The headline appeared at 6 AM.
Bharat woke to his phone exploding—notifications flooding in like a digital tsunami.
He grabbed it.
Screen lit up with news alerts:
"TEMPLE HEIR'S FRAUD MARRIAGE: Mira Devi Weds Beggar in Charity Scam?"
"Dying Man Cons Billionaire Heiress - Inside the Wedding That Shocked Mumbai"
"Medical Bills or Gold Digger? The Truth Behind the Proxy Groom"
Photos.
Him. At the wedding. Looking exactly like what he was:
Poor. Desperate. Out of place.
Captions underneath:
"Bharat Rao, 28, unemployed tutor with ₹40 lakh in medical debt""Sources claim he seduced Mira Devi to access temple trust funds""Wedding called 'business transaction' by insiders"
Bharat's stomach turned.
Not from shock.
From recognition.
This was Rajan's move.
Fast. Brutal. Public.
Can't kill you legally?
Destroy your reputation.
Make you untouchable.
Make you disappear socially before you disappear physically.
He scrolled.
More articles:
"EXCLUSIVE: Temple Board Member Accuses 'Proxy Husband' of Blackmail"
Quote from 'anonymous source': "He threatened to fabricate evidence unless we paid him off. This is extortion disguised as marriage."
Bharat's jaw tightened.
Rajan hadn't wasted time.
Twelve hours since the board meeting.
And he'd already bought the narrative.
Painted Bharat as the villain.
The scammer.
The beggar who'd tricked a princess.
His phone rang.
Arjun. His neighbor.
"Bharat—bhai, what the fuck is going on?"
"I'm reading—are these articles real?"
"Did you actually—"
"No."
"Then why—"
"Because someone wants me to look like I did."
Pause.
"You're in trouble."
"I know."
"Like, real trouble. People are talking. Saying you scammed that rich girl. Saying you're a fraud."
Bharat closed his eyes.
"I'll fix it."
"How?"
Good question.
"I don't know yet."
He hung up.
By 9 AM, it was everywhere.
WhatsApp groups. Social media. News channels.
His face plastered across screens like a wanted poster.
"Beggar Groom."
"Medical Debt Con Artist."
"The Man Who Fooled Mumbai's Elite."
Comments section was a warzone:
"Typical poor person mentality. Always looking for handouts.""She should've known better. Charity cases like this always bite back.""He probably killed his own mother for sympathy points lmao"
That last one made Bharat's fist clench hard enough his knuckles went white.
They were talking about his mother.
A woman fighting cancer in a hospice bed.
Like she was a prop.
A narrative device.
Collateral damage in Rajan's PR war.
His phone buzzed.
Mira.
Text:
"Don't respond. Don't defend. Don't engage."
"This is bait. He wants you to look desperate."
"Stay quiet."
Bharat stared at the message.
Stay quiet.
Let them say whatever they wanted.
Let them destroy him.
While his mother's name stayed on a list.
While Rajan walked free.
While the Harvest Day clock ticked down.
No.
Fuck that.
If they wanted a story—
He'd give them one.
Just not the one they expected.
He opened a burner email account.
Sent a message to three journalists:
Independent. Small outlets. The kind that actually investigated instead of just copy-pasting press releases.
Subject: "Re: Mira Devi Wedding Scandal - The Real Story"
Body:
You're being fed a narrative. Ask yourselves:
Why did a billionaire heiress marry a "beggar" in a private temple ceremony? Why was the wedding attended only by board members—no family, no friends? What is "Harvest Day"?
I have documents. Recordings. Evidence of financial crimes tied to that temple.
But more importantly—
I have names.
Twelve of them.
Women. Young. Poor. Terminal illnesses.
All scheduled to "die" on the same night.
New Moon. Twenty-five days from now.
You want a scandal?
Forget the beggar groom.
Ask about the brides they're planning to bury.
He attached:
Partial audio clip (Rajan's voice: "Put her name down. Backup candidate. Harvest Day.")Redacted image of the ledger (names visible, amounts blurred)Photo of the hidden cash box
Sent.
Then waited.
By noon, the first article dropped.
Small outlet. Independent news blog.
Headline:
"Behind the 'Beggar Groom' Story: Questions About Temple Trust's 'Harvest' Rituals"
Excerpt:
While mainstream media focuses on Bharat Rao's financial status, overlooked questions emerge about the temple itself. Why does a religious institution maintain offshore accounts? What is the "Harvest Day" mentioned in leaked audio? And why are young women with terminal illnesses allegedly on a "candidate list"?
This reporter attempted to contact temple trustees for comment. None responded.
It wasn't much.
But it was a crack.
A hairline fracture in Rajan's narrative.
And Bharat intended to split it wide open.
By 3 PM, social media caught fire.
The phrase "Harvest Day" started trending.
People asking questions:
"What is Harvest Day? Why won't the temple explain?""If Bharat's lying, why not sue him? Why just smear him?""Who are the 12 women on the list? Families deserve answers."
Conspiracy theories bloomed:
Organ harvesting ringHuman traffickingOccult ritualsInsurance fraud scheme
Most were wrong.
But they were asking.
And that was enough.
Because once people started asking—
They didn't stop.
Rajan's counter-move came at 5 PM.
Press conference. Live-streamed.
Rajan stood at a podium—expensive suit, calm expression, every inch the respectable businessman.
"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming."
"Recent allegations against our temple trust are baseless and defamatory."
"Mr. Bharat Rao—a man we charitably assisted through his wife's generosity—has chosen to repay that kindness with lies."
"The audio he released? Taken out of context. Edited. A private conversation about philanthropic efforts twisted into scandal."
"The 'Harvest Day' he references? A charity event. Annual fundraiser for terminal patients. Nothing sinister."
