The phone buzzed on Ashburn's counter just as he was arranging the new packets of sugar beside the tea shelves.
He wiped his hands on his shirt and glanced at the screen — Kainat's name flashing.
He answered immediately. "Kainat? Everything okay?"
Her voice trembled. "Ashburn… the police… they came to the kitchen setup. I… I don't know what to say."
He felt a familiar twist of unease in his stomach. "Take a deep breath. What did they do?"
"They searched… everywhere," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "They found nothing… nothing to justify… closing it… but the neighbors… the news… the rumors… it's spreading again. Everyone's avoiding it. The kitchen… it's becoming empty."
Ashburn leaned against the counter, listening, letting the words settle. He could hear her small, uneven breaths through the line. He closed his eyes for a brief second, taking in the weight of the situation.
"Kainat," he said slowly, carefully, "it's not over. People are confused right now. That doesn't mean we fail. It just means we need to stay calm, steady, and… patient. You've built something real here. Don't let them take it away."
Her sigh was shaky, but he heard a faint tremor of hope. "I… I hope you're right."
"I'm right," he said firmly. "And you know it. Now, I'll handle the rest. Focus on keeping the kitchen clean, organized, and ready. Don't worry about the rumors for now — we'll show the truth when the time comes."
They hung up, and Ashburn leaned back in his chair. The shop around him hummed quietly — the soft whir of the refrigerator, the faint creak of the old floorboards under his feet. Everything felt calm, almost too calm.
He opened his notebook. Notes from previous visits to the Philanthropist's charity sites, observations of Saeed, receipts, product lists, and testimonies from locals filled its pages. Each sheet was a small step toward the bigger picture — corruption hidden beneath public smiles, substandard goods disguised as generosity, voices of the poor silenced.
He spread the evidence across the counter, scanning each piece carefully. A receipt here, a delivery slip there, photographs he had taken discreetly, testimonies scribbled down in his own handwriting.
"This is enough," he murmured to himself, tapping the notebook lightly. "Every piece lines up. Every lie… every half-truth… it's all here."
Sami appeared then, peeking around the doorway with a textbook in hand. "Bhai, I finished my homework. Can I help with anything?"
Ashburn smiled faintly, appreciating the small gesture. "Not much today. Just make sure the shelves are neat and the new lentils are stacked properly."
Sami nodded, moving quietly around the store. He was part of this world in his own way — small, helpful gestures that mattered. Ashburn watched him for a moment, a quiet pride stirring.
Once Sami left for school, Ashburn returned to his notes. He ran a hand over the collection of evidence. Each photograph, each receipt, each testimony was a silent accusation. Yet he couldn't rush — one mistake, one misstep, and the entire plan could crumble.
He traced his finger over a delivery slip from one of the Philanthropist's sites. Substandard rice delivered to an orphanage. A test report showed moisture levels far higher than safe standards. Another sheet — documents that Saeed had insisted were authentic — contained signatures that didn't match official records.
Ashburn frowned. "They're trying to build an image that isn't real. Profits and public praise at the cost of honesty."
He leaned back, taking a deep breath. His mind flickered to Kainat, the kitchen, the empty plates that used to be full. He could imagine her quiet despair, the way her shoulders slumped, the light in her eyes dimmed.
No. That wasn't going to continue. Not while he still had a chance.
He returned to his notes, compiling everything systematically. Chronology, receipts, product comparisons, testimonies — everything neatly categorized. He made mental notes on how to present it — careful, precise, undeniable.
The doorbell chimed faintly as a customer entered, interrupting his focus. A young mother with a toddler in her arms stepped in.
"Bhai," she said, smiling tiredly, "I wanted to thank you. Your rice is good, and the oil… my children love it. We tried your lentils yesterday too — best I've had in years."
Ashburn nodded, handing her the bag. "Thank you, Ma'am. I'm glad it helped. Let me know if anything is missing or you need more. We can deliver if you like."
She smiled again, leaving a small nod of gratitude. Ashburn exhaled slowly. These small moments — trust, satisfaction, honesty — reminded him why he had started all of this in the first place.
When the last customer left, he sat alone in the quiet shop, the notebook spread before him like a map of truth. Every detail, every observation, every piece of evidence lined up.
He tapped his finger on a photograph — Saeed handing over a box with substandard goods, smiling for the camera while the children waited in silence.
"It ends soon," Ashburn whispered. "I'll make sure the truth is known."
He picked up his phone to double-check delivery orders when another message appeared. Different number. Unknown sender.
> "Enjoy your little victories, Malik. The world is watching — and so am I."
A chill ran down his spine. Calm. Simple. Menacing.
Ashburn didn't flinch outwardly, but inside, his pulse quickened. One month, forty percent through the evaluation, and yet another shadow looming.
He closed the notebook, tapped his pen lightly, and whispered, "It's time."
The evidence was ready. The plan was forming. And the world — Ashrock, the kitchen, the Philanthropist, everyone — would soon see it.