Ashrock's streets always looked the same at dawn — dusty, tired, and slow to wake.
But for Ashburn, every morning had begun to feel heavier.
Too many thoughts were crowding his mind. Too many lies in the air.
The community kitchen was still running… barely.
Crowds had thinned again. The same rumors were crawling through the city — whispered near mosques, in tea stalls, even among shopkeepers.
"Fake charity," some said.
"Money laundering," others claimed.
No one could prove anything, but words didn't need proof — they just needed repetition.
And repetition… was poison.
---
Kainat had stopped smiling the way she used to.
She still tried — organizing food drives, checking ledgers, managing volunteers. But her voice carried a quiet tremor now.
Each evening when she'd count the fewer people coming, her shoulders slumped a little more.
"It's like everything we built is being buried alive," she said once, her tone half-broken.
Ashburn just nodded, quietly pouring her a glass of water.
He didn't tell her what he was planning. Not yet.
"Don't lose heart, Kainat," he said softly. "Truth takes time to walk… lies run fast, but they trip first."
She smiled faintly at that, though her eyes were tired.
---
Behind that calm, Ashburn's mind was moving like a silent storm.
He had started watching Saeed — the philanthropist's trusted assistant.
A man always dressed neatly, always polite, always just there whenever charity events or donations were mentioned.
Saeed visited the warehouse at dawn, then disappeared for hours.
Sometimes he'd arrive at the city's outskirts where the supposed "charity distribution" took place.
Other times, he'd meet merchants and officials at odd times — away from public eyes.
Ashburn noticed patterns — a strange repetition of routes, repeated names in donation records, trucks that arrived empty but left with sealed boxes.
He began keeping notes under his counter, scribbled on old receipts.
He couldn't risk keeping a diary — not in this town.
---
The system's faint interface shimmered in his vision late one night as he reviewed the day's observations.
> [Evaluation Progress: 82%]
[Risk Level: Elevated]
[Note: "Truth hides beneath routine."]
Amina's voice — soft and digital, yet oddly human — spoke in his mind.
> "Ashburn… you're pushing yourself. Balancing both fronts might exhaust you."
"I know," he whispered, glancing at the dim ceiling fan. "But if I don't find the truth, this won't end."
A brief pause. Then her voice turned warm.
> "Then let's walk carefully. Observe. Record. Nothing more… for now."
---
He created a fake identity — Asad Malik, a freelance logistics worker.
It was simple enough — an ID printed from a friend's contact, a few believable references, a cap and glasses to dull his features.
Every few days, he visited the supposed charity sites.
He talked to people who had "received help." Most hadn't received much. Some hadn't received anything at all.
One old man, sitting by a cracked wall, said in a low voice,
"They bring food sometimes… only when cameras come. After that, nothing."
Ashburn's Truth Sense pulsed faintly — confirming honesty.
Another woman, holding her child, whispered,
"They gave us medicine last month. My boy got sick after taking it. Doctor said it was expired."
Ashburn's Quick Appraisal flickered subtly — her words aligned with the batch code he saw stamped faintly on the discarded bottle nearby.
He pocketed it quietly.
Another piece of evidence.
---
Back at his shop, everything looked ordinary.
Shelves stacked neatly, Sami chatting with a customer, the faint smell of dust and oil.
No one would imagine their quiet shopkeeper was digging into a city's golden philanthropist.
"Bhai, you've been staying late these days," Sami remarked one evening.
Ashburn smiled, tired but calm. "Paperwork. And keeping an eye on supply trends. The new evaluation's close."
Sami nodded, satisfied, and went back to adjusting the display.
But deep down, Ashburn felt the pressure of that evaluation.
This month's system fund was larger, and expectations sharper. He needed to prove growth — not just survive this mess.
He had planned to invest part of the funds in a small wholesale link — an experiment to expand the shop's reach beyond Ashrock.
But with the kitchen crisis and the philanthropist's shadow over them, even ambition had started to taste like risk.
---
Late at night, Kainat visited the shop.
Her eyes looked a little red; she had probably been crying.
"Ashburn… maybe we should shut it down," she said suddenly. "The kitchen. People are turning away. I can't watch everyone doubt something that was made for good."
Ashburn put down the ledger.
Silence stretched for a few seconds.
Then he said quietly, "If we close it now… we'll prove them right."
She looked at him — searching his face, his calm.
"How do you stay so sure?"
He hesitated, his gaze dropping to the half-empty counter.
"I'm not sure," he admitted. "I just… can't let people like him decide what's right."
Her eyes softened, but her expression was full of ache.
"Then promise me you'll be careful," she whispered.
He smiled faintly. "Always."
---
Over the next few days, he tracked Saeed's schedule more closely.
Morning prayers, brief visit to the office, quick ride to a warehouse, then off to a private compound where donations were supposedly stored.
But there was something off — Saeed often left the compound before the delivery trucks even arrived.
One afternoon, Ashburn followed him to a small printing press at the city's edge.
Through the half-open window, he glimpsed stacks of forms being stamped with fake approval seals — "Certified Donation Goods."
The Quick Appraisal triggered softly.
The ink was fresh. The paper batch didn't match the official supplier's watermark.
A chill ran through him.
He turned to leave — but before he could, someone called Saeed's name inside.
Ashburn froze behind a wall.
A deep voice — unmistakably the Philanthropist's — spoke sharply.
"Make sure the old papers are burned this time. I don't want another slip-up like last month."
Ashburn's pulse quickened. His hands tightened.
He stepped back quietly, memorizing every detail he could — location, faces, license plates.
He didn't have enough proof yet, but he finally had a direction.
---
That night, he returned to his small apartment above the shop.
He sat by the window, city lights flickering far away.
Kainat's worried voice, Saeed's routine, the philanthropist's calm threats — all of it tangled in his head.
He exhaled slowly.
"This isn't just about the kitchen anymore," he whispered to himself.
Amina's voice surfaced faintly.
> "Then it's about truth now, isn't it?"
He smiled faintly. "Truth… and timing."
Outside, a dog barked in the alley. Somewhere in the distance, a truck engine echoed — maybe another fake delivery, another act under the philanthropist's name.
Ashburn leaned back, staring at the ceiling fan spinning in slow circles.
The storm was far from over.
But for the first time in weeks… he could see where the next step led.
---
[System Note: "Light does not chase darkness. It exposes it — quietly."]
[Evaluation Progress: 88% | Risk Level: Rising]
To be continued…