Rohit wore a plastered grin as he entered his private ward, only for it to vanish the moment he saw who was inside.
Three police officials were already waiting.
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Two wore constable uniforms, while the third was clearly an officer. When Rohit walked in, the constables were busy serving the officer, who sat munching on samosas, right there in a patient’s room.
One constable stood nearby holding a cup of tea, likely for the officer.
Rohit noticed their oversized bellies struggling to stay within their belts. Judging by their ranks, the belly sizes aligned well with their hierarchy, possibly a measure of their laziness or corruption.
He mentally scoffed, ’So much for our security. Stupid fucks.’
Then came a familiar voice, the lady bodyguard posted at the corner of his room. She was wearing a pair of professional black suit.
"Welcome, young master. Your mother has gone out to meet your friend."
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Rohit gave a slight nod but didn’t take his eyes off her. He recognized her instantly—Chanu Devi, a martial artist from Manipur. She had a face that resembled Mongolian features more than the typical Indian look, but Rohit kept that thought to himself.
The police took note of his presence. The officer stood up, wiping his oily hands on a tissue with a sheepish grin.
"A pleasant meeting, young master Singhania. I’m Neerav Pandey," he said, stretching out his hand for a shake—still chewing on the last of his samosa.
A constable leaned in and whispered something in his ear. The officer quickly pulled his hand back, awkwardly laughing, though his greedy smile didn’t fade. He now looked at Rohit like one would at a golden goose.
"Please excuse my manners. I heard about your memory loss... Such a tragedy at such a young age. It truly pains my heart," he said, gesturing toward the bed. "Please sit. I wouldn’t want to risk getting a complaint for mistreating a patient."
Rohit narrowed his eyes. He knew that tone too well—polite on the surface, but laced with sarcasm and doubt. He had a strong feeling they didn’t buy his story.
And this officer, who looked every bit as corrupt as expected, seemed particularly suspicious.
’Guess not all stereotypes are right. Not all cops are idiots either.’
Rohit sat on the bed with practiced ease.
The officer turned to the constable. "The statement, Guptaji."
The lowest-ranking constable handed over a document.
"We’ve already heard the version your friend gave us," the officer began, "and I’d like to read it to you. Let us know if anything jogs your memory."
Rohit gave a slight nod.
The officer continued, "Around 9 PM, you and your friend were stopped by a college girl near the city outskirts who asked for a lift. That’s when some assailants, hiding in the roadside bushes, ambushed you both. They stole your bike, looted your purse, and fled."
He paused, watching Rohit closely—trying to read his eyes.
Rohit replied flatly, "So?"
The officer clicked his tongue, visibly disappointed. "See, this is where things don’t add up. You were both admitted here at 9:35 PM—twenty kilometers away from the scene. Yet, neither of you reported the crime to the police station, which was barely a ten-minute walk from where it happened. And you had no money, right? So how did you get all the way here?"
Rohit maintained his stoic expression. "Must’ve taken a lift."
The officer smiled. "Yes, that’s what your friend said too." He raised his eyebrows. "But here’s what puzzles me—your phones are intact. Only the purse and bike were taken."
Rohit realized Akhil had slipped up somewhere. He had to cover for it now.
"So you’re implying we staged the whole thing and kept our phones because we couldn’t afford to lose them?"
The officer gave a wide grin. "I didn’t say that, young master. But... things seem to be heading that way."
Just then, a figure appeared at the door. A woman in a salwar kameez stood silently, watching the scene unfold without entering.
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Rohit recognized her immediately—Kavita Sharma, Akhil’s mother. A genuinely kind lady, and the main reason Rohit had remained so close to Akhil. Flashes of old memories came back—of how she had treated him with more warmth than his own family ever had.
Meanwhile, the conversation with the police continued. Rohit answered vaguely, doing his best to align with the story already in place.
Then, in response to a particular question, he let out a sigh and gestured toward the bruises on his head and body.
"So... are you saying these injuries are fake too? Look, if the thieves were satisfied with the purses and bike, what could we possibly do? It’s not like I remember anything anyway."
He glanced at Chanu Devi, silently asking for help.
She understood immediately and stepped forward.
"Officers, I believe that’s enough. Our young master still needs rest. He’s a patient after all."
The officer smiled. "Of course, madam. We’re done here." He turned to Rohit, softening his tone. "I suppose if the phones were in your bags, then your story holds. It matches your friend’s version."
He reached into his pocket and dramatically handed over his personal details as if it were a business card.
"Please forgive me, young master Singhania. I know your father—he’s a fine businessman. If you ever need help, feel free to reach out. It’s just... part of our duty to doubt everyone. Just routine. Nothing personal, yeah?" he grinned like he’s dong him a favor.
Rohit took the officer’s card silently, his expression unreadable. It had been a close call, and he mentally marked this incident as a loose end in his plans—one that, if left unchecked, could cost him dearly.
He glanced at the card and noted the number. A faint smile tugged at his lips as he muttered, "Thanks for the details. We’ll certainly meet again."
Moments later, just as the police exited, the woman who had been waiting at the door burst into the room.
She rushed toward him and wrapped him in an embrace that felt more like a chokehold.