The file did not exist.
At least, that was what the registry clerk insisted.
Aarav stood at the counter, watching the man flip through registers that were older than both of them combined. Dust clung to the pages like stubborn memory.
"There is no such record," the clerk said again. "Case number ends at Section 302. Nothing beyond that."
Aarav leaned closer. "I am not asking for a section of law," he said calmly. "I am asking for a section of silence."
The clerk frowned. "Sir?"
Aarav slid a photocopy across the counter. It was a torn remand order from twelve years ago. At the bottom, barely visible, was a handwritten note:
Processed under Section 0.
The clerk's fingers froze.
"I need the original file," Aarav said.
The clerk pushed the paper back as if it burned. "This note… it is not official."
"Then it should not exist at all," Aarav replied.
That afternoon, Aarav met Ravi in the library basement.
"Section Zero?" Ravi whispered. "There is no such thing."
"Exactly," Aarav said.
They spread files across a long wooden table. Every case had something missing—
a witness statement,
a forensic report,
a hearing date that jumped six months without explanation.
"All undertrials," Ravi said slowly. "No convictions. No acquittals."
"Only waiting," Aarav replied.
He pointed to a pattern. "Same police station. Same public prosecutor. Same judge, transferred three years ago."
Ravi looked up. "Transferred where?"
Aarav didn't answer immediately.
The retired judge lived alone.
His house was neat, almost sterile, as if disorder itself was forbidden. He listened quietly as Aarav explained the case.
"Section Zero," the judge repeated, tasting the words.
He smiled without humor. "It was never written law."
"Then what was it?" Aarav asked.
The judge leaned back. "An understanding."
"Between whom?"
"Between the system and its fear."
The judge explained slowly. Certain cases were… inconvenient. No clean evidence, powerful interests involved, too much noise either way.
"So they were delayed," Aarav said.
"Indefinitely," the judge corrected. "No verdict means no responsibility."
Aarav's jaw tightened. "People lost their lives waiting."
The judge nodded once. "Yes."
That night, Aarav reviewed the accused's jail records again.
Twelve years.
No misconduct.
No parole.
No urgency.
Just existence.
His phone rang.
Unknown number.
"You are reading files meant to remain closed," a voice said.
Aarav replied evenly, "Closed files don't bleed."
Silence on the line.
Then: "Withdraw."
Aarav ended the call.
The next morning, the prosecution submitted a sudden application.
Request for fast-track disposal.
Ravi stared at the paper. "They ignored this case for twelve years. Now they want it finished in weeks?"
Aarav nodded. "Section Zero works both ways."
"How?"
"When silence fails," Aarav said, "speed becomes the weapon."
He looked toward the courtroom.
"They don't want justice. They want closure."
In the holding cell, the accused asked quietly, "Is something happening, sahib?"
Aarav met his eyes. "Yes."
"Good or bad?"
Aarav paused. "Dangerous."
The man smiled faintly. "After twelve years, I can live with dangerous."
As Aarav walked out of court, journalists had gathered.
One question cut through the noise.
"Mr. Mehta, do you believe this case was deliberately delayed?"
Aarav answered without hesitation. "Yes."
Cameras flashed.
Section Zero was no longer hidden.
And the system had noticed.