Chapter 2: Secrets Behind Closed Doors

Honestly, it wasn’t just about the extra cash.

For small hotel owners like me, the real money often comes after midnight. My wife, Suman, always asks how we manage our daughter’s school fees. I just shrug and say, ‘Mushkil se ho raha hai, Suman.’ No one really knows what happens behind these doors when the city sleeps.

But this time, it was also because the girl he brought was a true beauty.

She looked straight out of a TV serial—fair, sharp features, a little mole by her left eyebrow. The kind of face college boys would skip an exam for. I could already imagine the crowd that’d pay extra for her video. Business, yes, but with a hefty bonus.

Young and pretty—definitely a college student.

Even passed out, her innocence lingered. The way her hand clung to her kurti, the tumble of her hair—details buyers always mention in reviews. Sometimes I wonder what their families would say if they ever found out, but I push those thoughts away.

My hotel isn’t far from Lucknow University, just off the main road, so business is usually slow.

The signboard outside only half-lit, tea shops shuttered after 9 p.m. Students sneak in for freedom, always glancing over their shoulders. Egg roll hawkers stay till midnight, but otherwise, the bylanes are all secrets and shadows.

But I don’t mind. I’ve learned other ways to keep the money coming.

It’s survival. After demonetization, nothing’s been the same. Everyone wants digital payments now—too risky for my crowd. So, I adapted.

Two years back, during renovations, I bought a set of top-quality pinhole cameras from the dark web. The footage is crystal clear, and they blend right into the décor. Nobody suspects a thing.

I hid them in tubelight casings, inside switchboards, behind wall hangings. My handiwork, done quietly during repairs. Even my old electrician had no clue what I was up to. I remember thinking, ‘Yeh toh paisa banega, bhai!’

Most of my income comes from these hidden camera videos.

At first, I felt guilty. But the first payment—so much cash for just one night’s footage—melted my conscience faster than Amul butter in June. Now, it’s just routine.

I never advertise online, never put my hotel on OYO or MakeMyTrip, so traffic stays low.

Other owners think I’m mad for not chasing reviews or bookings. Let them laugh. Low profile means safety, and that’s everything.

But that’s exactly what I want.

I control who comes in. Police ignore empty hotels. Neighbours see nothing—they’re too busy with their TV serials or water fights.

This way, no staff to gossip, no extra mouths to feed. I sweep, clean, and keep my secrets myself.

The guests who do come, especially couples, all know what they’re here for.

They tip well, keep quiet, and mind their own business. Some bring their own bedsheets, some wear sunglasses at midnight. Everyone’s outrunning someone’s judgment.

The videos go on underground paid forums. The odds of anyone recognizing themselves are tiny.

Payment comes via UPI to a burner phone—never mine. I change numbers every few months, delete all chats, use VPNs. Still, my heart races when the news flashes a police raid.

And even if they did, most wouldn’t dare complain. All hotel rooms look alike—who could prove it was here?

Only a fool would try an FIR—‘Sir, I saw myself online, but I don’t know where…’ Police would just take their own cut.

But fewer guests means fewer good videos.

I keep a tally in my diary—dates, faces, ratings from buyers. The market is fickle. One good video can make a month’s earnings. Sometimes, weeks go by with nothing but drunks and shady types.

The hot college girls—those are worth their weight in gold.

Buyers pay double for the ‘real’ stuff, unedited. The younger, the prettier, the bigger the payout. Sometimes I hate myself for thinking like this, but survival doesn’t care about shame.

So when I saw the girl’s face, I knew this one couldn’t slip away.

My fingers tingled as I set up the feed. This was what people online call ‘premium content’. I told myself it was just business, but a dark excitement twisted in my gut.

Even though she looked dead drunk, there’s always a market for every kind of fantasy.

People pay for the strangest things. ‘Jaane do, paisa paisa hai,’ I muttered.

"Real corpse-picking experience"—the title was already in my mind. This one would go viral on the dark side of ShareChat.

I pictured the money rolling in—quick UPI pings, new buyers, maybe even a bonus from my usual clients. My phone buzzed with every payment, tucked in my chest pocket.

I was about to make a killing.

I settled back, letting the anticipation wash over me. But that feeling wouldn’t last long.