The city slept under a pale orange haze, the kind that makes even streetlights look tired.
Ashburn sat behind the counter of Khan General Store, his notebook open beside a steaming cup of chai. The shop had quieted down for the night — only the faint clatter of shutters and the hum of a distant generator filled the air.
The day had been long. Too long.
Between the kitchen's fading visitors, the whispers in the market, and the philanthropist's visit, his mind felt like a storm that refused to end.
But storms, he reminded himself, pass when you work through them. Not when you run.
He glanced at the small glowing panel beside him — [Evaluation 2 Completed | Awaiting Review].
The system fund for the next cycle had already been transferred.
₹4,00,000.
Double again.
He exhaled.
That was the one thing he could count on — structure, numbers, progress. Something that made sense.
Still, he didn't feel the thrill he usually did when seeing growth.
Not tonight.
He scribbled quietly in the notebook.
> Invest small portion in dry goods. Expand tea corner with local supplier. Avoid credit sales until market stabilizes.
Investigate rumors quietly.
Support Kainat — she's holding on, barely.
His handwriting slowed toward the last line. He could still see the exhaustion in her eyes earlier — the way she tried to smile despite the hurt.
Ashburn leaned back, rubbing his temple. "We'll make it through this," he murmured. "We always do."
Outside, the wind rustled through the dusty signboard — Khan General Store.
He didn't know that somewhere across town, another man sat awake too — for very different reasons.
Adil Khan — the man the city called its "pillar of generosity" — poured himself a glass of imported water and stared at the large framed newspaper clipping on his office wall.
"City's Heart: Adil Khan Feeds Thousands in Need."
He smiled faintly.
What a beautiful lie.
Across the desk, his assistant scrolled nervously through the tablet. "Sir, there's still talk about that small kitchen project. The woman— Kainat— she used to volunteer for one of your foundations, didn't she?"
Adil's expression hardened. "Briefly. She had good intentions… but lacked obedience."
"Should we… handle it the usual way?"
Adil swirled the glass, watching the ripples distort his reflection. "No. Not yet. Let's make her doubt herself first. It's more elegant that way."
The assistant nodded slowly. "And the shop owner?"
"Ah, the young one… Ashburn." He smirked, leaning back. "Ambitious. Naïve. Thinks hard work changes the system."
He placed the glass down gently. "We'll make sure the system changes him first."
A quiet laugh escaped his throat — smooth, calm, calculated.
---
Behind him, a set of folders sat open on the shelf. Names. Records. Contracts.
The "charity" empire was a maze of companies under different aliases — all supplying goods at "discounted" rates for community kitchens, shelters, and food drives.
Only, the goods weren't what they seemed.
Expired flour, cheap rice mixed with dust, canned items with fresh labels glued over rotten stock.
Everything polished, photographed, and handed to the public as proof of his "kindness."
In reality, the same warehouses fed into his private businesses — low-cost, high-profit, and legally invisible under layers of manipulated documents.
He picked up one of the ledgers — his real one. Not the one that got published.
The pages were thick, expensive, but the ink was older — hand-written notes beside each transaction.
He ran a finger down the recent entry.
> Distribution: Northern Block Market — Naeem Traders (Replaced supply route successfully). Kitchen Project discredited (Phase 2 active).
A satisfied breath escaped his lips.
Naeem had failed to damage Ashburn before, but now Adil was doing it himself — quietly, cleanly.
His assistant hesitated. "Sir, what if the small shop owner fights back? He's not like others."
Adil smiled again. "He will. And when he does, we'll turn it into a headline about 'false accusations against a philanthropist.' People adore heroes who seem unjustly attacked. That's how the world works — people don't seek truth; they seek comfort."
He paused, tapping the glass lightly. "And I… am their comfort."
---
Back in Ashrock Market, Ashburn was balancing invoices. The night air felt thicker than usual.
He rechecked supplier receipts, noting that same mismatched code he'd found earlier. It didn't belong to Mr. Hussain's chain. It linked to another distribution circle — one that didn't exist officially.
He frowned, flipping through papers. "What are you hiding…"
Quick Appraisal triggered faintly again — that same off feeling, like static under his skin. The paper wasn't fake, but the source… it was off-balance.
Something about it reeked of bigger hands behind the scenes.
Still, he didn't have proof — only fragments.
For now, all he could do was keep his circle small and his movements quiet.
Kainat had gone silent since the philanthropist's visit. He didn't blame her. Facing someone with that much influence could shake anyone.
He jotted down one more line in his notebook:
> Never fight a giant in the open. Build your ground first.
---
Meanwhile, Adil's assistant entered again, holding a brown file.
"Sir, the kitchen still serves some families. Not many, but it's surviving."
Adil didn't look surprised. "It always does. That's the beauty of hope — it doesn't know when to quit."
He turned the page of a report showing his "public image metrics." 98% approval rating. Multiple donors still funding his projects.
"Keep the pressure subtle," he ordered. "Spread new rumors. Something about the food being bought from unverified sources. Say someone saw insects in the rice bags. Simple lies — believable ones."
"Yes, sir."
"And one more thing," Adil added. "Make sure our next shipment to our retail brand uses the same stock batch we 'donated' last month. If anyone checks, the paperwork will show perfect compliance."
The assistant hesitated. "That batch… sir, it's—"
"Substandard?" Adil finished with a smile. "Everything is substandard when you sell it to the poor. They never complain — they only thank you."
His words chilled the air.
He leaned back, sighing almost fondly. "You see, Saeed, charity is the most profitable mask of all. The moment people call you a saint… you can sell them anything."
---
Far away, Ashburn locked the store for the night. The city was still alive — faint music, vendors closing stalls, dogs chasing shadows.
He walked toward the kitchen compound, glancing at the quiet gate.
Kainat wasn't there — probably resting after another day of enduring silence from those she once helped.
He stood there a while, thinking.
A gust of wind picked up some papers lying near the entrance — flyers with the kitchen's logo.
Someone had scrawled over them in black marker: "Fake food. Don't trust."
He clenched his fist slowly.
The ink smeared against his palm as he picked one up.
It stung. But not as much as before.
Now, the anger felt sharper — clearer.
He whispered to himself, "Whoever you are… I'll find you."
---
Across town, Adil poured himself another drink. His phone buzzed.
A message from one of his informants:
> "The shop owner has started re-checking receipts. Might be connecting dots."
Adil smirked, sliding the phone aside.
"Let him look. Truth is a fragile thing — too small to survive without proof."
He looked out his window, where the city lights flickered faintly against the sand.
"Besides," he murmured, almost amused, "the boy doesn't know whose shadow he's stepping into."
---
That night, two men in the same city couldn't sleep.
One believed he was building a future through honesty.
The other believed honesty was a tool — to shape the perfect lie.
The city itself remained silent — a witness to both.
[System Note: "Light doesn't destroy darkness — it exposes it."]