Yantra Protocol

The ride home was a torture of his own making. The auto-rickshaw jolted through traffic, but he barely felt it.

They came home exhausted. Maybe scared. Definitely proud. And they found nothing. No “well done.” No “I was worried, but I’m so proud of you.” Just my cold, silent anger.

He could picture Anya’s face, the way it always softened with relief when she saw the food waiting. Her safe place. He’d turned it cold.

He heard Kim’s voice in his head, logical and steady, always seeing three steps ahead. She would have known his silence would hurt them. She would never have used love as a weapon. He had.

But the worst was thinking of Celina. She’d been bought and sold, treated like an object. Her greatest fear was being thrown away, forgotten. And what did he do? He made her walk into an empty home. He made her feel abandoned. The one thing she was most afraid of, he’d handed to her on a silent platter.

A groan escaped him, low and pained. The auto driver glanced back, but Bharath stared straight ahead, unseeing.

Priya’s words from the phone call hammered in his skull. “They’re blaming themselves. And I’m going to start blaming you.”

It had taken Priya, their fierce, clear-eyed sister, to shake him out of it. He couldn’t even see his own failure. He’d been so wrapped up in his own hurt feelings that he’d missed the real damage. He was supposed to be their shelter, and he’d become a draft.

I call them my soulmates, he thought, the shame so thick he could taste it. But when their souls were busy doing something beautiful, I got jealous of the light. I wanted it to be mine. I wanted to be the source.

That wasn’t love. That was ... God. What had he done?

By the time the auto sputtered to a stop near his lane, Bharath felt hollowed out. He paid the driver, his movements slow.

He didn’t deserve to walk back into that apartment. He didn’t deserve their forgiveness.

But he had to try. He had to look at them and say the words. He had to promise, with everything he was, to never again let his pride make their home feel lonely. He had to become the man they saw when they looked at him—not the boy who failed them today.

---

Recovery Safehouse

The apartment lay in a profound stillness, bathed only in the muted morning light that managed to filter through the heavy mesh curtains. Upon the vast pile of mattresses in the common room, the six rescued women slept a deep, heavy slumber, the kind of rest that had been a foreign luxury for years. Their peace was a recent and delicate arrival, but it was not the dawn that finally stirred them. It was a rich, heavenly scent that wove through the quiet space, carrying the distinct, savory notes of frying mustard seeds, tangy tamarind, and clarified ghee.

Ruksana was the first to shift, her lips moving in a half-formed dream. “Is that aloo parathas I smell?” she murmured into her pillow.

Next to her, Minoo let out a soft, confused groan that quickly morphed into one of pure hunger. “I must be dreaming of parathas as well! Uff! That smells devine,” she sighed, still mostly asleep.

“You are not dreaming,” croaked Jhuma, her nose twitching with precise focus as she pushed herself up on one elbow. “That is absolutely real. Oho, it smells divine.”

The safehouse began a slow, delicious awakening. Blankets rustled and anklets jingled softly as the women disentangled themselves. Sleepy eyes blinked open, meeting each other’s gazes with shared, wordless curiosity. Then came the unmistakable, plastic percussion of Tupperware lids being pried open. Their guardians had returned.

Kim stood at the small kitchen counter, her practical dupatta tucked securely into the waist of her kurti as she arranged steaming bundles of parathas and ladled fragrant chole onto disposable plates. The counter was a feast already, lined with containers of lemon rice, crispy sauteed bhindi, a bowl of cool curd raita, and even a foil-covered box of shahi tukda for later. Anya worked beside her with efficient grace, pouring tall steel tumblers of chaas, the buttermilk perfectly suited to cut the spice of the coming meal.

Their attention was drawn, however, to the third figure who entered the common space. She was tall and dressed in a simple, long indigo kurta with muted leggings, her hair in a neat, single braid down her back. Her face was free of makeup, and a pair of large, frameless glasses sat squarely on her nose.

Kim glanced sideways, a barely suppressed grin playing on her lips. “Everyone, say hello to our newest volunteer,” she announced, her tone deliberately light. “This is Sheetal. She’s going to be helping with outreach.”

Sheetal offered a warm, slightly too-broad smile. “Namaste,” she said, her voice softer than usual.

