The silent legacy

The next morning at Rajput Industries was unusually quiet. The sleek glass façade of the headquarters mirrored the rising sun, casting long golden lines across the marble floors of the lobby. Dushiant Rajput walked through the glass doors in the identity of Parth Bharadwaj, dressed in a modest shirt and trousers, carrying a black backpack slung over one shoulder. His gaze, however, betrayed the calmness of his appearance. It scanned every corner, every guard, every reflection.

The security guard at the reception desk offered a polite nod, and Dushiant returned it with a faint, controlled smile. He swiped his ID and entered. The scanner beeped approvingly. His plan was progressing at a steady pace, but every step had to be methodical. One mistake, and everything he built over the years—even from the shadows—could collapse.

Upstairs, the HR department was still sleepy. A few interns were gossiping near the coffee machine, trying to prepare themselves for another day of mundane tasks and tension. Dushiant had positioned himself perfectly—close enough to the heart of operations, yet far enough to remain unnoticed as anything more than another nervous intern. His days of shadow management in Germany had taught him how to blend in.

Ravi Tripathi hadn't arrived yet. Dushiant took the opportunity to observe the environment. His cubicle was adjacent to the HR Manager's cabin, separated only by a translucent divider. He leaned back and subtly observed the opaque glass, watching for any activity inside. None.

He booted up his terminal, logging into the employee portal using Parth's credentials. The system recognized him instantly. With a few command line strokes—hidden beneath an innocent-looking spreadsheet—Dushiant activated a stealth monitoring program he had coded the previous night. It began tracking access logs, searching patterns in file retrievals, login times, and most importantly—file locations.

A red flag appeared.

File Directory: HR Manager > Personal > Ranjan_Files > Encrypted Logs.

The files were labeled vaguely, but each filename contained a pattern. Dushiant's eyes narrowed. He reached into his bag and retrieved a small USB device. Carefully, he plugged it in and began a secure transfer. He knew he wouldn't be able to decrypt the files immediately, but having them in his own hands was the first step.

Just then, the sound of hurried footsteps approached.

Ravi Tripathi burst in, chewing gum obnoxiously and laughing into his phone. He brushed past the interns without greeting them, then flung open the door to his office and slammed it shut. A moment later, a loud female voice could be heard.

"Sir, I told you, I don't feel comfortable with this kind of—"

"Oh, come on, sweetheart," Ravi's voice followed, sleazy and casual. "You scratch my back, and I'll make sure you're a permanent employee before the month ends."

Dushiant's fingers tightened on the mouse. He didn't react outwardly, but a storm was growing in his chest. This wasn't just an annoyance—it was vile. And he was going to tear Ravi apart, layer by layer.

For now, though, patience.

After the girl stormed out of Ravi's cabin in visible frustration, Dushiant stood and walked toward the HR archives under the pretense of collecting paperwork. As he passed Ravi's door, he could hear the man humming to himself and watching something on his phone. Typical.

Inside the archives, Dushiant pretended to sift through files but was actually installing a signal booster on the wall socket. It was small, just the size of a coin, but powerful. It would extend his digital reach into Ravi's system and help him record keystrokes, login data, and capture screen time remotely.

By noon, Dushiant was back at his desk. He used the break time to subtly observe the social dynamics. Ranjan was seated across the hall in the executive bay, constantly on calls and surrounded by an aura of authority. Occasionally, Dushiant noticed him glance at Ravi's office. Not with suspicion—but with caution. That, in itself, was a clue.

Later in the day, Ravi called for him.

"Parth! Come in here."

Dushiant stood and entered the cabin with a neutral expression. Ravi leaned back in his leather chair, legs crossed arrogantly.

"How's the first week treating you? You're still alive, huh?"

"Yes, sir. Learning a lot," Dushiant replied modestly.

"Good, good. Listen, I've got a little... special assignment for you."

He handed over a brown envelope.

"Go to the finance floor and give this to Ms. Shalini. Don't open it. Just deliver. And make sure she smiles when you give it to her, got it?"

Dushiant took the envelope, nodded, and walked out. Once in the elevator, he opened the envelope. Inside was a series of documents, all requesting "adjustments" to intern payments and job confirmations. It was written subtly, but the intent was clear—manipulation.

He took a photo of the contents, resealed the envelope, and delivered it without a trace of what he had done. Ms. Shalini, however, seemed annoyed. She muttered under her breath as she received it.

"Same thing again... disgusting."

More red flags.

That evening, after everyone had left, Dushiant stayed behind. Under the dim office lights, he watched as the data from Ravi's computer synced to his drive. His hacking tool had done its job. Screenshots of chat logs, surveillance records, transaction trails. All pointing toward a nexus of exploitation and corruption.

But Ravi wasn't his main goal. Ranjan was.

Ravi was just the locked door between him and the real secrets. And Dushiant knew how to pick locks—figuratively and literally.

The next day, his interactions with Ranjan increased subtly. He offered to help with document transfers, occasionally "bumped into him" during breaks, and once even shared a joke about the company's weak coffee. Ranjan chuckled. That was a start.

Back at his desk, Dushiant reviewed the logs again. His stealth tracker showed that someone accessed the Ranjan_Files folder on Ravi's PC again last night.

He opened the file preview.

Audio_Clip_Mix_0109.wav

The timestamp was from two nights before Saksham's death.

Dushiant clicked play.

The voices of Ranjan and Pandey echoed. But the pitch, the rhythm—it was too perfect.

"Your time is over, Saksham. After the board meeting, everything changes."

But Dushiant had analyzed thousands of audio files before. He knew layering when he heard it. The file had been artificially crafted. The real voices might've been used, but the message had been twisted.

And now he was certain.

Ranjan and Pandey were scapegoats. Someone was puppeteering from behind the curtain.

His jaw clenched as the pieces started fitting together. Saksham's fall from the rooftop wasn't just corporate sabotage—it was murder with layers.

But first, Ravi had to fall.

Not by force.

By exposure.

As the night grew darker, Dushiant leaned back in his chair, the city lights of Mumbai twinkling behind him through the glass walls.

His mind ran with a singular thought:

Tomorrow, another piece would move. And he was always five steps ahead.

To be continued...