Yantra Protocol
Copyright© 2025 by Tantrayaan
Chapter 38
Mythology Sex Story: Chapter 38 - 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
11 September 2000
Ballygange Apartment
Celina stood before the full-length mirror, her body rigid with a kind of stunned silence. The woman looking back at her was a stranger - pleasant, unassuming, almost plain. She was pretty in a down-to-earth, girl-next-door way, the kind you might see browsing textbooks in a college library or buying groceries with her mother. But she was not Celina.
That wasn’t self-deprecation; it was the entire, agonizing point.
The reflection showed a woman in a simple, pale yellow cotton kurta. The sleeves reached her wrists, brutally efficient, offering no tantalizing slit to hint at the length of her legs. The neckline was a conservative scoop, a fortress wall where once there had been a drawbridge to her spectacular cleavage. Her hair, usually a cascading event, was ruthlessly tamed into a long, tight braid that pulled at the skin of her temples. And the glasses - simple, wire-rimmed things - were the final masterstroke, successfully dimming the electric-silver storm of her eyes into a muted, thoughtful grey. There was no gloss on her lips, no shimmer on her skin, no weapon in her arsenal left un-disarmed.
She looked ... safe. Anonymous. A pretty, unremarkable face in the teeming millions of Kolkata.
“I look like a dowdy aunty,” she finally muttered, her voice thick with dismay. “A very, very dowdy aunty.”
“Good,” Kim said from her perch on the bed, her legs tucked under her as she scribbled on a notepad. Her tone was that of a satisfied engineer. “That’s precisely the aesthetic we’re aiming for. ‘Conspicuously Inconspicuous’.”
“Can I at least wear a better bra?” Celina pleaded, turning slightly. “This one feels like it was designed by a vengeful nun. My chest is staging a full-blown workers’ uprising.”
“The uprising must be suppressed,” Kim said, not looking up from her checklist. “Consider that your personal hotness memory foam. We don’t want anything ... bouncing. Your natural geometry is too perfect. It’s statistically suspicious.”
Celina groaned, dropping her shoulders in defeat. “I never knew the pursuit of averageness required such monastic suffering.”
“It’s a whole discipline,” Kim replied solemnly. “Modesty styling. I mastered it in high school the minute these things decided to stage their own coming-out party.” She gestured vaguely at her own impossibly large yet perky breasts. “It was exasperating. Suddenly, every boy in a five-kilometer radius developed a deep, sudden interest in my personality. This,” she said, pointing her pencil at Celina’s outfit, “is advanced-level camouflage.”
Anya walked in then, holding a sheet of simple red bindis, and froze in the doorway. “Whoa. shona ... you look...”
Celina turned, a flicker of hope in her newly-dimmed eyes. “Whoa good? Or whoa - I-just-broke-your-retina-with-my-dullness?”
Anya walked over slowly, handed her a bindi, and bit her lip, her head tilted. “I could never pull this off. You look like ... a retired teacher who lives with cats. The kind who runs a secret shelter for girls escaping bad marriages and teaches them accounting on the side.”
Celina let out a short, surprised snort. “That’s wildly specific. And does this accounting-teacher-shelter-runner not believe in underwire?”
“I mean it,” Anya insisted, her voice softening. “You don’t look like a model. You look kind. And serious. And strong. Like you have a backbone made of steel and a heart that’s seen too much to be easily impressed.”
Kim stood up now, circling Celina with a critical eye. She reached out and adjusted a stray wisp of hair, tucking it fiercely back into the braid. “She’s right. You look like someone a terrified girl could hand her life to, and know it would be safe. You look trustworthy.”
Celina turned back to the mirror, the plain red bindi a stark contrast against the bland canvas of her appearance. The woman staring back wasn’t the trophy girlfriend of a gangster, or the runaway model from the headlines. She wasn’t the wild child who had screamed and clawed and broken a champagne bottle to escape her cage.
She was someone new.
“Sara Khanna,” she whispered to the reflection. The name felt foreign on her tongue, a key to a new lock. “Altruist. Activist. Resurrected.”
A heavy, significant beat passed in the room.
From the doorway, a dry, familiar voice cut through the moment. “Let’s just hope she’s not ‘arrested’ for threatening to strike. The look is less ‘social worker’ and more ‘undercover cop who’s bad at her job’.”
