Karan Khurana's death was ruled a suicide.
The newspapers reported that he had been struggling with depression. The television channels speculated about political pressure. The social media posts ranged from conspiracy theories to genuine grief.
Aarohi attended the funeral. She stood beside Kabir, dressed in black, her face hidden behind a veil. She watched Karan's mother weep. She watched his father stare at the coffin with hollow eyes.
She felt nothing.
That night, she sat in her suite and stared at the wall. Kabir found her there.
"You are thinking about what happened," he said.
"I am thinking about what I have become."
He sat beside her. "You did not kill him."
"I might as well have. I set the trap. I gave the Chairman the evidence. I knew what would happen."
"You gave the Chairman a choice. He made it." Kabir took her hand. "Karan Khurana was a monster. He would have destroyed thousands of lives if he had taken control of the Council."
"I know."
"That does not make it easier."
She looked at him. "No. It does not."
He pulled her close. She rested her head on his shoulder.
"We are going to win this war," he said. "But we are going to lose pieces of ourselves along the way."
"I know that too."
"Are you willing to pay that price?"
She thought about her mother. About Anjali. About the people who depended on her. About the world she was trying to save.
"Yes," she said. "I am willing."
He kissed her forehead.
"Then we will pay it together."