Morning came slow in Ashrock City.
The light crawled over rooftops, sliding across the thin mist that hung above the bazaar.
Ashburn had already been awake for hours.
The store's shutters were half open, enough to make it look like business as usual.
Sami handled the counter, just like they'd planned.
And from the kitchen's side, Kainat kept up the façade — answering a few curious visitors, giving calm replies, saying that "Ashburn bhai is busy managing supplies and accounts."
It was half true.
He was managing something — just not what anyone thought.
---
🌒
Ashburn walked down a quiet street on the city's western edge, wearing a dull brown shalwar kameez and a dusty cap.
He looked ordinary — another trader checking delivery points.
But his mind was razor-sharp beneath that calm.
He carried a small pouch with an old camera, a notebook, and a folded ledger copy.
Every step he took had purpose.
He was heading toward one of Adil Khan's charity distribution centers — a modest warehouse often shown in newspapers as "proof" of his generosity.
The place wasn't hard to find. A huge banner hung above the gate:
"Khan Welfare & Relief Foundation – Feeding the Future."
He almost smiled at the irony.
A guard by the entrance waved him through after he said, "Delivery cross-check — Hussain Distributions, late dispatch verification."
No one asked too many questions when you sounded like you belonged.
Inside, the air was thick with dust and the faint smell of oil.
Sacks of flour were stacked to the ceiling, their labels shiny and new.
Ashburn knelt, running his fingers over one bag.
Quick Appraisal hummed faintly in his mind — that subtle flicker he'd learned to trust.
Quality: Low grade. Contents: Mixed residue, reprocessed flour. Shelf life: expired by 27 days.
He exhaled quietly. So it's true.
He took out the camera, snapped a quick photo, then jotted down:
> Batch 12B — mismatched print. Weight seal inconsistent. Outer bag new, inner old.
A worker noticed him scribbling.
"You from head office?" the man asked, eyes curious but not suspicious.
Ashburn smiled faintly. "Just confirming supply conditions. Mr. Khan wants everything perfect before the next press visit, right?"
The man chuckled, "Ah, yes. He's particular about photos — even if we don't have enough to pack."
Something about his tone hit strange.
Ashburn let his Truth Sense flow subtly — like reading the air more than the words.
No malice, just resignation.
This man knew things weren't right… but didn't dare say it aloud.
He nodded gently and moved on.
---
Outside, he took a long breath, leaning against the wall.
It wasn't anger that filled him — it was disappointment.
He'd wanted to be wrong.
But the system never lied, and neither did the quiet eyes of honest workers trapped in dishonest places.
He visited three more sites that day — a shelter home, a food drive storehouse, and a packaging point.
Everywhere, the same pattern.
Shiny banners, cameras for show, cheap goods underneath.
At the shelter, he spoke to a tired old man sitting by the gate.
The man's hands trembled as he poured water into a cracked plastic cup.
"You come to see the donors' work?" he asked, half-smiling.
Ashburn nodded. "Yes. How's the help here?"
The man chuckled bitterly. "Help? They came one day with food and a cameraman. Since then, only empty boxes."
Ashburn's chest tightened.
Truth Sense confirmed it — pure honesty. No exaggeration. Just quiet, hopeless truth.
He thanked the man, slipped a small note of cash into his hand, and walked away.
For a while, he just stood under a tree by the road, staring at nothing.
The city moved around him — buses, vendors, calls of life and routine.
And yet he felt like he was standing in a story that no one else could see.
---
By evening, he returned to the shop.
The air smelled of roasted peanuts and diesel — familiar, grounding scents.
Sami greeted him with a grin. "You look tired, bhai. Long day?"
Ashburn forced a smile. "Just errands. You managed well?"
Sami puffed his chest proudly. "Of course. Sold all the new stock. Even fixed the shelves."
He nodded approvingly. "Good job. Keep it up."
Behind the smile, his thoughts raced.
He needed to document everything. Quietly. Systematically.
He locked himself in his room later that night, spreading out the notes, receipts, and photos on the table.
The evidence wasn't much yet — but it was real.
And if there was one thing he'd learned, it was that truth grows when you feed it with patience.
Quick Appraisal had already linked several product batches to false supplier codes — fake IDs connecting back to Adil Khan's front companies.
But what unsettled him most wasn't the fraud.
It was how easily people believed in it.
---
Meanwhile, across the city, Adil Khan sat in his marble office, going over media reports.
A slight frown creased his polished calm.
"The kitchen project's still running?" he asked quietly.
"Yes, sir. Few volunteers. Public interest decreasing though," replied his PR officer.
Adil nodded slowly. "Hmm. They're stubborn. Admirable… but wasteful."
He rose and walked to the window, gazing over the glowing city.
"The poor are easy to help," he said softly. "Because they expect so little. The real challenge is keeping others from realizing that their hope is being sold."
His PR officer smiled nervously. "You always say it so beautifully, sir."
Adil's eyes darkened. "Because truth sounds better when wrapped in kindness."
---
Back in his room, Ashburn scribbled another line in his notebook:
> No one fights a mask by tearing it off. You let it slip on its own.
He would wait.
He would build evidence.
And when the time was right — he'd let the world see who Adil Khan really was.
But for now, the world only saw Khan General Store's lights glowing late, and assumed Ashburn was just another small trader trying to survive the heat.
---
🌙
Days turned into a quiet rhythm of dual lives.
Morning — he was the shopkeeper, polite, composed, cheerful.
Afternoon — he was the investigator, slipping through warehouses, talking to drivers, photographing bills.
Evening — he was the friend, standing beside Kainat at the kitchen, giving her calm strength she didn't know came from deeper battles.
She once asked, "You're quieter these days. Everything okay?"
He smiled gently. "Just thinking about how people hide behind kindness."
She frowned, confused, but didn't ask more.
---
One afternoon, he stood near a delivery truck at another distribution site, pretending to inspect cargo papers.
Quick Appraisal flashed — one of the documents was altered.
The supplier's stamp was forged — edges mismatched, ink too fresh.
He clicked a photo discreetly.
The driver muttered, "These papers change every week. Don't know why."
Ashburn's heart beat faster. "Who gives them?"
The man shrugged. "Office upstairs. Mr. Saeed signs them — works for Mr. Khan himself."
He froze for a second, then nodded casually. "Right. Thanks."
Truth Sense pulsed faintly.
The man was telling the truth — simple, unaware, but true.
That name — Saeed.
He'd heard it once before. Adil Khan's assistant.
He wrote it down in his pocket notebook.
A small clue… but the first solid connection between the fake goods and Adil himself.
---
That night, he sat on the shop's rooftop, feeling the cool wind brush past.
Ashrock's lights shimmered in the distance.
He could almost see the philanthropist's tall building from here — glowing white, standing proud like a monument to deception.
Ashburn whispered to himself, "You built your empire on the faces of the hungry… I'll make sure they see what it costs."
Below, Sami's laughter echoed faintly from the street.
The world carried on — unaware that in the quiet corners of a dusty city, a war of truth had just begun.
[System Note: "Some wars are fought with silence, and won with patience."]