They all turned. Priya leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, a mug of tea in one hand. She’d been watching, her expression a familiar blend of amusement and razor-sharp observation.
“Thank you for that vote of confidence, Priya,” Celina said, rolling her eyes - a gesture that felt strangely normal in her bizarre new skin.
“I’m just being practical,” Priya said, pushing off the doorframe and walking in. “The point is to blend in, not to win a ‘Most Likely to Start a Quiet Revolution’ award. And from ten feet away, you blend. From five feet, you’re a very pretty woman having a bad fashion day. It’s only up close that the whole ‘steel-hearted saviour’ vibe kicks in. It’ll do.”
“You’re all heart, didi,” Anya said, grinning.
“I’m all realism,” Priya corrected, taking a sip of her tea. “And my realism says that turning a supernova into a pilot light is a tricky business. But you’ve managed it. I’m almost impressed.”
“Almost?” Kim challenged.
“Let’s see if she can walk in those sensible chappals without slouching. The walk is half the battle. You can’t saunter in this getup. You have to ... proceed.”
Anya’s grin widened as she looked back at Celina. “Her make up artists and photographers would be devastated seeing Celina dial back her sexiness this way.”
Kim smirked. “Only if they can find a trace of her. And only if they decide this version is just as hot.”
Priya let out a short, sharp laugh. “Oh, they’ll find her hot. Men are nothing if not predictable. They’ll just feel deeply conflicted and intellectually inferior about it now. It’s a much more satisfying form of power, if you ask me.”
Celina met Priya’s gaze in the mirror, a slow, genuine smile finally touching her lips. It wasn’t the dazzling, camera-ready smile of her old life. It was smaller, quieter, but far more potent. It was the smile of someone who was no longer just a beautiful object, but a strategic asset. She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders - ignoring the protest from the utilitarian bra - and gave a firm, determined nod.
“Okay then,” Sara Khanna said to her friends. “Let’s proceed.”
Presidency College
Celina adjusted her dupatta for what felt like the forty-seventh time, the coarse cotton fabric feeling less like an accessory and more like a personal, passive-aggressive enemy.
“Is it medically possible to suffocate from khadi?” she muttered, her voice a low, dramatic hiss. “I feel like I’m being tenderly asphyxiated by a very patriotic, very determined curtain. I can feel my own star power dimming. My skin is crying out for silk.”
Beside her, Kim was a portrait of unshakeable calm, her focus entirely on a folder of notes titled ‘S.K. - Phase 1 Integration.’ She didn’t glance up. “You’ll live. Breathe through your nose. Think humble thoughts. Visualize a spreadsheet.”
Celina let out a huff that would have, in her previous life, made a photographer sigh with pleasure. “Sara Khanna doesn’t have humble thoughts, Kim. She is humility, incarnate. She probably dreams about responsibly sourced lentils and efficient filing systems. My dreams usually involve a private yacht and a photographer named Jean-Pierre.”
“Then method-act,” Kim deadpanned, flipping a page. “Sara doesn’t pout at strangers who bump her elbow. She doesn’t offer a smoldering, enigmatic smirk to the bus conductor. And she definitely does not wink at chaiwalas who ask if she wants extra sugar.”
Celina crossed her arms, a gesture rendered tragically ineffective by the architectural defiance of her bust against the unforgiving kurta. “That was one time! One single, solitary wink! And the man was so inspired he gave me five glucose biscuits for the price of one. He saw it as an investment in national beauty!”
“He also tried to follow us for two stops while reciting what I’m fairly certain was original poetry,” Kim replied, her tone flat as a week-old soda. “We had to duck into a sari shop and pretend to have a passionate, twenty-minute opinion on mulmul cotton. It was a tactical nightmare.”
They disembarked near the college gates, the grand old sandstone building looming like a stern, academic grandfather. Celina blinked in the sudden assault of the afternoon sun, adjusting the dull brown salwar as if it were a parasitic, shapeless organism that had attached itself to her legs.
Kim paused just inside the gates, grabbing Celina’s elbow with the seriousness of a general before a siege. “Alright. First practical lesson: The Walk. You need to walk like you’re in a hurry to save the Indian Constitution from a grammatical error. Not like you’re floating down a Milanese catwalk on a cloud of your own undeniable fabulousness.”
Celina straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and took one deliberate, purposeful step forward.
It was a catastrophe.
