Yantra Protocol
Copyright© 2025 by Tantrayaan
37: The Weight of Tomorrow
Mythology Sex Story: 37: The Weight of Tomorrow - Bharath moves from Chennai to Calcutta to join Heritage City - one of India’s top football clubs - with dreams of becoming a professional footballer. But after rescuing a mysterious man from a robbery, he finds himself drawn into a hidden world of vivid dreams, powerful women, and ancient forces beyond his understanding. As his journey on the pitch grows more intense, so does the pull of something deeper - a path shaped by desire, danger, and a power that is only just beginning to reveal it
Caution: This Mythology Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Mult Consensual Mind Control Romantic BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction Crime Sports Alternate History Paranormal Magic Sharing Group Sex Harem Polygamy/Polyamory Indian Male Indian Female Anal Sex Exhibitionism First Oral Sex Safe Sex Squirting Tit-Fucking Indian Erotica
10 September 2000
PI War Room
The fan ticked as it turned, one nick on its blade made a tiny scrape each revolution, and the sound somehow cut through the babble from the street below. Inside, the teak table looked like its own little city: photocopied maps overlapping, two walkies, a stainless flask sweating rings onto a stack of invoices, a red-lidded box of Parle-G biscuits that kept running out.
Khan stood by the board with a marker uncapped in his fist. Satyu was bent over the floor map, forearm braced, red pen hovering. Priya’s chair was the only one pushed back from the table, as if she needed a few inches of air. She had two notebooks open-one full of clean timings and routes, the other messy with fragments: quiet voice first, no uniforms in the flat, wet towels, rice, lemonade.
“Again,” Khan said, not looking away from the board. “What’s our window for the extraction?”
“The front guard usually takes a break for about fifteen minutes at 11pm,” Priya answered. “Rear guard takes a beedi break by the kitchen drain at about 11:15. He’s gone for about ten minutes, sometimes 15 if he’s talking. The cook is washing up then. That’s our window. We need to get into position when the front guard is taking a break and then move in when the rear guard takes a break. We have about seven minutes to execute.”
“That should give us about seven minutes to make use of the front guard’s break,” Meher said. “I’ve had worse.”
“First team up,” Satyu murmured, tracing with his pen. “Second team covers in case anything goes wrong with the entry. The first team uses the recorder on entry for the approach. We don’t scare anyone.”
“Recorder?” Khan asked.
Priya slid the small device across. “They know my voice. I say who sent you. I say where they left the lipstick message. No one but them and me knows that mirror. It anchors them fast.”
Khan clicked the play button. Her voice filled the room-quieter and rougher than usual as she spoke in Bengali.
“This is Priya didi. Follow these people. I sent them. You told me, in the note, behind the shop shelf, that everything was falling apart. This is your way out. Please. Come with them. They will take you to safety.”
When the recording ended, no one spoke. Outside, a cycle bell chimed twice.
“That should help. Hearing a known voice should make them trust us,” Meher said, as if stating a law of physics.
“I don’t know. They are smart girls that know how to look after themselves. They will obviously be a little wary. They’ll hesitate first,” Priya replied. “Then they’ll move.”
Khan capped the marker, finally looking away from the board. “All right. We need two vans. One looks like a school run, one looks like a catering drop. We have fake plates not traceable to us. Half the girls will be in the first van and the rest in the second van. We carry non-lethal weapons, and we pray we never have to use them.”
“We leave no broken latches,” Meher added. It must look like somebody inside opened the door. The success of this entire operation is to make it look like an inside job. Even if things get heavy we have to ensure that it looks like there has been no struggle.”
“We will help that narrative along with some props,” Satyu said. “We have a burner phone that will be planted under a mattress of the guard’s quarters. Bengali texts to a fake contact-something like - ‘Tomorrow, 11 PM, back door.’ We should also have some missed calls from a local number to the phone in the phone log at earlier times to make it look like someone has been coordinating this.”
Khan lifted an eyebrow. “You’ve done this before.”
“I’ve watched it work before,” he said. “Paranoia runs faster than we do. This will keep the heat off us as they turn their world inside out first.”
Priya nodded, but her jaw had tightened. “They’ll question and punish someone. Good. They will deserve it.”
“They already are doing so. Bansal’s disappearance and Rekha’s madness has caused a lot of ripples. We should use this chaos to get the girls out and bring an end to the operation,” Meher said, too gently for it to be a correction.
