CHAPTER 4

Mumbai, 1993. Ayesha Sharma sits at her desk in the cramped back room of the precinct, fluorescent lights flickering overhead. Her fingers trace the edges of an old case file, the paper softened by time and wear.

The words on the front read: Hotel Amara Bombing - 1978.

She opens it slowly, as though afraid she might be opening the pandora's box.

Black-and-white photographs spill out: charred remains of what was once a luxury hotel, the jagged skeleton of its façade piercing the Mumbai skyline like a broken tooth. Images of victims follow—faces frozen in shock, grief, or worse, the emptiness of death. Ayesha exhales, bracing herself. She’s seen these photos before, but they never lose their weight. The file is thick, and packed with statements, timelines, and evidence—or what passed for evidence back then. Officially, the bombing was blamed on a rival gang attempting to send a message.

Five men were arrested, convicted, and executed. Case closed.

But for Ayesha, the case has always felt incomplete, like a story with missing chapters. She reads through it again, this time slower, searching for what her predecessors might have overlooked. Her pen taps against the desk as she scribbles notes in the margins. Statements that contradict each other. Witnesses whose testimonies changed mysteriously. Key pieces of evidence that seem too convenient.

Then his name appears: Ayush Khurana.

She leans back, her sharp eyes narrowing as she studies his photograph. The young man stares back at her, his face unassuming, almost angelic. Twenty years old, a promising college student, bright and charismatic—or so the reports say.

And then, one day, he vanishes. Nobody. No leads. Just silence.

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Or is it?

Ayesha’s pen hovers over her notebook as she reads further. Ayush’s disappearance isn’t the end of the story—it’s the beginning. The file hints at something far darker: a series of murders in the months leading up to the bombing, each marked by cryptic notes left at the scene. The victims, strangled with unnerving precision, seem unrelated at first glance. But investigators had briefly speculated on a link before the trail went cold.

And Ayush? His name surfaces again and again, though never conclusively.

Her predecessors dismissed the idea. Ayush Khurana, a kind-hearted student, could never be capable of such horrors, they claimed. Witnesses describe him as generous, the sort of boy who’d help carry groceries for a neighbour or volunteer at a blood drive.

But there are other accounts—darker ones. A neighbour once overheard Ayush arguing with a man late at night. When suddenly everything went silent with a sharp clang. The ma had perhaps been a beggar or so, but nobody paid attention.

“Victim or perpetrator?” Ayesha mutters.

The duality gnaws at her.

Her pen taps against the desk as she flips to the next section of the file: a report detailing a meeting Ayush allegedly attended just days before the bombing.

The names listed alongside his leap out like phantoms—aliases and fake identities, men who have erased themselves from the system. But then, a name stands out among the others, one that shouldn’t belong in the graveyard of obscurity: Ashwin Nair.

Her breath catches. Ashwin. A man who has since risen to prominence, his wealth and influence casting a long shadow over Mumbai. On the surface, he is untouchable—a respected industrialist, philanthropist, and the epitome of success.

As she traces the timeline, Ayesha’s heart begins to race. During the period when Ayush vanished—when names were changing, aliases were assumed—Ashwin Nair had been part of the list. His name had been buried among others who had taken new identities and erased their pasts as if they were running from something—or someone.

The timeline is almost too perfect. Ayush’s disappearance. The murders. The bombing. And now Ashwin, his name circling the same chaos like a storm brewing on the horizon. But the proofs remain elusive.

And as always she is back to square one. She needs proof. A clue.

She studies Ayush’s photograph again, the youthful face staring back at her like a riddle.

Who is he? A promising student caught in the wrong place at the wrong time?

Or a calculated player whose innocence has been a mask all along?