A cluster of three boys nearby, previously engaged in a heated debate about cricket, fell into an immediate and synchronized silence. One of them dropped his textbook. Another slowly, as if in a trance, took off his glasses and cleaned them on his shirt.
Kim let out a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of all human disappointment. “No. Abort. That wasn’t a walk, that was a declaration of war on celibacy. Try again. Less ... innate pelvic rotation. More ... simmering social disillusionment. Think of the tax filing process.”
Gritting her teeth, Celina tried again. This time, she locked her knees and eliminated all hip sway, propelling herself forward with the rigid, jerky gait of a malfunctioning government-issue robot. She looked like she was powered by grievance and weak tea.
“Better!” Kim whispered, a flicker of hope in her eyes. “Now, auxiliary lesson: Eye Contact. You don’t want it. You don’t invite it. The only acceptable reason for prolonged eye contact is if the person in front of you is actively bleeding from a head wound.”
Just then, a passing student with a tragically earnest haircut and a sweater vest did a spectacular double-take, his eyes widening as they landed on Celina. Operating on a lifetime of muscle memory, Celina instinctively raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow and offered a half-smile - a small, friendly, yet utterly devastating flicker of acknowledgment.
THWACK.
Kim’s notepad connected sharply with her arm. “What was that?!” Kim hissed, her eyes wide with panic. “That wasn’t Sara! That was 100%, unadulterated, runway-ready Celina!”
“What?” Celina protested, rubbing her arm. “It was polite! It’s rude to just ignore people!”
“That wasn’t polite, that was the sexy kind of polite! That man didn’t just see a pretty girl; he experienced a brief, life-altering spiritual event! I saw his soul leave his body for a quick cigarette break! You can’t just distribute existential crises on a public street!”
Celina groaned, throwing her hands up in frustration. “Then what is the mystical middle ground? How does one exist in the space between ‘come-hither siren’ and ‘aggressively unpleasant harpy’?”
Kim steered her towards a secluded bench near the administrative wing, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Okay. Listen closely. This is advanced civilian warfare. Sometimes, no matter what you wear, the sheer, inconvenient architecture of your face and body will draw attention. That’s not your fault. That’s biology being inconvenient. But your reaction is everything. It decides whether they walk away vaguely confused or spend the next week writing bad sonnets.”
Celina nodded, her expression one of grave solemnity, as if receiving the nuclear codes.
Kim leaned in. “So, here is the Three-Step ‘Sara Khanna’ Deflection Protocol. Memorize it.”
“Step One: The Acknowledgment. You get the feeling you’re being stared at. You glance. Once. A brief, neutral flick of the eyes. You let them know you have registered their existence, the same way you’d register a mildly interesting lamppost.”
“Step Two: The Dismissal. You look away. Not quickly, like you’re scared. Not shyly, like you’re flattered. You look away like you are done. Like you have just mentally filed them under ‘Not My Problem’ and moved on to more important internal monologues, like whether you remembered to turn off the geyser.”
“And finally,” Kim said, her eyes glinting, “Step Three: The Verbal Takedown. If, after all that, they still approach and speak, you deploy The Line.”
Celina perked up, a spark of excitement in her newly muted eyes. “There’s a line? A specific, pre-approved verbal weapon?”
“There is,” Kim confirmed, looking immensely proud of herself. “You look at them, with just a hint of clinical concern in your eyes, as if they might be displaying early symptoms of a neurological disorder, and you say: ‘I’m sorry, was that meant for me?’”
Celina’s face lit up. She immediately turned to Kim, her body language shifting into a parody of sultry confusion, her voice dropping to a bedroom whisper. “Oh ... I’m sorry ... was that meant for for me?”
Kim recoiled as if splashed with acid. “NO! Hey Bhagwan! NO! You sounded like a film noir vamp asking if he’d like to come up and see your etchings! Less Marilyn Monroe, more ... irritated, menopausal librarian who has just found a book returned with a pickle stain on page 47.”
Chastened, Celina straightened up. She pushed her glasses up her nose, furrowed her brow in a faintly annoyed, preoccupied manner, and delivered the line in a flat, dry, utterly unimpressed tone: “Sorry. Was that meant for me?”
Kim beamed, a wide, triumphant grin. “Perfect! He’ll feel like he accidentally flirted with a particularly severe nun. His own confidence will shrivel up and blow away. It’s beautiful.”
