John went to work as usual, telling his mother that he was going to college. His voice carried the same casual tone he had practiced so many times before, and his expression didn't betray even a flicker of guilt. He was getting proficient at lying—disturbingly proficient.
There was a time when each false word he spoke made his stomach twist with guilt. But lately, the words flowed as naturally as breathing. The first few times he had lied, he'd hesitated, his conscience gnawing at him afterward. Now, however, deception had become his second skin. It was almost frightening how easily the truth could be buried under layers of habit.
After waving goodbye to his frail mother, John mounted his second-hand bicycle and started down the familiar dusty lane. The morning air was crisp, carrying the faint aroma of wet earth from the previous night's drizzle. Stray dogs lazed beside overflowing garbage bins, and children with school bags much larger than their bodies trudged past, half asleep.
As he pedaled, his mind wasn't on the scenery. He was calculating again—his life reduced to numbers and survival arithmetic.
'If the bank approves the loan,' he thought, 'and I deduct the hospital bill, I might still have around thirty thousand left. That should be enough for emergencies… or maybe even for a bribe when I start looking for a proper job.'
He grimaced at the word bribe. Once, he had despised people who talked like that. His mother had raised him to believe in honesty, in hard work, in karma. But the world had beaten those ideals out of him one disappointment at a time.
While his mind was busy juggling figures, he suddenly noticed something unusual up ahead. A car stood at an awkward angle by the side of the road, its front smashed into a tree. Smoke hissed from the twisted hood, and shards of glass glittered on the asphalt like scattered diamonds.
John slowed down instinctively. It was early morning, and the road was mostly empty. A few people on the opposite side glanced at the wreck but quickly turned away, pretending they hadn't seen anything. The unspoken rule in poor neighborhoods was simple: Don't get involved.
He parked his bicycle at a distance and hesitated. Through the shattered windshield, he saw a young woman slumped over the steering wheel. Blood trickled from her forehead, staining her white blouse crimson.
For a brief second, his heart screamed at him to help. But his brain—trained by poverty and fear—stopped him cold.
'If I go near her and the police arrive, I'll be the first suspect. They won't care about explanations. One poor delivery boy helping a rich girl—of course they'll think I was involved.'
He looked around again. No one else was stepping forward. The few who passed by pretended to be busy checking their phones or tightening their shoelaces. Humanity had long since learned how to look away.
John sighed shakily and took out his old keypad phone. With trembling fingers, he dialed the emergency number. "There's been an accident near Nandini Road… a white sedan… one person injured… please send help fast," he said hurriedly.
Before the operator could ask questions, he hung up, pocketed the phone, and pedaled away quickly, his heart pounding.
By the time he reached the main road, his thoughts had already drifted back to the loan. The morning incident faded like a bad dream. He told himself he had done his duty by calling the authorities—nothing more could be expected from someone like him.
When he finally reached the bank, he parked his bicycle carefully near the gate and straightened his crumpled shirt. The security guard glanced at him disinterestedly. Inside, the air conditioner hummed softly, and the faint scent of perfume and printer ink filled the space.
John entered the branch manager's cabin nervously. The man behind the desk—a neatly dressed gentleman with thinning hair—gestured for him to sit. "One moment," he said, typing something rapidly into his computer.
John clasped his hands together, trying to look confident, though his stomach was in knots.
The manager occasionally looked up at him between keystrokes. Each glance made John more uncomfortable, as if the man could see straight through him—to his expelled records, his failures, and his hidden guilt.
'Does he know?' John thought, his pulse quickening. 'Did my college send them some blacklisted list? Damn it… I'm screwed.'
Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead even though the room was chilled.
Finally, the manager stopped typing, folded his hands, and gave him a sympathetic look that instantly made John's heart sink.
"Mr. John," he began slowly, "I'm sorry, but we cannot approve your loan application."
The words hit him like a punch to the chest.
"Your current job isn't stable," the manager continued. "And as per our records, your education loan from the previous institution is still unpaid. Until that's cleared, we can't proceed further."
John's face drained of color. His voice trembled. "Sir, please… I really need this loan. My mother—she's very sick. I promise I'll repay every rupee once I get a better job."
The manager shook his head, clearly unmoved. "I understand, son. But we have rules. Try again once your financial situation improves."