“We can’t be sure of that,” reminded Khan. “We are making a lot of assumptions there. Still, this looks like the best plan for now.”
The room breathed out together. There wasn’t a right move here; there was only the least-wrong one.
“Okay,” Khan said. “Extraction is 11 September. We move into final position during the front guard’s break at 11:00 PM. The execution window opens at 11:15, when the rear guard leaves for his beedi. That’s when we go in. The whole operation, from entry to exfil, needs to be under twelve minutes. We get the girls before either guard returns to raise the alarm.”
He paused, his gaze sweeping the room. “Once it’s only the guards left, we’ll use sleeping gas grenades. Non-lethal, fast-acting. It neutralizes anyone inside without a mark on them. No bruises, no broken bones. When the Syndicate finds their guards snoring and the girls gone, they won’t think ‘attack.’ They’ll think ‘betrayal.’ It makes our planted evidence,” he nodded at Satyu, “that much more believable.”
“And after that,” Priya said, her voice cutting through the tactical discussion, “we do not just dump them in a room and pat ourselves on the back. We do this properly.”
Khan’s mouth twitched. “You mean the part where we turn into social workers.”
“I mean the part where they don’t feel like they’ve been shunted from one cage to a quieter one. The safehouse is set. The one in Rashbehari will work. It already has everything set up. Clean sheets. Food. They need to see people helping them escape, not make them think that they are just getting transferred to another facility by a rival gang.”
Meher glanced at the names she’d written on the board under Recovery Room: Anya, Kim, Celina (as ‘Sara Khanna’). “We should talk about this,” she said. “Khan sir, what do you think about these girls being involved with this?”
“I’m already against this,” Khan said, but there was no bite in it. “Priya, I respect them. They helped you before we stepped in, I know. But I’m not bringing three civilians into an operation.”
“Not into the op,” Priya said. “Into the soft landing. They wait at the flat. We bring the girls to them. That’s it.”
“Still a risk,” Khan said. “If panic breaks...”
“Then they will see three faces that look like theirs,” she said. “Kim with a calm voice. Anya with the big sister energy. And Celina...” Priya paused, then gave them the name like an offering. “Celina goes in as Sara Khanna. New name, no baggage. She’s lived it - like me. She can read the room in ways none of us can.”
Meher’s pen stopped. “She’s ready?”
“Yes,” Priya said simply.
Khan wasn’t convinced, but his tone softened. “I’m not worried about their intentions. I’m worried about mine. If something goes sideways, my instinct will be to protect the three of them first. I can’t split focus.”
“Then don’t,” Priya said. “They won’t be with you. They’ll be many kilometers away, away from all the action. They will be invaluable to us though after the extraction.”
The room eased by a notch. Satyu nodded once, like he’d been waiting for that line.
“I agree with Priya,” he said. “Let them own the arrival. We’ll own the extraction.”
Khan braced both hands on the table. “There’s still the other part.”
“What other part?” Priya asked, though she knew.
“The part where we ask what happens on day two,” Khan said. He looked tired when he said it. Not from work; from knowing how many day-twos he’d watched collapse. “Where do the girls go? Who pays? Who withstands the noise when Syndicate people come whispering in the landlord’s ear? We can’t pull six out and then ... just figure it out.”
Priya’s chin lifted. “That’s why I called this meeting early.”
She flipped open the clean notebook. The neat columns were a giveaway - Priya only wrote like that when her heart was racing.
“Money is no object from now on. We already have two crores confirmed,” she said. “From last night. Amma and appa did it. We have real money behind this now. Not pledges on napkins - the bank transfers have already started. Plus partnerships. We have three halfway homes outside Calcutta, skills training lines in textiles, office work, and one clinic willing to do initial checks quietly. Appa is lining up a lawyer to create the trust this week. We have money, we have roofs, we have work tracks.”
There was a silence as everyone absorbed this information. It was insane. Then Meher laughed once, sharp with relief. She covered her face with her hand like the laugh embarrassed her.
Khan didn’t laugh. He just sat down, which somehow said more. “You’re serious.”
“Amma told us today on the phone,” Priya said. Her voice warmed, despite herself. “She sounded like ... like a general at the end of a good war. People didn’t need much. A story. A path. They gave.”
“They’ll keep giving,” Meher said quietly.
Priya nodded. “Appa said that we should have more donors this week. Two NRIs already asked about sponsoring homes. It’s moving. We have a real shot at really rescuing these girls and giving them a future.”