They continued down the corridor, weaving through the river of students. A few heads turned, glanced at the two serious-looking women, and then turned back to their conversations. No stares lingered. No eyes trailed them with undisguised hunger. They were just ... background characters. Part of the scenery.
Celina stopped walking, her mouth slightly agape. She looked at the students who looked right through her. She looked at her sensible chappals. She looked at Kim.
“Kim,” she whispered, her voice filled with a strange, reverent awe. “I think ... I think I’m invisible.”
Kim looked over, a soft, knowing smile on her face. “Welcome to my world darling.”
They pushed through the heavy doors into the hushed sanctuary of the library wing. The air smelled of old paper, ambition, and quiet desperation. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the silence. It was peaceful.
Celina leaned her head against Kim’s shoulder as they walked between the towering bookshelves. “You know,” she whispered, a genuine, unforced smile gracing her lips for the first time that afternoon. “I think I could get used to this. It’s ... quiet in here.” She tapped her temple. “And quiet in here.”
Kim looped her arm through Celina’s, giving it a firm, affectionate squeeze. “Told you. Sometimes, being completely and utterly underestimated is the most powerful, liberating thing in the world.”
Celina leaned into the embrace, a single, unexpected tear of relief escaping and tracing a path down her cheek, unimpeded by any mascara. “Thanks, teacher.”
Kim smiled, her own eyes a little shiny. “Anytime, Sara. Anytime.”
PI War Room
That night at 8pm, the room was a pressure cooker of silent intensity. The large teak table had been transformed into a war-gaming table, littered with grainy photographs, hand-sketched floor plans, and a constellation of burner phones. The air hummed with the low whir of a laptop fan, its screen displaying a live, grainy feed of a silent balcony on Bankra Road. The whiteboard was the epicenter, a mosaic of strategy and fear. Khan’s blocky handwriting detailed guard rotations, while Satyu’s precise red ink traced potential lines of flight and conflict.
Priya stood before it, a conductor before a volatile orchestra, her arms crossed. “Run it one last time,” she said, her voice low. “But this time, run it from their perspective. I want to see what the Syndicate sees the moment they find the girls gone.”
Khan leaned forward, his fingers steepled. “They won’t see a rescue. They’ll see a hostile takeover. An internal coup.” He pointed to the plan. “Team Alpha enters at 11:02 PM. But they’re not commandos. They’re wearing the colours of ‘Rohit Logistics,’ a shell company we know the Mondal faction uses for their dirty work. The invoice the female operative carries? It’s not for Sharma Catering. It’s a duplicate of a delivery docket we intercepted from a Mondal-controlled warehouse last month.”
Meher picked up the thread, her voice crisp. “The doctored internal logs we’re planting in the police server won’t just show random calls. They’ll show a series of encrypted communications between the Bankra house and a known number belonging to Mondal’s lieutenant. The timestamps will suggest weeks of negotiation. We’re not just making them look greedy; we’re making them look like they were about to defect and take the merchandise with them.”
“The physical evidence is key,” Satyu added, tapping the ‘Diversion Protocol’ box on the board. “The dummy envelope we drop isn’t just full of fake receipts. It contains a partial payment - a stack of real, non-sequential rupees, the kind used for off-the-books deals - and a handwritten note that says, ‘The rest after delivery. Use the back route. -M.’ The handwriting is a match for a scribble we lifted from a signed chit of one of their people.”
Priya nodded, a cold satisfaction in her eyes. “So when the main Syndicate finds their guards gassed, their girls gone, and a rival’s calling card left behind, their first thought won’t be ‘Who freed them?’ It will be ‘Which of Mondal’s men double-crossed us?’”
“Exactly,” Khan said. “The sleeping gas is the final, critical piece. If we’d knocked the guards out, there would be bruises, signs of a fight. That suggests an outside force. But gas? Especially a compound we know the Mondal faction has used before on warehouse guards? That’s sophisticated. That’s insider knowledge. It suggests the guards were neutralized by someone who knew their patterns, who needed them alive and unmarked to maintain the illusion of a peaceful transfer. A rescue operation would have left bodies. A rival abduction leaves witnesses who can point the finger.”
“And the girls themselves?” Priya pressed. “How do we ensure they play their part in this narrative without even knowing it?”