The women blinked, a unified front of sleepy suspicion. Ruksana tilted her head, her eyes sharpening. “A new volunteer? Just like that?”

Anya nodded, not missing a beat as she continued pouring. “She arrived this morning. She’s very passionate about the work but prefers to operate quietly, away from the spotlight.”

Sheetal - Celina in a determined disguise - lowered her eyes with what she hoped was demure humility. “I only wish to be of service. I prefer to work in the background.”

A thick, assessing silence filled the room. Jhuma stood up and walked over, circling Celina once with an appraising look before letting out a definitive snort. “A very nice try, didi.”

Celina’s carefully composed expression froze.

“The kurta is a good choice, plain and common,” Ruksana conceded from the mattress, her analytical gaze sweeping over the figure before her. “And the glasses do add a different look. But you are still Celina di. That jawline is practically illegal, and a figure like yours cannot be hidden by any cloth.”

Minoo giggled, stuffing the corner of her sheet in her mouth. “Your hips are still announcing a former Miss India contestant to the entire room.”

“And you walk as if you are on a ramp, even across a dusty floor,” Jhuma added, folding her arms with a knowing smirk. “Every step says ‘perfume commercial,’ not ‘tired social worker.’”

Celina’s shoulders slumped in defeat, the posture immediately ruining the humble effect. “Ugh. Damn it all,” she groaned, the pretense evaporating.

The room erupted in warm, rolling laughter. Ruksana flopped back onto the mattress, grinning triumphantly. “You should not feel bad. You almost managed it. But the Syndicate trained us to notice details for survival: the cut of a shirt, the quality of a watch, the truth in a person’s walk. We can read faces and bodies better than any police profiler.”

Kim passed a full plate to Jhuma with an affectionate wink. “Congratulations, Celina. You have officially failed your first undercover field test.”

Pulling off the glasses with a sigh, Celina dropped into the worn armchair. “I practiced all morning. Kim made me recite social worker dialogues in the mirror.”

“You look too well-rested and too beautiful,” Minoo said around a happy mouthful of food. “Real ones have permanent dark circles and a kind of desperate energy.”

“Also,” Jhuma chimed in, pointing with her spoon, “you tuck your dupatta like a Bollywood actress playing a village teacher - for the aesthetic. A real teacher in a non-air-conditioned school tucks it like she is preparing for battle, to keep it from getting in the chalk or the midday meal.”

From behind the large container of curd, Kim’s shoulders shook with silent laughter.

But Celina found she was not truly annoyed. Instead, a distinct warmth spread through her. They had looked at her closely, with their expert, merciless eyes, and they had not shied away. They had seen through the disguise, enjoyed the performance, and were now teasing her with a fondness that felt inclusive. It was the sound of belonging, and it was more comforting than any successful deception could have been.

Priya, who had been quietly observing from the doorway, finally stepped in, her expression playfully severe. “Are baap re! Enough of inflating their already substantial egos,” she said, her voice a dry, witty counterpoint to the laughter. “Bharath fills their heads with enough sunshine as it is. Let us not have them thinking they are detective supermodels. They are sharp, yes, but they still need to eat their vegetables.”

The girls laughed again, and Asha waved a piece of bhindi at Priya. “You’re just jealous you didn’t think of it first, didi.”

“You know I came with them right?”

“You will improve with time, didi,” Chameli offered gently, speaking for the first time. “You simply need to stop trying to look ordinary. You will never be ordinary. You are ... you. And that is alright.”

Celina smiled, a genuine, soft expression. “Then perhaps I will aim for trustworthy instead of invisible.”

“And you are getting there,” Minoo said quietly, the humor softening into something more sincere. A shared look passed between the women on the mattress, an understanding rooted in hard-earned caution. “We just needed to be sure. To know the performance was for us, and not for yourself.”

The pause that followed was comfortable, laden with a new, mutual respect. In that moment, Sheetal Arora, the persona, began to dissolve not into failure, but into something more meaningful: a choice. It was the choice to be present, truly seen, and to connect without the armor of stardom.

Kim slid onto the floor beside them, handing out more buttery parathas. “You are all far too observant for your own good. The police could use eyes like yours.”

