Mayurakshi Sharma 1 The monsoon had painted Lucknow in sepia — wet alleys shimmering under rusted streetlights, the scent of damp earth clinging to the city’s bones. Zoya Rizvi sat on the floor of her small apartment in Hazratganj, hunched over a half-broken laptop and sipping over-steeped chai. The newsroom she once called home had shuttered six months ago; now, freelance gigs and occasional bylines were all she had to show for her stubborn honesty. She was finishing a piece on encroachment near the Gomti when her encrypted ProtonMail pinged. The subject line read simply: “1994. Truth rots slowly.” Attached…