"As for the alleged 'list'—these are patients we sponsor. Medical aid recipients. Not victims."
Pause.
Smile.
"We're saddened that desperation has driven Mr. Rao to such lengths."
"We will not be pressing charges."
"We ask only that the public see this for what it is: a troubled man lashing out."
"Thank you."
He walked off.
Smooth. Polished. Believable.
Bharat watched the stream on his phone.
Hands shaking.
Not from fear.
From rage.
Rajan had just—
What?
Flipped it.
Made himself the victim.
Made Bharat the villain.
Made the whole thing look like a charity gone wrong.
And the worst part?
It was working.
Comments flooded in:
"See? I knew he was lying.""Poor Rajan. Helps a dying man and gets accused of murder.""Bharat should be arrested for defamation."
Bharat stared at the screen.
At the narrative shifting.
At Rajan winning.
Again.
His phone buzzed.
System:
"ANALYSIS: Public opinion turning against you."
"Current approval rating: 23%."
"Rajan's: 71%."
"Recommendation: Release more evidence or retreat."
"Survival probability if you escalate: 41%."
"Survival probability if you surrender: 12%."
"Choose wisely, proxy."
Bharat closed his eyes.
Thought.
Rajan had the media.
The money.
The narrative.
But Bharat had something Rajan didn't.
The truth.
And desperation.
And absolutely nothing left to lose.
He opened his eyes.
Made a video.
Phone camera. Shaky. Raw.
No script.
Just him.
Standing in his shitty apartment.
Mother's medical machines beeping in the background.
"My name is Bharat Rao."
"And everything Rajan Malhotra just said is a lie."
Pause.
"Not a clever lie. Not a half-truth."
"A lie designed to bury twelve women."
"One of them is my mother."
Deep breath.
"I'm not asking you to believe me."
"I'm asking you to ask questions."
"Why does a 'charity event' need offshore accounts?"
"Why are 'medical aid recipients' on a list labeled 'Harvest Candidates'?"
"Why does a temple have ₹20 lakh in cash hidden in a statue?"
Pause.
"Rajan says I'm desperate."
"He's right."
"I'm twenty-five days from losing my mother."
"And I just found out her death is scheduled."
"Planned."
"Profitable."
"So yeah."
"I'm desperate."
"But I'm not lying."
He held up a document.
The ledger page. His mother's name visible.
"This is real."
"And if you don't believe me—"
Pause.
"Wait twenty-five days."
"See if twelve women die on the same night."
"Then ask yourself:"
"Coincidence?"
"Or harvest?"
He stopped recording.
Uploaded it.
Raw. Unedited. Desperate.
Hit post.
The video went viral in two hours.
Not because it was polished.
Because it was real.
Because Bharat looked like what he was:
A man with nothing left to lose.
Fighting for his mother.
Against a system that treated lives like commodities.
Comments shifted:
"If he's lying, why risk defamation charges?""That ledger looks real. Someone should investigate.""I lost my sister to 'sudden illness' after she visited that temple..."
The cracks widened.
People sharing stories.
Patterns emerging.
Women. Poor. Terminal diagnoses.
Dying around New Moon dates.
Families never asking questions because—
Why would they?
Death was expected.
Just not scheduled.
By 9 PM, Bharat's phone was ringing nonstop.
Journalists. Activists. Families of past "Harvest" victims.
He answered none of them.
Just sat in his apartment.
Watching the narrative war unfold.
Watching Rajan's clean story get messy.
Watching the truth—
Ugly, incomplete, desperate—
Start to win.
His phone buzzed.
Mira:
"You just painted a target on your back."
"Rajan can't let this spread."
"He'll move against you. Tonight."
"Stay inside. Lock the doors. Ayesha's on her way."
Bharat looked at the message.
Then at the window.
City lights sprawling below.
Somewhere out there—
Rajan was planning.
The temple was watching.
And Harvest Day was still coming.
Twenty-five days.
But now—
People knew.
Not everyone.
Not enough.
But some.
And "some" was more than zero.
Which meant—
Maybe—
There was a chance.
At 11 PM, the temple bells rang.
Bharat heard them through the window.
Deep. Resonant. Wrong.
Temple bells didn't ring at night.
Unless—
His phone buzzed.
System:
"WARNING: 'Harvest Energy' spike detected."
"Source: Temple grounds."
"Interpretation: Ritual activity initiated."
"Probability this is a threat display: 94%."
"Translation: They're telling you to shut up."
"Or else."
The bells rang again.
Louder.
Closer.
Like they were inside his head.
Bharat walked to the window.
Looked out.
At the city.
At the distant temple spire.
At the darkness between.
And somewhere in that darkness—
He knew—
They were coming.
Not tonight.
But soon.
Because he'd done the one thing you never do to powerful people:
Made them look weak.
Made them visible.
And visibility—
For predators—
Was death.
The bells stopped.
Silence rushed in.
Heavy. Expectant.
Like the city was holding its breath.
Bharat's phone lit up one last time.
System:
"QUEST UPDATED: Survive the silencing."
"WARNING: Temple has multiple methods of elimination."
"Legal. Illegal. Supernatural."
"Recommendation: Sleep with one eye open."
"Actually, don't sleep."
"Seriously. They're coming."
Bharat looked at the message.
Then at his mother.
Sleeping in the next room.
Machines beeping.
Twenty-five days left.
He'd bought her time.
Bought himself enemies.
Bought a war he couldn't win.
But—
He'd made them bleed.
Made them visible.
Made them afraid.
And fear—
Even in predators—
Was a weapon.
If you knew how to use it.
The bells rang one more time.
Distant.
Final.
Like a countdown ending.
Or beginning.
Bharat closed the window.
Locked it.
Checked the door.
And waited.
For whatever came next.
[END OF CHAPTER 8]