CHAPTER 3
It’s New Year’s Eve, but this corner of the city feels untouched by celebration. The streets are eerily quiet, the usual hum of life dampened as if the night itself is mourning. Mumbai, usually ablaze with light and motion, feels dimmer, as though the city is holding its breath. A distant rumble of thunder rolls across the sky, promising rain. The air is thick and humid, and clings to everything like a second skin.
At the base of Divakar Heights, Ayesha Sharma steps out of her car. Her boots touch the damp asphalt with a purposeful thud. Around her, the world murmurs—voices hushed, curious faces lingering in the shadows, the occasional flash of a camera cutting through the gloom.
She barely notices.
Her focus is sharp, slicing through the noise as she surveys the scene. The towering apartment complex rises above her like a fortress. Inside, a man is dead, his blood soaking into fine Persian wool, and the city is already whispering about it. The street teemed with the curious and the desperate. Reporters, neighbours, and passersby craned their necks, hungry for a glimpse of tragedy. Ayesha ignores them, adjusting her leather jacket as her fingers brush against the cool press of her badge tucked inside. Her short hair, damp from the humid air, clings to the nape of her neck, but she pays it no mind.
She strides toward the entrance and flashes her badge at the constable.
“Officer Sharma, Crime Branch,” she said, her voice steady but low, with authority.
The constable stepped aside, and she entered the building, her mind already ticking through the details she knew: prominent businessman, gruesome murder, no suspects yet. It had all the makings of a case that would stay in the headlines for weeks. The lobby is eerily quiet, its marble floors gleaming under cold fluorescent light. She presses the elevator button, her reflection staring back at her from the polished steel doors—sharp eyes, skin glowing with the subtle sheen of effort, lips set in a firm line, complementing her strong cheekbones.
She looks like someone who has never faltered.
But inside, she knows better.
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Upstairs
The door to apartment 703 is ajar, a single crime scene tape stretched across it like a boundary. Inside, the air feels colder. The scent of blood—metallic and unmistakable—lingers, mingling with the sterile tang of cleaning supplies and the faint musk of old leather.
Ayesha steps in, her eyes immediately drawn to the body. Rohit Varma lies on his side near the sofa, his lifeless face pale against the dark pool beneath him. His arms are bent unnaturally, his shirt torn, and his expression frozen between shock and terror. She crouched beside the corpse, studying the details with clinical detachment. The blood is congealing, its edges darkening—he’s been dead for hours. Her gloved fingers hover just above his bruised wrist. The defensive wounds on his palms tell her everything she needs to know about his final moments.
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“Cause of death?” she asked the forensic officer kneeling by the body.
“Multiple stab wounds. Struggle’s evident—there are bruises on his arms and defensive cuts on his palms.”
The man’s expression was frozen in shock, his eyes staring vacantly into the void. She leaned in closer, noting the faint smudges on his shirt collar. Lipstick?
Her gaze shifts to the note placed neatly on his chest.
"I laughed. I escaped... Because I could."
The handwriting is almost elegant. It sends a ripple of unease through her, though she keeps her expression neutral.
“Sharma,” a voice calls.
She glances up to see Inspector Khan standing near the door, his arms crossed. He’s stocky, middle-aged, with the kind of face that has seen too much and learned to live with it.
“The signature looks familiar?” he asks, his tone heavy.
“Looks like it,” she replies, rising to her feet. Her voice is calm, clipped, and professional. But her mind is already racing.
She takes in the rest of the room. The broken picture frames, a toppled whiskey glass, faint scratches on the armrest of a chair, the faint smears of blood along the wall. There was a struggle—brief but violent. Yet there’s something meticulous about it all. Everything feels too... precise.
Khan steps closer, his eyes narrowing as he studies her. “You’re thinking this is more than just another killing.”
“I know it is,” she says without hesitation.
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The Note
She takes another look at the note, its words clicking an unforgettable memory.
The scene, the method, the note—it wasn’t unfamiliar.
Fifteen years ago.
A case that went unsolved. A name whispered in the dark. And now, this.
“Any leads?” she asks, snapping herself back to the present.
“Not yet,” Khan admits, his frustration evident. “No witnesses, no cameras. Just a dead body and a fancy apartment.”
Ayesha nods, but her jaw tightens. This isn’t just about Rohit Varma. This is about something bigger. She can feel it.
Khan added, glancing at the body. “We’ll dig into Varma’s business dealings. He had enemies. Lots of them.”
Ayesha frowned, her fingers brushing the edge of a cracked photograph frame. The family in the picture stared back at her, their smiles ghostly beneath the fractured glass.
“This isn’t just about business,” she said softly. “There’s something else here.”
Khan gave her a sidelong look. “You think it’s connected to... you know?”
She didn’t answer immediately. The unsolved case from over a decade ago loomed in her mind.
She moves to the window, pulling back the curtain. The city sprawls below, its lights blurred by the thickening clouds. The rain begins, a soft patter against the glass, almost gentle. But Ayesha knows storms are rarely kind.
Somewhere, out there, he was watching. She could feel it.
And she would find him.
She always did.