The police traced the syndicate through the internet café’s CCTV. Within a week, three men were arrested. Nikhil returned from Thailand, pale and apologetic, and checked himself into a rehabilitation center. Rohan’s phone remained on the family plan, call barring now permanently enabled—not to hide a lie, but to block unknown numbers and rebuild trust.

Rohan had the perfect life—or so it seemed from the outside. A senior software architect in Bengaluru, he lived in a minimalist high-rise apartment with his wife, Meera, and their seven-year-old daughter, Kavya. His phone, a sleek black device he guarded like a state secret, was the only chink in the family’s polished armor.

He stared at her, then laughed—a hollow, broken sound. “You barred them? God, I thought… I thought they’d stopped me.”

“Stopped you from what?”

He spun around, shock bleeding into guilt. “Meera? What are you—”

“Who were you talking to? The calls at 7:15. I barred them.”