“The recording,” Meher said. “We’ve altered it slightly. The team on the ground will play a version where your voice, Priya, is slightly distorted, as if over a cheap radio. The message is the same, but the quality suggests it’s coming from a Syndicate-grade comms device, not a rescue team. We’re telling the girls to follow, but we’re making it sound like a pre-arranged extraction by a new ‘handler.’ They’ll be confused, but the mention of the lipstick message will be the proof they need to comply. Their confusion afterwards will only reinforce the story - they won’t be able to give a coherent story of a heroic rescue, because it won’t have felt like one. It will have felt like a terrifying, chaotic transfer from one cage to another. That way no one can recognize you Priya.”
“Until they reach the safehouse,” Satyu clarified.
“That’s smart. Ok, we are good until they reach the safehouse,” Meher confirmed. “The vans are the final act of the play. The ‘Anand Biryani Works’ van? Its fake plates are registered to a front company that has a shadowy, one-degree-of-separation link to a Mondal-owned restaurant chain. The school van is a complete misdirection, but if traced, it leads to a rental agency that has, on two previous occasions, rented vehicles that were later identified in Mondal faction operations. The forensics are a breadcrumb trail leading directly to their rival’s doorstep.”
Khan looked around the room, his gaze hard. “The entire operation is designed to be a ghost. We leave no sign of ourselves. We leave only the blazing, irrefutable signs of a brutal, internal Syndicate war. We take their most valuable assets and make it look like their most hated rivals stole them. The resulting bloodbath will keep them occupied for months.”
“And the other houses?” Priya asked, turning the focus outward.
“Our surveillance teams on the other three properties will be watching for the fallout,” Meher said. “When the Syndicate realizes what’s happened, they’ll panic. They’ll move the remaining girls, not because they fear us, but because they fear a wider attack from this shadowy faction. They’ll consolidate their assets. And when they do, we’ll be watching. We’ll have the location of their new, ‘secure’ hub within 48 hours.”
“And then we hand that intelligence to the Central Bureau of Investigation. They are run by the central government, so we are safe from any interference from the local arm of the Syndicate - even if they are powerful politicians,” Satyu finished. “We let the national forces walk into a Syndicate that is already fractured, paranoid, and bleeding from self-inflicted wounds.”
Priya allowed herself a thin, sharp smile. It wasn’t a smile of joy, but of vengeance perfectly calibrated. “They took everything from those girls. Tonight, we don’t just give it back. We make the men who took it destroy each other in the process. We’re not just extracting six lives; we’re planting a bomb in the heart of their organization and letting them light the fuse themselves.”
The clock on the wall ticked over. 20:15.
Khan stood, the legs of his chair scraping against the floor. The sound was like a starting pistol.
“Alright boys. Let’s move. We are not liberators tonight. We are ghosts. We are saboteurs. Let’s go start a war.”
Syndicate Office
The room was a vault. Soundproofed walls, a single desk, two chairs. The blinds were drawn, slicing the afternoon sun into sterile lines. The air smelled of stale cigarette smoke and lemon-scented disinfectant.
Arjun sat behind a plain teak desk, his posture rigid. He wasn’t looking at the man sweating in the chair opposite him. He was reviewing a logistics report, his pen making quick, precise ticks in the margin. The man, a mid-level operator named Rakesh, shifted his weight. The squeak of the chair leg was deafening.
Arjun finished the page, set it aside, and finally looked up. His eyes were flat, devoid of impatience or anger. They were simply assessing.
“Ten days,” Arjun stated. His voice was calm, conversational. “The operational cost for a six-man surveillance team, plus vehicle leases and bribes to local traffic police for ten days, is approximately four lakh rupees. That is the direct cost. The indirect cost - the attention drawn, the resources diverted from other revenue streams - is significantly higher.”
Rakesh swallowed. “Sir, we’ve checked every...”
“Bansal had three bank accounts, two mistresses, and a morphine habit,” Arjun interrupted, his tone still even. “He was a creature of routine and vice. He did not possess the foresight or the discipline to vanish. Therefore, he was taken. Your team’s failure is not that you lost him. Your failure is that you have provided zero actionable intelligence on who took him, or how. You have given me a vacuum. I do not pay for vacuums.”
He slid a single sheet of paper across the desk. It was a printed invoice. “This is a bill for the four lakhs. Consider it an invoice for your failure. You will reimburse the organization. Fifty percent will be deducted from your earnings over the next six months. The other fifty percent will be covered by the sale of your car.”
