The police moved faster now. They had a name, a scent of a trail. Vikram's phone showed a scattered map of cafe meetups and short rides. He had taken cash jobs and worked occasionally at the market. They arrested him at a bus stop, his coat wet from the drizzle as if he'd been out in the rain again, eyes darting like hunted things.

Amar thought of the man with the odd badge, the interruptions in the CCTV, the fresh ledger entry. He thought about the quiet hours and the way the building seemed to breathe with its own secret life. He told the officer what he knew. The officer's face shadowed. "We'll need a complete list of everyone who had access," he said. "And the security firm's name."

They returned to the lobby. The stairwell smelled faintly of incense. The elevator chimed. A man in a rumpled coat stepped out and glanced at them with a detached curiosity. He was in his forties, with a trimmed beard and eyes that moved too quickly. He introduced himself as Raghav, a tenant from 4A, and asked if everything was alright. Amar assured him it was. Raghav mumbled something about the rain and moved down the corridor.

Amar's throat tightened. He had learned the rules of the night: no one panicked unless they had to. The police meant forms, delays, and sometimes, nothing. But this was a child. He picked up the ledger, thumbed through pages of names. The shaky entry—"K. Sharma"—gleamed like an omen. Mrs. Sharma's signature at the bottom of the page was dated weeks earlier. Someone had come in and scrawled that name anew in the small hours.