Ashrock City didn't sleep easily anymore.
By dawn, every tea stall and street corner hummed with the same words — the Philanthropist's name.
"Did you see that post? They said his donations were fake!"
"No, no, my cousin works at the warehouse — half those boxes were expired goods."
"They're lying! He helped my uncle get medicine last year."
"And took pictures of it too, huh?"
Screens lit up in narrow alleys, cheap phones glowing against tired faces. Local bloggers uploaded shaky videos, news pages reposted blurry documents, and half the city shared them before breakfast. Each new rumor hit harder than the last — and behind it all, a quiet current of disbelief turned into anger.
By mid-morning, reporters crowded the Philanthropist's office gate. His silver car pulled up, and cameras swarmed like bees.
"Sir! What do you have to say about the reports?"
"Did you fake charity records?"
"Are you being investigated?"
He raised his hand, forcing a smile. "Baseless claims. Lies made to hurt my reputation. I've served this city for years. Everyone knows that."
The cameras kept flashing. His assistant, Saeed, whispered something, and they hurried inside.
But even in the lobby, whispers followed. Employees avoided eye contact. Some were already packing files quietly.
---
That afternoon, a small channel named Ashrock Voice aired a segment:
> "Multiple sources confirm substandard goods were distributed under the Philanthropist's welfare trust. Invoices suggest inflated prices and falsified quality checks…"
It wasn't national news. But in a city like Ashrock, it was more than enough.
Within hours, customers stopped visiting his brand outlets. A few businesses withdrew partnership offers. One local supplier even demanded payment in advance — "just policy," they said.
Saeed panicked, making calls, deleting files, whispering damage control.
"Sir, we can handle this. The people will forget."
The Philanthropist leaned back, his face pale and tired. "People don't forget once they start enjoying the gossip."
He watched a news clip replay his photo beside words like "Fraud," "Scandal," and "False Charity." The same hands that once applauded him now scrolled past him like he was nothing more than another piece of drama.
Public opinion shift – 68% Negative. Source: Regional sentiment data.
Somewhere, that line crossed his mind — he didn't know where it came from, but it haunted him.
---
At a roadside café that evening, voices grew louder.
"He made money out of the poor!"
"No wonder his trust grew so fast!"
"My cousin worked there. Said even the rice bags were half-filled."
Each accusation spread like fire through dry grass. The internet had become the courtroom, and everyone had already chosen their verdict.
Meanwhile, Kainat watched it all from her small office beside the kitchen. The building still smelled faintly of spices and steel pots. For days, the benches had been empty — but today, a few faces had returned.
A woman with a baby on her hip stepped forward hesitantly.
"You're still cooking?" she asked.
Kainat smiled gently. "As long as I can. Sit. You'll eat."
The woman hesitated, then nodded. Soon, two others joined. The rhythm returned, faint but real.
Kainat moved between tables quietly, her eyes soft but weary. "It'll take time," she murmured to herself. "But we'll bring it back."
Her phone buzzed. A message from Ashburn:
> "Don't rush. Truth takes time to clean the dirt."
She smiled faintly. No one else would've said something like that.
---
That night, far from the kitchen's soft lights, the Philanthropist sat in his office surrounded by half-drunk cups of coffee and torn newspapers. The city outside had turned on him.
He dialed a number — the line connected after three rings.
A calm, older voice answered. "You shouldn't be calling. Things are sensitive right now."
"Sensitive?" He laughed bitterly. "They're tearing my name apart."
"You overreached," the man replied. "The wrong people noticed."
"I helped build this city! I fed people!" His voice cracked. "And now they believe rumors."
There was a pause. "Rumors are easy to start when they're half true."
Silence.
He ended the call without another word and leaned back, pressing a hand to his forehead.
Somewhere deep inside, his anger shifted — not toward the public, but toward a single idea that had been circling his thoughts for days.
That young shopkeeper.
Always too polite. Always asking the right questions. Always around when things changed.
"Ashburn Malik," he muttered under his breath. "Could it be you?"
He clenched his fist, staring at the city lights outside his window. "If it is… then you've made the biggest mistake of your life."
He didn't know that, even now, in a quiet corner of Ashrock, a general store stayed open late — lights glowing, shelves neat, the owner calm — as if waiting for the storm to arrive.
And this time, it was.