The old British-era library in the heart of the city had always been a sanctuary for Ananya Rao. At twenty-four, she was the epitome of quiet grace—petite frame, large doe-like eyes behind thin-rimmed glasses, long black hair tied in a neat bun, and a simple salwar-kameez that hid her soft curves. She spoke rarely, her voice barely above a whisper even when helping patrons. The syndicate had taken over this branch months ago, using the basement archives for their "business"—smuggling papers, hidden accounts, and late-night meetings. Ananya kept her head down. She knew better than to ask questions.

That night, the library was supposed to be empty after closing. Ananya had stayed back to shelve returned books in the quiet reading room at the far end. The heavy wooden doors muffled everything. She was on the upper gallery, pushing a trolley, when she heard low voices from below.