John's lips quivered as he stood up. He wanted to scream, to curse, to punch something. But all he could manage was a polite nod. "Thank you for your time, sir."
As he stepped outside, the sunlight felt harsh on his skin. He dragged himself toward his bicycle, feeling like a deflated balloon. His mother's frail smile flashed in his mind, and guilt gnawed at him again.
'What do I do now?' he thought miserably. 'I can't let her die because of some stupid rule. I can't.'
He took a deep breath, clutching the bicycle handle tightly. "Fine," he muttered under his breath. "If the bank won't help, I'll find someone who will."
He looked at his watch—still an hour before his restaurant shift began. He made up his mind.
One of his coworkers had once told him about a local moneylender—a man named Jake who offered instant cash "without paperwork." The others had laughed when John insisted the bank would help him. "You're too naive," they'd said. "Banks are for rich people. Go to Jake if you're serious."
At the time, John had brushed it off. But now, desperation drowned reason.
As he pedaled toward the address scribbled on a crumpled paper, his unease grew. The further he went, the narrower the streets became. The buildings looked older, their paint peeling off like dead skin. Men loitered in groups at street corners, smoking and eyeing him suspiciously.
'This doesn't feel right,' he thought, slowing down. 'Maybe I should turn back.'
Then, ahead, he saw something that froze him in place—a burly man holding a knife against a terrified middle-aged man's throat. The attacker's voice was low but menacing, and though several people nearby watched, no one intervened.
This wasn't a neighborhood for heroes.
John's instincts screamed at him to turn around. He started to reverse his bicycle when the knife-wielding man suddenly looked up. Their eyes met.
"Hey, you there!" the man barked. "What business do you have here?"
John's legs went weak. "I—I came to see Mr. Jake," he stammered. "But it's okay. I'll come back later."
The man's expression changed instantly, from predatory to polite. "Mr. Jake, huh? You're looking at him." He sheathed the knife and walked toward John with a broad grin that didn't reach his eyes.
"Sorry about that," Jake said, clapping a heavy hand on John's shoulder. "Just business matters. You're my guest now. Come, come—let's have tea and talk properly."
Before John could protest, Jake guided—more like pushed—him inside a small but surprisingly well-furnished office. An air conditioner hummed overhead, and expensive-looking furniture filled the room.
Jake motioned him to sit. "Tea for our guest," he shouted to someone outside, then turned back with a charming smile. "So, little brother, what brings you to me?"
John hesitated but finally explained his situation—the hospital bills, the rejected bank loan, his mother's illness.
Jake listened silently, nodding thoughtfully. "Ah, I see. Such a good son you are," he said finally. "Don't worry. I can lend you one lakh—no collateral, no guarantor. You just need to repay on time. Simple, right?"
John blinked in disbelief. "R-really? That easily?"
Jake chuckled. "Of course! I help people. You're introduced by my old client, right? That's good enough for me."
John's heart raced. After all the rejections, this sudden kindness felt like divine mercy. "When can I get the money?" he asked eagerly.
Jake leaned back in his chair. "Right now," he said with a grin, scribbling something on a checkbook. "You seem like a trustworthy young man. Here."
John took the check with trembling hands. He couldn't believe it. Everything had happened so fast, so smoothly.
'Maybe luck finally smiled at me,' he thought. 'Mom, you'll get the treatment you deserve. I'll take you to the best hospital tomorrow.'
His mind was already racing ahead—calculating, dreaming, planning. He stood up, bowed slightly, and said, "Thank you, sir. You've saved my mother's life."
Jake smiled and waved him off. "Take care, little brother. And remember—pay on time, or bad luck might follow."
John laughed nervously and left, his face glowing with relief. As he disappeared down the road on his bicycle, Jake's grin faded.
He picked up his phone, dialed a number, and spoke in a chillingly calm tone. "The prey is leaving. You know what to do."
A raspy voice on the other end replied, "Got it, boss."
Jake hung up and leaned back in his chair, the cunning smile returning. "Poor boy," he murmured. "He doesn't even know he's already in the trap."
Meanwhile, John was humming his favorite tune as he rode, the wind brushing against his face. The check fluttered in his shirt pocket like a lucky charm. He didn't notice the black bike following him at a distance, its engine purring softly.
For the first time in months, he felt light—free of worry, full of hope.
He had no idea that within the next few minutes, his life was about to shatter beyond repair.