Jhuma smirked, accepting the food. “Feed us like this every single day, and we might consider joining.”

Anya raised her tumbler of chaas, her eyes meeting those of each woman in the circle. “To second chances, then. Even for terribly executed undercover operations.”

They all reached forward, the steel of their cups meeting with a soft chorus of clinks. And together, surrounded by the evidence of care and the sounds of easy banter, they shared the meal not as benefactors and beneficiaries, but as sisters.

---

Arjun’s Office

The ceiling fan rotated with an energetic rhythm, its blades carving through the dense, suffocating stillness of the room. Arjun, the head of the Syndicate, sat framed by the large bay window, his silhouette a study in composed power. One hand cradled a chilled glass of water, beads of condensation tracing slow paths down its side, while the other absently turned an unlit cigar between his fingers. Across from him, Ishara occupied her chair with the alert poise of a newly appointed general, her legs crossed in a manner that suggested both elegance and latent threat, a queen awaiting the opening move of a complex game.

His personal assistant entered, the man’s discomfort palpable despite the artificial cool of the air conditioning. A faint sheen of sweat marked his collar, and his steps were deliberately quiet on the polished wood floor.

“Report,” Arjun stated, his gaze never leaving the window and the city it overlooked.

The assistant hesitated, the pause itself a confession of failure. “The Bankra Road operation has been compromised. All six assets are missing, sir.”

Ishara’s eyes, sharp and observant, flicked toward the man before returning to Arjun’s impassive profile. Arjun himself did not stir.

“There is no evidence of a forced entry, and no recorded police activity in the vicinity. No bodies have been discovered.” The assistant drew a steadying breath. “However, the handler, Rina, was found deceased. The method was ... internal. The injuries suggest interrogation. The consensus is that she was executed by one of our own.”

Ishara permitted herself a single, deliberate blink, absorbing the implication.

“The onsite guards have disappeared without trace,” the assistant continued, his voice growing tighter. “A single burner phone was recovered, which had been used on only two occasions. A falsified vendor log at the perimeter gate corresponds with the estimated timeline of the incident. Witnesses describe an unmarked food van in the alley, but it has no license plate and has evaded all CCTV capture. The vehicle is essentially a ghost.”

The silence that followed was heavy and consuming, broken only by the low whir of the fan.

“There is growing unrest,” the assistant ventured, his courage fraying. “The managers from the Hazra and Chetla houses are demanding guidance. A specific rumor is gaining traction among the junior ranks. They are whispering about a targeted purge, and some are suggesting the order originated from you, sir.”

At this, Ishara leaned forward, a subtle shift of weight that commanded the room’s attention. “And do you lend credibility to these whispers?” she asked, her voice a quiet, probing instrument.

The assistant’s tongue darted to moisten his lips. “I do not. But the rumor is spreading like a virus through the ranks.”

Finally, Arjun moved. He leaned back in his chair, the leather sighing softly, and draped one ankle over his opposite knee, a picture of absolute, unnerving calm. “What is your assessment of this situation?” he asked, not turning to the assistant, but directing the question solely to Ishara.

She studied him for a measured moment, her mind aligning the facts with cold precision. “This was not the work of the police. Their involvement would be louder, messier. It was not the press, who would seek spectacle over stealth.” She tilted her head, her analysis clinical. “This was a surgical extraction, not a random act of rebellion. The objective was not to create chaos, but to cultivate doubt. They seek to fracture loyalty from within, to make every shadow seem threatening. You are being manipulated, either by someone within our organization, or by an external party sophisticated enough to appear as one.”

A flicker passed through Arjun’s eyes - not warmth, but a spark of pure, intellectual recognition. It was the admiration of a strategist for a well-made move, even when made by an opponent.

“Someone has tossed a firecracker into a locked room,” Arjun mused, his tone almost conversational. “Now everyone inside is blinded by the flash and deafened by the bang, staring at each other and wondering which hand held the match.”

He took a slow sip of his water, the ice clinking softly. “I will not consolidate the remaining assets. That is precisely what our unseen adversary desires ... to herd all the pawns into a single, vulnerable corner for a more efficient strike.”