Khan looked at the board again, at the little circles and arrows that so often ended in a cul-de-sac. He let out a breath that made his cheeks puff a little.
“You realize what this does to the room,” he said. “We’ve always done rescue with a question mark after it. You just ... erased the question mark.”
“For these six,” Priya said. “And the next. And the next.” She glanced at the map. “But tomorrow, let’s start with six.”
A muscle moved in Khan’s jaw. He uncapped the marker again and wrote across the top of the board in big block letters: AFTERCARE = FUNDED. He underlined it twice.
“Okay,” he said. “Tomorrow we move.”
The fan clicked around once, twice. The room did that strange thing rooms do when something big finally lands-it relaxed, and at the same time, everyone sat up straighter.
“Admin,” Meher said, slipping back into the groove. “Vans are booked. One labeled ‘Anand Biryani Works,’ one ‘Shishu Vidyalaya.’ Fake driver numbers tested. Plate flips loaded.”
“Comms?” Khan asked.
“Short-burst only,” Meher said. “No chatter. Call signs on paper. We burn them after.”
“Tail teams on the four other houses?” Priya said.
“Already in rotation,” Meher replied. “They’ll shadow quietly. If the Syndicate moves girls after Bankra spooks, we mark where and when. We’ll be using long-lens photography, burner logs. Hema sir said if we bring a clean case, he can forward this to the CBI. We bypass the local rats.”
“Good,” Khan said. “If we’re lucky, they consolidate and we get a bigger bite.”
“Lucky,” Meher snorted. “Nice word for it.”
For a few beats, they worked in that quick shorthand that comes when everyone has a job and none of it is theoretical anymore. Tape labels were scrawled. A list of groceries went into the margins-curd, bananas, rice, haldi, Dettol, sanitary pads, paracetamol. The kinds of items that could rebuild a life if you gave them names like care instead of supplies.
“Anything else?” Khan asked, capping his marker for good. When no one brought anything up he stood, palms flat on the table. “We meet back here at five tomorrow. Eat something green between now and then. That’s an order.”
“Does tea count as something green?” Satyu asked, deadpan.
“If you add mint,” Khan said, and that got the first real smile out of everyone.
They started to break. Radios went into pockets. The board got one last photo with a disposable camera; Meher liked to keep a paper trail no one else could find.
Priya closed her clean notebook, left the messy one open, and walked to the window. Calcutta was doing its late-afternoon thing: wet light, piping vendors, a chorus of crows that sounded older than the tramlines.
“Would you like to take a walk?” Satyu asked, suddenly beside her. He said it like a suggestion for air, not company.
“I should check the clinic list with Ritu,” she said, but she didn’t move. “Two minutes.”
They ended up in the corridor instead, leaning against opposite walls, each pretending to be more interested in the peeling paint than the other. Inside the room, Khan and Meher’s voices settled into a low murmur.
“You didn’t say ‘no’ to Celina,” Priya said.
“Didn’t need to,” he replied. “You were going to say ‘yes’ for both of us.”
It was a tease, but it landed somewhere else. Priya’s mouth softened. “She’ll use the name Sara. It may not be necessary but perhaps it would be safer.”
“Think she’s ready?” he asked, and there was a kind of caution in the question that wasn’t tactical.
“I think she’s angry in the right direction,” Priya said. “And she’ll be with Kim and Anya.”
“Bharath?” he asked.
“Doesn’t know the details yet,” Priya admitted. “He’ll try to stand in front of the world for them. He can’t stand in a corridor tomorrow. He plays Saturday. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. It’s better not to distract him.”
“Won’t he listen to the girls if they want to be included in this?”
“He listens when it matters,” she said, then smiled. “After he argues for twenty minutes. But he will be an idiot about this. He won’t let the girls do this. He needs to learn that they are capable of making their own decisions.”
They stood there with the kind of quiet that comes with shared exhaustion. Someone on the street tried to sell a radio by turning it up to full volume-Lata’s voice drifted up, ribboning through static.
“You said two crores like you were reading a shopping list,” Satyu said at last.
“If I let myself feel it,” she replied, “I’ll start crying when I realize what a godsend that money is going to be for the girls. I can’t believe that this all stared out with an impossible plan on a rainy night in Bharaths’ tiny apartment ... and now we have a team to really make this succeed!”
Satyu patted her on the back, his voice warm and full of admiration. “You’re amazing, Priya. I am so happy for you.”
