𝐇𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐑𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐫, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐆𝐨𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐬.
Love is hope for the hopeless and sin for the saint. Love is both a salvation for the lost and a temptation for the righteous. It drives people to cross lines they swore ne...
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Happy reading ⚖️⛓️
📌 Warning: Violence
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The mood inside Dixit's father's study room was not at all funny like Dixit's poor jokes. But whatever, I am not scared of their faces. Okay, shit, I am lying right now, but that's a different thing. At least I am confident.
I slammed my laptop bag on the mahogany desk like I was dropping a bomb. And maybe I was, because inside my laptop there was a 38-slide PowerPoint, a half-broken USB, 27 hours of my unpaid research, and every ounce of my stalking capacity I had.
"Honourable Justice Agarkar and respected Adv. Verman," I said, fake-smiling at both of them like I hadn't just skipped two university lectures and a court visit to dig through Prisoner No. 704's forgotten archives. "I need ten minutes. Preferably before one of you starts to kick me out of this room, because I am about to offend you guys."
My chachu looked up from his tea like I'd just farted in the Preamble.
Mr. Verman didn't even blink, probably used to juniors shaking in fear, not his son's female friend storming his house with a PowerPoint.
Dixit-shamelessly shirtless in black shorts (which he thinks make him look sexy, but he looks like absolute shit), eating a banana Cerelac smoothie like a pig with no shame-just grinned. "Celay Kween! Let her cook, Daddy~," he muttered, flopping onto the couch like this was a Netflix show.
( Celay Kween= Slay Queen )
I plugged in the USB and the screen lit up: "PRISONER 704: THE CASE THAT STINKS."
Slide by slide, I tore through it and when I finally reached the last slide: a black-and-white photo of prisoner 704 from inside Central Jail. Shackled. Expressionless. Forgotten.
I turned back to them.
"All I'm asking is for you," I jabbed a finger at Dixit's dad, "to help file a damn appeal. Remission, writ, anything. And you-" I looked at my chachu, "to not bury this because it's inconvenient or politically messy. That boy was 14. He's now 20. That's six years of rot in the system no one wants to admit exists."
