The police report is short.
No signs of forced entry.
Apartment locked from the inside.
One gunshot wound to the chest.
Time of death estimated between 10:30 and 11:00 p.m.
Cause: homicide.
Suspect: unknown.
They call it a clean crime.
They close the file quickly.
At the funeral, Nehra stands at the back.
Not because she is distant —
because she does not deserve the front.
She bows her head when others do.
She folds her hands when others pray.
No one notices that her fingers are shaking.
Raghav stands beside the coffin.
He does not cry.
When he speaks, his voice breaks only once.
"I loved her," he says.
"And I always will."
That is the only confession allowed that day.
Earlier — weeks ago — the hospital room smelled of disinfectant and false hope.
Sera had stood near the window, eyes sharp, already calculating futures. Raghav stayed close, like a shadow that refused to leave.
"You'll recover," Sera said.
"Everything else is done."
Nehra believed her.
How could she not?
After returning home, the memories came in pieces — never faces, never names. Just pain. Just pressure. Just shame.
Then the call came.
Her boyfriend was dead.
No explanation.
No goodbye.
Depression settled in quietly.
Questions followed.
When Sera returned home that night, Nehra asked about Rayan.
The hesitation was small.
But it was fatal.
"I killed him," Sera said.
Nehra's grief twisted into rage so sharp it felt clean.
"Why would you kill your own brother?"
"Why would you kill my boyfriend?"
Sera opened her mouth.
Nehra didn't let her finish.
"You don't get to justify this."
Her voice dropped.
"You should be dead."
Sera stepped forward.
"Nehra, please. You're not thinking—"
The gun was already in her hand.
The same gun.
Given by the man who destroyed her.
Marketed as protection.
The silencer worked.
Sera fell without resistance.
No last words.
No explanation.
Just impact.
Nehra cleaned the apartment.
Not expertly — just enough.
She locked the door from the inside.
By morning, she was at her family home.
"I wasn't there," she said.
The truth sounded believable when spoken calmly.
After the funeral, Nehra returned to the apartment to pack.
She avoided the blood-stained floor.
Inside a small childhood toy — something Sera had gifted her once — she found a folded letter.
She almost threw it away.
Instead, she opened it.
"Nehra,
If you're reading this, I couldn't tell you in person.
The man you loved harmed you.
My brother committed an unforgivable act.
I did not spare him.
Your case is over.
All of them received the death sentence.
Justice was served.
There is a recording on your laptop.
Please watch it.
Be strong.
I love you like my sister."
— Sera
Nehra's hands slipped from the paper.
She opened her laptop.
She watched the video.
She heard the confession.
She heard his voice.
And something inside her collapsed so completely it did not even hurt anymore.
She sat on the floor until the sky changed color.
She did not scream.
She did not beg.
She understood.
She had killed the only person who chose justice over blood.
Who chose her over everything.
Sera had won.
And Sera had paid for it with her life.
Years later, Nehra still visits the grave.
She kneels.
She apologizes.
She receives no answer.
Some people survive violence.
Some survive guilt.
And some are punished by living long enough to understand.
Sera did not die in the courtroom.
She died after winning.
And the justice she delivered
is the reason no one ever saves Nehra from herself.
"She gave justice to everyone—except herself."