“I learned from the best,” she shot back, but her eyes had gone softer. The corridor light wasn’t flattering, but it made a small halo at the edges of his hair. It was a ridiculous thing to notice. She noticed anyway.
“You should sleep,” he said, which was their ritual, the gentlest way they knew to say I’m worried about you without making it heavy.
“You too,” she said, which was how she said Stay alive.
He took a step, then another, until there was only an arm’s length between them. He didn’t touch her. He never did when their minds were carrying sharp tools. But his voice lowered in a way that felt like a hand over raw wire.
“Tomorrow,” he said, “when they get out and the quiet hits them-you stand in the doorway first.”
“I will,” she said. “They’ll expect a price. I’ll teach them about free.”
Something flickered across his face-pride, maybe, or the kind of tenderness a man has to tuck behind his teeth if he wants to finish the job.
“Don’t disappear,” he said, almost smiling.
“Only if someone locks the door,” she replied.
He nodded, started to turn, then stopped when she said his name, not like a test, but like a touch.
“Satyu.”
He looked back.
“Thank you,” she said. It was small and complete.
He answered with a look that said he knew exactly how much weight lived inside two words, then slid back into the room before he did something stupid like stay.
Priya inhaled. The corridor carried the smell of dust and a neighbor’s cooking-fried fish, mustard oil. She closed her eyes for a moment and listened to Calcutta breathe. Then she went back to the table, circled 8:00 PM on the board once more, and underlined AFTERCARE = FUNDED like a promise.
“Tomorrow,” she said to the empty room, and the fan clicked its answer.
Ballygunge Apartment
Later that afternoon, the door sighed shut behind Priya, the bolt sliding home with a soft, final thud. She leaned against the wood for a moment, the coolness seeping through her shirt, a brief antidote to the feverish heat of the planning room still burning behind her eyes. The apartment air was a welcome tapestry of familiar scents: the earthy, clean smell of vetiver from the agarbatti smoldering in a dish, clinging to the hallway, and beneath it all, the sweet, comforting aroma of haldi-doodh.
A soft clink from the kitchen. Celina appeared in the doorway, a chipped blue mug in each hand. Her eyes, sharp and perceptive, scanned Priya’s face in a single, comprehensive glance. She didn’t ask if Priya was okay; the question was redundant. Instead, she set one mug down on the side table and moved forward, her hands already reaching for the worn leather satchel slung over Priya’s shoulder.
“Let me,” she murmured, her voice a low, steady hum. Her fingers brushed Priya’s as she took the weight, and the simple, human contact was a small anchor in the swirling current of the day.
From the living room, Kim uncurled herself from a nest of cushions on the divan. She’d been sketching, a charcoal pencil still tucked behind her ear, leaving a smudge of grey on her temple. “We saved you a cup,” she said, patting the faded floral cushion beside her. “And before you say you’re not hungry...” She gestured to the low wooden table, where a plate of Tiger biscuits sat, meticulously arranged in a star pattern.
Anya padded in from the kitchen, barefoot and silent, adding a small bowl of roasted peanuts to the offering. “You look like you’ve been wrestling with demons in a back alley, Priya,” she said, her voice a warm, gravelly comfort.
A weak, grateful smile touched Priya’s lips. She let Celina guide her to the divan, sinking into the cushions with a groan that was part exhaustion, part relief. The room seemed to contract around her, the three girls drawing in closer, a constellation of concern and quiet strength. Kim tucked her feet underneath herself, leaning into Priya’s side. Anya perched on the armrest, her hand coming to rest on Priya’s shoulder, a solid, grounding weight. Celina settled on the floor, cross-legged, her back against Priya’s knees, completing the circle.
For a long moment, no one spoke. The only sounds were the distant, rhythmic bleating of a taxi horn and the gentle slurp as Priya took a sip of the warm, golden milk. It was Kim who finally broke the silence, her voice barely a whisper. “So? What’s the plan, didi (elder sister)?”
And so, Priya told them.
She didn’t use the whiteboard jargon of the war room. She painted the picture with broader, grittier strokes. She spoke of a nondescript house in Bankra, its paint peeling like sunburnt skin. She described the guards - not as tactical obstacles, but as men with habits, vulnerabilities, a craving for a beedi break that could be a lifeline. Her voice dropped when she mentioned the girls inside, not as targets for extraction, but as shadows behind grimy windows, their lives measured in hushed voices and stolen moments.
