The fluorescent lights of the Vastrapur police station hummed with electrical indifference as Rohith sat in a plastic chair, a thin blanket draped over his shoulders despite the February warmth. Around him, the machinery of investigation ground into motion with bureaucratic inevitability—officers filling out forms, photographers cataloging evidence, forensic technicians bagging and tagging items from his apartment.
He had been at the hospital for three hours while doctors examined his superficial injuries and administered sedatives that he pretended to swallow but actually palmed and discarded. The scratches on his arm—self-inflicted but convincingly defensive—had been photographed and documented. His elevated heart rate and blood pressure had been attributed to shock and trauma. A young doctor with kind eyes had patted his shoulder and told him that psychological symptoms after such an event were completely normal.




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