.
Three seconds later, she replied:
Meet me at the quarry. Noon. Come alone.
Rudra deleted the messages, pocketed the flash drive, and began preparing.
If they were going to take down Malhotra and everyone protecting him, they needed more than evidence.
They needed a plan.
And Rudra was very good at plans.