Rakesh’s face went pale. “Sir, my family...”
“Your family’s mobility is less important than the organization’s financial hygiene,” Arjun said. He picked up another file. “You are demoted to perimeter security at the Ghotiagar warehouse. Report there at 2200 hours tonight. The shift supervisor has been informed. You are dismissed.”
Rakesh stood on unsteady legs, the paper clutched in his hand. He opened his mouth, thought better of it, and left without another word. The door clicked shut, leaving silence.
Swati entered through a side door a moment later, her tablet in hand. She said nothing, waiting.
Arjun didn’t look at her. “The team is disbanded. Redistribute the assets. I want a full audit of their expense reports for the last quarter. Find the discrepancies and prosecute them. Make an example.”
“Already underway,” Swati said, her fingers tapping on the screen. “The car will be collected this evening.”
“Now,” Arjun said, shifting gears without a pause. “The Rekha situation.”
Swati pulled up a new screen. “Her penthouse has been sterilized. No physical records recovered. Our digital forensics team has been through her personal devices. She was meticulous. All sensitive data was stored offline.”
“Her blackmail archive,” Arjun stated. “Where is it?”
“We were unable to recover anything from her penthouse, sir. However, the prevailing theory is that she kept it in a private safety deposit box under an alias. We are cross-referencing all bank branches within her known operational radius. It is a slow process if we wish to remain undetected.”
“It is a liability,” Arjun corrected. “Prioritize the search. I don’t care if you have to bribe every bank manager in the city. I want that box found and its contents destroyed.” He picked up a list from his desk. “These are the individuals most vulnerable if the archive surfaces.”
Swati glanced at the names. “The MLA is the most exposed. His patronage is useful.”
“Then he becomes our primary containment subject. I want a dossier on him - financial, personal, familial. Something we can use to control the narrative if Rekha’s material appears. I want to be the one holding the leash before anyone else even knows there is a dog.”
“And the others on the list?”
“Standard protocol. The police superintendent is up for a central deputation. Ensure the file gets lost. The film producer is negotiating a major loan. Leak just enough to the bank about his gambling debts to collapse the deal. They don’t need to be eliminated, Swati. They just need to be neutralized. A ruined man is often more useful than a dead one. He is indebted to whoever ruins him.”
Swati made notes. “Understood. The narrative will be one of unrelated, unfortunate events.”
“Now, the internal morale issue,” Arjun said, his eyes narrowing slightly. “The whispers.”
“They are manageable for now. But the simultaneous disappearance of Bansal and the ... removal ... of Rekha has created uncertainty. There is talk of a purge.”
“Good,” Arjun said. “Uncertainty keeps people obedient. But we will channel it.” He pulled a file from a drawer and opened it. It contained profiles of a dozen mid-level operatives. “These individuals have shown ambition. Or carelessness. Or both.” He pointed to three photographs. “These three have been skimming from the collection funds. Small amounts, but consistent. They think we don’t notice.”
“What are your orders?”
“For these two,” he tapped two of the photos, “public demotion. They are to be stripped of their responsibilities in front of their teams. Their assets will be seized. Let everyone see the cost of theft.” His finger moved to the third photo. “Him. He has a brother in the police force. He’s been leaking schedules for a fee. Make him disappear. Leave no trace. The message should be clear: incompetence is fined. betrayal is erased.”
Swati nodded, inputting the commands. “It will be done by tonight.”
“Finally, the restructuring. Rekha’s duties are too critical to leave vacant. Her replacement is Ishara. She is being recalled from the Northern sector.”
Swati looked up, a flicker of surprise in her eyes she quickly suppressed. “Ishara’s methods are ... radical.”
“Her methods are what we require. The girls have been allowed too much leniency. The product has become spoiled. Rekha believed in incentives. Ishara believes in consequences. I want the entire roster broken and remade. I want them more afraid of disappointing us than of any outside force. Ishara understands this. She will report her progress to me directly. Daily.”
“What is the timeline for the transition?”
“Ishara arrives tomorrow. You will brief her. The first demonstration of her new authority is to be within 48 hours of her arrival. I don’t care who she chooses to make an example of. I just want the message sent.”
“The message being?” Swati asked, though she knew the answer.