Cold Blood

Mamta stormed into the room, her fury slicing through the afternoon silence like a blade. “Do you even hear me?” Her voice trembled—not with fear, but with the kind of rage that turns bones to ash. “Today, I saw a girl crumpled on the street—brutalized, clothes shredded, her body a canvas of bruises and gashes. She screamed for help, but the crowd just… watched. Filmed it like some twisted show! You men—all of you—your veins run with ice!”

Mahendra lowered his newspaper slowly, its rustle deafening in the charged air. His eyes met hers, steady as a surgeon’s scalpel. “Horrific,” he conceded, the word deliberate. “But since when did we pretend otherwise?” He leaned forward, the creak of his chair punctuating the silence. “Remember Gupta Ji’s murder? I knew who the killer was. But you and Mother begged me—‘Don’t play hero. Survival isn’t a morality contest.’”

He snapped the newspaper taut again, a shield against her glare. “Don’t flatter yourself, Mamta. It’s not ‘men’—it’s humanity. We’ve all got ice in our veins now.”