The elevators were mirrored gold. As Pallavi rode up to the 19th floor, she practiced her cover: a bored, wealthy industrialist’s wife whose husband was stuck in a meeting. She even yawned delicately.
The moment she stepped into the corridor, the atmosphere changed. The air was thick with the scent of sandalwood and something sharper—electrical ozone, the smell of a hidden server farm. The Maharaja Sky Loft’s door was a slab of carved rosewood. Next to it, instead of a standard keycard slot, was a retina scanner.
Amateur, she thought. Overkill always left traces.
She didn’t need to enter the room yet. From her saree’s fold, she pulled the disguised Raspberry Pi. It was no bigger than a playing card. She pressed it against the door jamb, near the hinge. The device emitted a low-frequency pulse (masked by the hotel’s own Muzak system), and in three seconds, it cloned the RFID handshake from the internal lock.
Her phone vibrated. Access: GRANTED.
But instead of opening the door, she walked ten paces down the hall to the service elevator. She needed to watch first. She plugged a micro-earpiece into her ear. The door-camera she’d just hacked began streaming a fisheye view of the suite’s living room.
What she saw made her blood chill.
The room was sterile. Pristine white leather sofas, a grand piano that no one played, and on the coffee table, not champagne, but three encrypted laptops, each connected to a military-grade Faraday cage. And in the center, pacing slowly, was a man who was not Viren Shergill.
It was Colonel Ravi Mehta (retd.), a man she had testified against in a closed-door hearing six years ago. He had been accused of selling troop movement data. The case was dropped due to "lack of evidence." He was supposed to be living quietly in Goa.
He was holding a tablet. On its screen was the auction page for XWapseries.Lat. The winning bid for the drone specs was currently at $2.7 million in Bitcoin.
"Shergill sold us out," the Colonel said to someone off-camera. "He thought he could double-dip. Take the money from XWapseries and then sell the buyer's identity to the government. Pity. I liked his tailor." XWapseries.Lat - Pallavi Patil In Luxury Hotel
A second voice, cold and female, replied: "Then the leak we planted—the one leading to Pallavi Patil—was a genius move. She’ll be here. She always follows the code. And when she walks into this room, we’ll have our scapegoat for both the data theft and Shergill’s unfortunate accident."
The fusion of Pallavi Patil’s aspirational image with exclusive digital access appeals to audiences who admire:
In the world of digital entertainment, few names evoke glamour and aspiration like Pallavi Patil. The platform XWapseries.Lat has allegedly curated exclusive content showcasing Patil’s journey through high-end living, premium travel, and elite entertainment. However, users should verify the legitimacy of such platforms before engaging.
Pallavi Patil represents a modern icon of sophistication. Her lifestyle includes:
Three days later, Pallavi sat in her Pune apartment, back in her hoodie, eating maggi noodles while scrolling through a news site. The headline read: "Colonel Mehta arrested at Goa airport; XWapseries.Lat seized by international cyber task force."
Her phone buzzed. An unknown number. A single line of text:
"The ghost job pays double for witnesses who stay alive. Your payment is in the usual zcash wallet. And Pallavi? The hotel wants their door lock back."
She smiled, slurped the last noodle, and typed a reply: "Tell the Hotel Nebula their next security audit is on me. Complimentary."
She closed her laptop. The saree was dry-cleaned and ready to return to her sister-in-law. But the little Raspberry Pi? That she kept. You never know when a luxury hotel might need another ghost.
THE END
Pallavi pulled the earpiece out. Her hand was steady, but her mind raced. They weren't just selling secrets—they were remodeling the entire crime to frame her. The breadcrumbs on XWapseries.Lat pointing to this room? A honeypot.
She had two choices. Run and disappear, proving their planted evidence correct. Or finish the job.
She chose the third option: become the ghost.
She dialed a number on her phone—not her contact at the firm, but a journalist at The Wire she’d saved from a phishing attack last year. "Sanya," she whispered. "Remember the story I said would never come? It's happening now. Hotel Nebula, 19th floor. I’m sending you a live stream from my glasses. In ten minutes, call the Anti-Terrorism Squad. Tell them Colonel Mehta is hosting a sale on XWapseries.Lat."
She didn’t wait for a reply. She walked back to the rosewood door, disabled the lock's alert system via her phone, and slipped inside.
Colonel Mehta had stepped out onto the balcony for a cigar. The woman—a former intelligence analyst named Zara—was in the bathroom, her voice muffled.
Pallavi moved like a shadow. She didn’t touch the laptops. Instead, she knelt by the Faraday cage. A Faraday cage blocks all external signals. But it doesn't block a physical bridge. She took a tiny fiber-optic cable from her bangle and connected it from the cage’s internal USB hub to her Raspberry Pi. Then she linked her phone.
Data poured. Not just the drone specs—but the entire chat log of XWapseries.Lat’s admin panel. Usernames, real names, transaction histories, even geolocation of bidders. She copied it all. It took ninety seconds.
As the last file transferred, Zara stepped out of the bathroom, towel-drying her hair. She froze. Her eyes met Pallavi’s.
"Room service?" Pallavi said with a weak smile. The elevators were mirrored gold
Zara lunged. She was trained, fast—but she was barefoot on marble. Pallavi, who had grown up playing kho-kho on the mud fields of Satara, sidestepped and swept her leg. Zara crashed into the grand piano, sending a discordant clang through the suite.
The balcony door slid open. Colonel Mehta stood there, cigar in one hand, a small black pistol in the other.
"Ms. Patil," he said, almost admiringly. "You are the most stubborn ghost I’ve ever encountered. But ghosts don’t bleed."
He raised the pistol.
Pallavi didn’t flinch. "Colonel," she said, holding up her phone, "I just uploaded 2.8 terabytes of your XWapseries transaction history to three different secure servers. If this phone is destroyed, the data goes public in four minutes. If I’m hurt, the timer drops to thirty seconds. And if you shoot me… well, the sound will bring the hotel security."
She smiled. "But there’s a third option. The elevator at the end of the hall is service only. It leads to a loading dock. You have ninety seconds before the ATS arrives. I suggest you become the ghost I always knew you were."
For a long, terrible second, Mehta’s finger tightened on the trigger.
Then sirens wailed in the distance, growing closer.
He lowered the gun. "Next time, Patil. There won’t be a next time."
He and Zara vanished into the service stairwell. The moment she stepped into the corridor, the