She explained the burners, the fake plates, the vans disguised as a school run and a biryani delivery - the mundane theatre of their dangerous play. And finally, her voice growing thick, she laid out her own part. “Once they’re out ... I go dark with them. The safehouse in Rashbehari. A week, maybe more. I’ll be their first port. I have to be.”
Anya’s hand tightened on her shoulder. “They’ll need you,” she said, her voice firm. “A familiar face in the storm.”
“We’ll miss you,” Kim added, her head finding a comfortable spot on Priya’s arm. “Like a limb.”
Celina, from her spot on the floor, tilted her head back to look up at Priya. “You’ll do this right,” she stated, with a conviction that brooked no argument. “You always find a way.”
But as the words settled, Priya felt a shift in the room’s atmosphere. It was a subtle current, a change in pressure. They were listening, yes, but it was more than that. They were ... resonating. She blinked, her senses sharpening, and saw it. Kim’s hand wasn’t just resting on her arm; it was a point of contact, a transfer of silent strength. Anya’s cheek was now pressed against her shoulder, their breathing beginning to sync. Celina’s fingers had stopped their idle tracing and were now a firm, steady pressure on her spine, a human grounding wire.
They were moving in tandem, a single organism reacting to a shared frequency. It was unnerving and beautiful.
Priya exhaled slowly, the air leaving her lungs in a soft rush. “You’re ... glowing.”
Kim let out a short, surprised laugh. “Don’t be dramatic, Priya. It’s the lamp.”
“No,” Priya insisted, her gaze sweeping over each of them. It wasn’t a literal light, but a vibrancy, an intensity that seemed to emanate from their very cores. “It’s like ... something inside all of you got switched on. Brighter. Sharper.”
Anya smirked, a flash of white in the dim room. “We had a big night. Made some decisions.”
Celina winked, a glint of playful steel in her eyes. “Big everything.”
The shared laughter that followed was different from before. It wasn’t just a release of tension; it was a harmony, a single note struck from four different instruments, humming in the air between them, tangible and alive. It was a golden thread, spun from shared fear, fierce love, and a dawning, unspoken resolve. None of them could name it yet, but it was there, wrapping around them, pulling them tighter.
It was this new, potent energy that gave Priya the courage to voice the dangerous thought that had been circling in the back of her mind since the war room. “Khan ... he doesn’t want you involved. Not even at the safehouse. He thinks it’s a risk.”
The air in the room didn’t freeze; it crackled.
“Involved?” Anya asked, her voice dangerously calm.
“The safehouse,” Priya clarified, her gaze steady on Celina. “I proposed it. That you three be the first faces the rescued girls see. Not us. Not operatives. You. Kim with her calm, Anya with that big-sister energy that could talk a tiger out of its stripes...” She paused, her eyes locking with Celina’s. “And you. You’d go in as Sara Khanna.”
Celina held her gaze, her expression unreadable for a long moment. Then, a slow, determined smile spread across her face. “Sara Khanna,” she repeated, tasting the name. “I like her.”
“Bharath will have a conniption,” Kim said, but there was a spark of excitement in her eyes. “He’ll puff up like an angry rooster when he finds out that we are going to be helping with the girls.”
“He can’t stand in a corridor tomorrow,” Priya said, a reluctant smile touching her own lips. “He has a practice match on Saturday. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. It’s better not to distract him with worry.”
“He’ll be furious when he finds out,” Anya pointed out, though she didn’t sound concerned.
“He’ll listen when it matters,” Priya replied. “After he argues for a solid twenty minutes about safety and responsibility and how we’re all impossible.” Her smile widened. “But he needs to learn that we are capable of making our own choices. That our safety isn’t a cage he gets to lock.”
“Is it a choice, though?” Kim asked, her voice soft but serious. “If you need us ... truly need us ... then it’s not really a choice, is it? It’s just what you do.”
Priya looked at them - at Kim’s quiet resolve, Anya’s protective fire, Celina’s hardened, street-smart wisdom. She thought of the six terrified girls who would be ripped from one nightmare and delivered into a strange, quiet room. They would see uniforms, they would see Khan’s grim efficiency, they would see Satyu’s silent intensity. They would be waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the price of their freedom to be named.
But if they saw these three ... women who looked like them, who carried their own scars but hadn’t been broken by them ... it could make all the difference.
