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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Central Jail, India.
The ground of Central Jail was not ground anymore. The central jail Prisoners who are protesting didn't look dramatic, it looked ugly, disorganized and scary. Prisoners were shoved into the central ground like cattle, some barefoot, some still chewing leftover rotis, some half-asleep until they saw the body.
The dead prisoner is still lay there exactly where he fell, blood soaked into the concrete so deeply it looked permanent. No white sheet. No respect. His eyes were half open and a guard tried to stand near the body but backed away when the shouting started.
Prisoners began yelling facts, not emotions on how the boy never joined gangs, how he avoided fights, how he was serving a short sentence and was due for parole. Names were shouted. Cell numbers. Witnesses claimed they saw Prisoner no 704 nearby. Someone screamed that he stabbed him openly, not even hiding, like he didn't care who saw. That was enough. Truth stopped mattering after that sentence.
Prisoners pushed forward, pointing at Rutvik when he was dragged in. "This one!" they shouted. "This m*therfucker murderer always kill someone inside jail." Abuse flew freely about his past, his age, his missing hand, his face. Someone spat on the ground near his feet and said he should've been finished years ago. Stones, slippers, metal cups were thrown without aim. The guards didn't rush in because they knew better. A prison protest over an innocent death is not noise, it's a verdict forming in real time.
The shouting became structured, repetitive, like a decision being finalized.
Death sentence. Hang him. Open the gallows.
Prisoners beat their plates and fists together, not in rage anymore but agreement. Men who hated each other stood side by side, united by the idea that someone had crossed a line that even criminals respect. Rutvik stood there absorbing it all, his body stiff, his jaw clenched so hard it looked painful, his silence sealing his fate faster than any confession could.
Someone yelled that if the court didn't kill him, the barracks would. Another said he wouldn't survive one night without protection.
The guards finally moved, not to save him, but to prevent a full-scale riot. Batons came out. Orders were shouted. Prisoners were pushed back forcefully, but the words didn't stop. They followed Rutvik as he was dragged away, echoed in corridors, repeated cell to cell by evening.
That protest was recorded. Statements were taken. Intelligence reports were written. "Threat to Central Jail, Delhi prison order." "Collective demand for capital punishment." "High-risk accused."
From that moment on, Rutvik wasn't just accused of murder he was declared guilty by the most unforgiving court there is.
Inside Central Jail, once the prisoners decide you deserve to die, the system stops trying to save you. It only figures out how and when.
