The security register lay open on the desk, its pages curled at the edges like it had been touched by too many indifferent hands. Arjun signed his name slowly, carefully, the way people do when they are afraid of making mistakes even after six decades of living.
A. Arjun. Night Duty.
The cyber crime office smelled of disinfectant and burnt coffee. Machines hummed. Lights buzzed faintly. Somewhere deep inside the building, servers worked tirelessly, processing crimes faster than human conscience ever could.
Arjun sat down on his wooden chair near the entrance.
He did not slump.
He did not relax.
He settled.
People mistook that for tiredness.
In truth, it was readiness.
At sixty, Arjun had learned how to disappear without leaving the room. His shoulders curved inward, not from age, but from habit. Eyes lowered. Voice soft. Presence minimized.
Invisibility was safer.
An officer passed him without acknowledgment, shoes clicking sharply on the floor. Another followed, laughing into his phone. They spoke freely. Complained freely.
Nobody stopped guarding their words around the watchman.
Arjun watched reflections instead of faces. Glass doors told him more than eyes ever did.
He noticed everything.