“Having more women there ... it would help,” Priya admitted, the words feeling like both a surrender and a triumph. “It would send a message. That this isn’t just a transfer from one master to another. That the cage is truly open.”
The silence that followed was heavy with understanding. The playful energy had solidified into something steely, something operational.
“Okay,” Celina said, the word a simple, unshakeable vow.
“Okay,” Anya echoed.
Kim just nodded, her hand finding Priya’s and squeezing once.
The golden thread was no longer just a feeling; it was a tether. It was a plan. And for the first time that night, Priya felt the weight on her shoulders lighten, not because it was gone, but because it was now being shared by four pairs of shoulders, all strong, all willing, all glowing in the dim, gritty light of the Calcutta night.
The door clicked open, its familiar groan announcing Bharath’s return. He shuffled in, a bag of oranges dangling from one hand while the other rubbed a sore spot on his shoulder. His curls were damp with sweat, his face flushed from a long session at the gym.
He stopped just inside the doorway. The three of them were curled on the couch like a pile of contented cats, wrapped in a single, large blanket. Priya sat at one end, her feet tucked up, sipping slowly from a mug. The room was bathed in the soft glow of a single lamp, and for a second, everything seemed normal. But then he felt it - a charge in the air, a silent, shared secret that hung between them like static.
“Hey,” Kim said, her voice warm but carrying a note of deliberate brightness. “You made it.”
He grinned, dropping his gym bag by the door. “In one piece. Mostly.”
Celina unfolded herself from the blanket and padded over, taking the bag of oranges from him. Her eyes crinkled with amusement. “You look like you got run over by a very determined rickshaw.”
“Feels like it,” he admitted with a wince. “But I held my own.”
Before he could say another word, Anya reached out, hooked a hand around his arm, and pulled him down onto the couch amidst them. He landed with a soft oomph, immediately enveloped in a wave of warmth and the soft fabric of the blanket. Kim rearranged herself to lean against his other side, and Celina reclaimed her spot, tucking her feet under his thigh.
“Well, this is a better welcome than I expected,” he chuckled, an arm instinctively wrapping around Anya.
Priya watched them over the rim of her mug, a faint, tired smile on her face. “In most households, the welcome committee is at least wearing separate outfits.”
“This is more efficient,” Anya mumbled, her voice muffled against his shirt.
The sudden, shrill ring of the landline made them all jump. Bharath groaned, letting his head fall back against the cushions. “Please tell me that’s not the studio. Or Khan. My body can’t handle another ‘strategy session’ tonight.”
Kim leaned over to check the caller ID. “It’s Chennai. Your parents.”
Priya reached across and picked up the corded phone. “Appa?”
Her father’s calm, measured voice came through the speaker. “Priya? Is everyone there?”
“We’re all here,” she said, settling back into the cushions. “Languishing on the couch, but present.”
“Good,” Hema said. A smile was audible in his voice. “Sounds like a successful debrief.”
In the background, Sree’s voice chimed in. “Is Bharath breathing? Tell him he sounds winded. Is he overtraining again?”
Bharath leaned toward the receiver. “I’m fine, Amma. Just tired. I trained, I didn’t ascend to a higher plane of existence.”
Sree made a fond, tutting sound. “As long as you’re eating properly and getting more sleep than a stray dog. You are not a temple, kanna, you are a person who needs rest.”
“I’ll rest,” he promised, earning a soft, collective squeeze from the girls surrounding him.
“Back to business,” Hema interjected gently. “Sree, give them the update.”
Sree’s tone shifted into her efficient, ‘getting-things-done’ voice. “The Women’s Fund is officially taking shape. We have three solid donors already committed to monthly support. I’m making calls to a few industrialist families - they like putting their names on buildings, so we might get a proper shelter funded. We’ll keep the press low-key. No photos of the girls, just facts and figures.”
“That’s perfect,” Priya said, her eyes meeting Celina’s across the couch. “By the time you’re ready to go public, we should have our first group safe and settled. Hopefully more on the way.”
“Speaking of which,” Hema added, “if we want the CBI to take us seriously, we need a clean, evidence-based case. Not just survivor testimony.”
“We’re on it,” Priya confirmed. “The PI team has a plan to track the syndicate’s movements after the rescue. We’ll map their entire network. I want to hand the authorities a case they can’t ignore.”
“Smart. I’ll make a quiet call to a former colleague in the Home Ministry. See if he can open a discreet channel to the trafficking wing.”
“Discretion is the key,” Priya agreed.