He crumbled. Not with a crash, but with a slow, pathetic deflation, right there on live television.

The interview that followed was not a debate. It was a masterclass in dismantling a fortress with a scalpel. Vansheen didn't shout. She simply held up a document, her manicured nail tapping a circled date. "You were in Zurich that day, Minister. For a 'book launch.' But the hotel's cargo manifest shows a different kind of delivery. A safety valve. The one that didn't fail. The one that was never installed. Why?"

The control room counted down. "Five, four..."

Vansheen Verma wasn't just a hot topic. She was the fire itself. And she was just getting warmed up.

When the show ended, the producer exhaled a breath he’d been holding for thirty minutes. The newsroom erupted in a low, awed whistle. Vansheen removed her earpiece, the faintest blush of satisfaction coloring her cheeks. She stood up, smoothed her skirt, and walked off the set, leaving the ghost of her perfume—something woody and expensive, like sandalwood and secrets—lingering in the air.

"Good evening," she began, her voice a low, smoky alto that demanded you lean closer to your screen. "For five years, the sinking of the Mahindra Shipping Corp was ruled an accident. Rusted valves, a rogue wave, a tragedy of the sea. Tonight, we have the maintenance logs that were scrubbed. The satellite calls that were never made. And the name of the minister who signed off on the faulty repairs to collect a thirty-crore kickback."

"Three, two..."

The Minister, a man used to roaring down opponents, began to sweat. He stammered about vacations and aides. Vansheen tilted her head, a small, pitying smile playing on her lips. "We have the courier receipt. Signed by your private secretary. Shall I show the viewers the time-stamp? Or would you like to revise your statement?"