The city woke differently that morning.
Not to the call of vendors or the clatter of bicycles, but to murmurs. Soft, electric murmurs spilling from glowing screens.
Everywhere — teashops, buses, office queues — people were glued to their phones, scrolling, whispering, frowning.
Something had cracked.
---
A trending tag was climbing across social media: #FalseCharity.
Videos, posts, scanned documents — all showing irregularities in the accounts of the well-known philanthropist who'd been the city's "man of generosity" for years.
A clip surfaced of him distributing low-quality goods to poor families. Another, a leaked document comparing his charity invoices with actual purchase receipts. People were beginning to connect the dots — his image, his fame, his business empire — all built on the suffering he claimed to ease.
---
In the middle of the chaos, Ashburn watched quietly from behind the counter of Khan General Store.
Customers came and went, but his attention stayed fixed on the phone resting beside the register.
Every few minutes, a new notification.
Another post.
Another confession from someone who had worked under the Philanthropist.
He didn't smile. He just breathed deeply, letting the tide unfold on its own.
The plan was working — slowly, naturally — without him ever appearing in sight.
---
Across town, reporters swarmed the gates of the Philanthropist's villa. Cameras flashed like lightning, voices rose, mics thrust forward.
"Sir, how do you respond to these accusations?"
"Is it true the products distributed in the relief drive were expired?"
"Who handles your documentation?"
"Did you fake your tax statements?"
He stood there, face tight, wearing his signature white shalwar kameez.
"I have dedicated my life to helping people," he said sharply, his voice heavy with practiced confidence. "These are lies. Fabrications. Someone jealous of my work is spreading filth."
He turned toward the cameras, straightened his collar.
"You people should be ashamed of targeting those who try to help society."
He walked away, but his steps weren't steady.
Inside the mansion, his assistant Saeed followed nervously.
"Sir… the market called. One of our clients is freezing their contract until—"
"I don't care!" he barked. "Find who's behind this. I want their name, their face, everything."
Saeed nodded quickly, stepping back as the Philanthropist slammed a glass onto the table, the water spilling down like a quiet echo of his frustration.
---
Back in Ashrock's old market, Kainat stood in front of the community kitchen.
It was quieter than before — half the tables empty, the volunteers uncertain. The rumors had scarred its image badly.
She sighed, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
When the police had come last week, they'd found nothing. But their visit alone had planted more doubt in people's minds.
Now, as the Philanthropist's scandal spread, she saw a faint opportunity — a sliver of air between heavy clouds.
"Maybe… maybe people will see the truth," she whispered.
A child tugged her sleeve, holding a small bowl.
"Will you open today, baji?"
Kainat smiled softly. "Yes. We'll start again. Slowly, but we'll start."
---
That evening, Ashburn stopped by the kitchen after closing the shop.
Kainat was arranging the utensils, her movements slower than before but steadier.
He leaned on the doorframe. "You really don't rest, do you?"
She looked up, surprised but comforted. "Someone has to keep it running."
Ashburn stepped inside, folded his sleeves. "Then let me help."
They worked side by side for a while, the silence between them light but warm. Outside, a faint breeze carried the sounds of distant conversation — people talking again about the kitchen, this time with less suspicion.
Kainat finally broke the silence.
"I don't know what's happening out there, but… it feels like justice is trying to find its way."
Ashburn only smiled faintly.
"Maybe it always does, if someone pushes it hard enough."
She turned to him, eyes searching. "Do you think the truth will come out fully?"
He paused. "It always does… eventually."
---
Later that night, Ashburn returned home.
Sami was asleep, and the shop ledgers lay open on his desk. He looked over the numbers — sales had increased again. The expansion was working. But his mind wasn't on profits tonight.
He opened his laptop, scanning the news feeds. The Philanthropist's business stocks had begun to dip. Some of his loyal donors had paused their contributions. The pressure was visible — cracks forming in what once looked unshakable.
He leaned back, staring at the faint reflection of his own face in the screen.
Step by step. No rush. Let the truth crush itself.
---
Morning came, and the Philanthropist appeared again — this time outside a government office, surrounded by journalists.
He looked tired. His eyes, once sharp with self-confidence, now carried a flicker of doubt.
"I will cooperate fully with the authorities," he declared. "I have nothing to hide."
But his voice trembled. His hand gripped the railing too tightly.
Behind him, his assistant whispered updates — sponsors withdrawing, partners reconsidering deals.
For the first time, the man who built his fame on kindness looked small.
---
Across the street, hidden among the small crowd, a man in a cap watched silently — phone in hand, recording.
Ashburn.
He watched, expression calm, calculating.
He didn't need applause or acknowledgment.
He only needed the truth to keep burning.
When the Philanthropist turned toward the cameras again, he caught a glimpse of a familiar figure in the corner — or maybe he just imagined it.
A pair of dark eyes, half-hidden behind a phone.
A strange unease crawled through him.
That night, in his study, the Philanthropist replayed the day's events in his mind. Every face he'd seen. Every voice he'd heard.
Then, suddenly, something clicked — a memory.
That shop boy. The one who refused his offer weeks ago. The one who argued about "integrity."
He sat upright.
"Malik…" he muttered slowly.
Saeed looked up. "Sir?"
"Find me everything about Ashburn Malik," he said, voice low, deliberate.
"Now."
---
Ashburn, unaware of being the new target, stood by the kitchen late that night, helping Kainat arrange tomorrow's supplies.
The street was quiet again, the city finally exhaling after a day of noise.
Kainat looked at him, a soft smile forming.
"I think… people will come back. Maybe not tomorrow, but soon."
He nodded gently. "They will. The truth's already walking among them."
But even as he said it, something inside him stirred — a faint instinct.
A warning.
Somewhere across town, a man had just spoken his name in anger.
And the hunt had begun.