The community kitchen had grown quieter over the past few days.
Too quiet.
Once, laughter and chatter used to fill the small courtyard.
Now, the benches stood half-empty. The air… heavy, uncertain.
Kainat stood near the serving table, her hands trembling slightly as she ladled soup into a single bowl. The warmth of it rose like a faint memory. A few regulars still came, mostly the old and the desperate — but the crowd that once lined up at the gate… was gone.
Ashburn watched from the counter, his jaw set. He had seen this before — the sudden cold shoulder, the suspicious glances, the whispers when you walked past.
Rumors.
They were spreading again.
That the food was expired. That the donations were fake. That someone — maybe him — was "pocketing" the money.
All lies. All poison.
He had receipts, invoices, supplier records — everything clean, transparent.
But when gossip takes root, proof feels like smoke in the wind.
Kainat's voice finally broke through the silence.
"They stopped coming, Ash…" Her tone was soft, but the weight behind it could have shattered stone. "Even the families I used to know. They didn't even look at me this morning."
Ashburn stepped closer. "Rumors fade. They always do."
She tried to smile but couldn't. "But why again? We just started doing something good. Why would anyone—"
He didn't answer.
He knew why.
Because people hate what they can't control. Because goodness without permission is a threat.
Before he could speak again, a sleek black car pulled up near the gate.
The kind of car that didn't belong on dusty market roads.
Three men stepped out first — crisp suits, dark glasses — and then came him.
Mr. Adil Khan.
The philanthropist.
The "savior of the poor," as the papers called him. A man whose name floated on every charity list, every event banner, every politician's speech.
Kainat straightened instinctively, wiping her hands nervously on her dupatta. Ashburn stood firm, his face unreadable.
"Mr. Ashburn Khan," Adil said with a warm smile, stepping forward. "And Miss Kainat. I've been hearing a lot about your little project."
Little project.
"Please," Kainat managed, "it's nothing compared to the work you've done, sir. We're just trying to—"
He raised a hand, gentle, silencing. "You've done well. Truly. It's touching to see such sincerity. But… there are concerns."
Ashburn's eyes narrowed. "Concerns?"
"Yes." Adil clasped his hands behind his back, his tone silky, rehearsed. "Rumors… allegations. People are talking about mismanagement. Expired goods. Money not accounted for. It's bad for the city's image, you see."
Ashburn felt something stir in his chest — anger, maybe. Or disgust.
"We've already shown our receipts, supplier logs, and volunteer records. Everything is transparent."
Adil smiled faintly. "Transparency, my boy, doesn't stop people from talking. Sometimes… it's better to step back before something… unpleasant happens."
There was no threat in his tone.
But it was a threat.
Kainat's breath caught. "Sir, are you asking us to shut it down?"
"I'm suggesting," he said smoothly, "that you consider your safety and reputation. You're good people. Don't let this small venture ruin you."
For a moment, silence stretched between them — heavy, suffocating.
Ashburn didn't look away.
Neither did Adil.
And then, with that same gentle smile, the philanthropist turned and walked away. His men followed, the car pulling out with quiet arrogance.
Dust settled where he'd stood.
Kainat's voice cracked. "He—he threatened us."
Ashburn exhaled slowly. "Yes."
She looked at him, eyes glistening. "We're just feeding people, Ash. Why would someone like him care?"
"Because," he murmured, "every act of kindness takes a little power away from those who sell mercy for fame."
Her lips quivered. "We can't close it, right? Tell me we won't."
He turned toward her, his voice softer now. "No. We won't."
Something in his tone steadied her.
Something unshakable.
Still, as the day went on, the emptiness grew louder.
More volunteers didn't show up.
More people avoided eye contact.
A few even whispered, "They say the food's bad… they say it's a scam…"
Each word hit Kainat like a stone.
She tried to smile, to greet them anyway — but her heart wasn't built for this kind of cruelty.
Later, when evening fell, she sat beside the gate with her head resting on her knees. "Maybe I'm just… not strong enough for this," she whispered.
Ashburn was leaning against the wall, arms folded, watching the fading light.
"You're stronger than you think," he said quietly.
She lifted her eyes to him. "Then why does it hurt so much?"
He looked at her for a long moment. Then said, almost to himself,
"Because good people always bleed first."
The words hung between them, soft but sharp.
She looked down again, tears tracing her palms.
And without thinking, he sat beside her.
No grand gesture. No dramatics. Just quiet presence.
Sometimes that's all someone needs.
The sound of the evening prayer echoed faintly in the distance.
It grounded them — reminded them that silence doesn't mean defeat.
After a while, she spoke again, barely audible. "Will you… look into it?"
He nodded once. "I already am."
That night, Ashburn sat alone in the store office, the system panel faintly pulsing on his desk. But he wasn't relying on it this time.
This wasn't about numbers or profit shares. This was personal.
He spread out the paperwork — donation receipts, delivery records, supplier entries. Line by line, he began checking.
Quick Appraisal flickered softly in his mind — subtle, passive, like a second sight.
It didn't scream answers — just nudges.
The ink on one receipt felt… wrong. Too new for the date printed.
Another had a mismatched signature.
He leaned closer, running his thumb over the texture.
Someone had replaced a genuine receipt with a forged one.
"Why this one…" he murmured. The supplier listed — Hussain Distribution & Sons — but the code below… wasn't theirs.
A clue.
Small, but real.
He leaned back, exhaling.
The dots hadn't connected yet, but the pattern was there — hidden behind expensive smiles and fake charity.
The system blinked faintly — [Evaluation Progress: 100% | Status: Completed | Awaiting Review]
He ignored it.
For once, the numbers didn't matter.
Outside, the wind rustled the banners of the kitchen — "Free Meals. Open for All."
The fabric fluttered weakly, half-torn.
From somewhere down the street, voices carried again — laughter, gossip, that same poisonous tone.
"They said the philanthropist himself warned them. Must be true then."
Ashburn closed his eyes.
The rumors were alive again — faster, stronger, colder.
He stood up slowly, watching the flicker of lights fade into the horizon.
For a long moment, he just stood there — still, silent, thinking.
Then a whisper escaped his lips, meant for no one but the shadows.
"Alright… if that's how you want to play."
He turned off the light and stepped into the night, a faint glimmer of determination burning behind his calm eyes.
He had found a clue.
Next, he'd find the truth.
Even if it meant tearing apart the mask of a saint.
---
[System Note: "Truth hides best beneath applause."]