The Pulse of the StationThe Hyderabad police station hummed like a hornet's nest at 11:45 AM, a cacophony of ringing phones, shouted complaints, and the relentless clatter of ancient typewriters.
Arjun's suside loomed over the station like a monsoon cloud, heavy and unyielding. One week ago, the senior inspector had been lay sprawled in a halo of blood, his limbs twisted at unnatural angles.
The officers whispered among themselves, some calling it a tragedy, others a disgrace.
His team—five men, loyal to a fault—had followed him into oblivion, either dead or vanished, swallowed by a conspiracy no one dared name. The station carried on, but the silence around Arjun's death was deafening. Questions were dangerous here. Truth was a luxury.
Chotu navigated the madness with the grace of a street cat, his lanky frame weaving through the crowd, a tray of steaming chai cups balanced in his hands. At seventeen, he was the station's chai wala, his stall a rickety tin shack across the dusty road. But Chotu was no ordinary tea vendor. He was the station's pulse, a boy with ears sharper than a blade and a knack for fading into the background.
He heard the bribes whispered in dark corners, saw the envelopes change hands, knew which cops bowed to men in silk kurtas.
To them, he was invisible. To him, they were an open book.
Today, his eyes darted, restless, a bluetooth earpiece tucked beneath his worn cap.
His heart thudded, a traitor giving him away. I'm just a chai wala, he told himself, but the lie tasted bitter. This isn't about tea anymore.
Arjun sir's ghost is everywhere, watching, waiting. One wrong step, and I'm gone—Ma, the stall, everything.
His mother's cough echoed in his mind, her frail hands counting the day's earnings. Rent was due. The hospital bills were piling up. He couldn't afford to falter.
"Good morning, sir! Special lemon tea, just for you," Chotu said,
flashing a grin at Head Constable Sharma, a grizzled man buried in a stack of case files. His voice was bright, practiced, but his fingers twitched on the tray.
Sharma glanced up, his pen pausing, eyes narrowing through the haze of his bifocals.
"Chotu, you little rascal. Morning. Business good?"
Chotu leaned in, his grin masking the sweat beading on his neck.
"Sir, ever since Arjun sir… you know… more people loitering outside. Station's a circus. Thieves, reporters, even that shady guy in the black jeep yesterday."
His tone was casual, but his gaze flicked sideways, scanning for listeners.Sharma chuckled, sipping the tea, oblivious to the probe.
"Circus, huh? You see too much, kid. Stick to tea."
He squinted, scratching his stubble.
"Where's Kiran? Didn't you say he wanted his boost drink?"
Chotu's pulse spiked, his fingers tightening on the tray.
Don't freeze, don't freeze.
"Yeah, sir. Where's Kiran sir? It's getting late. He owes me for last week's chai, you know."
He forced a cheeky wink, but his gut churned.
"Probably in the safe house, poking through old evidence," Sharma said, waving a dismissive hand.
"Don't go in there, kid. That's police only. Call him out."
"Yes, sir,"
Chotu said, turning away, but his earpiece crackled to life. A voice, low and urgent, hissed through the static.
"You're doing fine, Chotu. Head to the evidence room. Don't freeze up now."
His heart hammered as he slipped into the station's grimy corridors, the chaos fading to a dull roar.
Shouts echoed—suspects pleading, officers barking orders. He passed a holding cell where a thief took a beating, the thwack of a baton making him flinch. This is crazy, he thought, his breath shallow.
The station's a jungle—cops, crooks, liars, all circling like vultures. That baton could've been for me. One slip, and I'm in that cell, or worse, in a ditch like Arjun sir.
The voice says "trust me,"
but who is he? Anil? Someone else? I'm a pawn, and pawns don't survive.
"I can't do this, sir," he whispered into the earpiece, his voice trembling.
"You can," the voice snapped, sharp as a whip.
"Follow my lead. Straight past the DGP's office—don't look inside. Left at the end, third room on your right."
Chotu's sneakers squeaked on the cracked tiles as he reached the evidence room, its door ajar. He peeked inside, spotting Kiran, a wiry officer with the focus of a hawk, rifling through a stack of files.
His face was taut, his movements hurried, as if he sensed the walls closing in.
"Kiran sir! Special boost, just for you!"
Chotu called, his voice brighter than the dread in his chest. His hands shook, betraying him.
Kiran stepped out, his eyes sharp, snatching the drink.
"Chotu, you're late. I don't have all day."
His tone was clipped, but a flicker of nervousness danced in his gaze.Chotu's hand trembled, and—crash—the boost hit the floor, splattering Kiran's shoes.
Kiran's face darkened, his mouth opening to snap, but Chotu cut in, voice syrupy.
"Sorry, sir! Clumsy me. I'll make you special chai at my stall, promise!"
As he bent to clean the mess, his fingers slipped a small key into Kiran's palm, their eyes locking for a heartbeat.
"Oh, and sir? Bring biryani from the safe room. I'm starving,"
he added with a wink, his heart pounding like a war drum.
Kiran's eyes widened, a spark of excitement breaking his scowl.
"Biryani, huh? You're pushing it, kid."
He clutched the key, glanced around, and bolted back into the evidence room like a man chasing salvation.
Chotu hustled toward the exit, but a burly constable blocked his path, his shadow swallowing the light.
"Oi, chai wala!"
The man's hand cracked across Chotu's face, the slap sharp enough to blur his vision.
"Stay out of the evidence room, you little pest!"
Chotu stumbled, tears stinging his eyes, and mumbled apologies as he fled to his stall. The slap burned, but the voice in his ear was calm, steady.
"You're clear. Good drop. Kiran's got the key, and he's moving."I'm not invisible anymore, Chotu thought, rubbing his cheek. They see me now. And that's dangerous.
Fifteen minutes later, Kiran sauntered up to the stall, his casual stride a poor mask for the urgency in his eyes. The street buzzed with vendors hawking samosas and rickshaws rattling past, but Chotu felt the weight of unseen watchers.
"Special chai, Chotu," Kiran said, leaning on the counter, his voice low, almost a whisper.
Chotu met his gaze, his voice steady despite the bruise blooming on his cheek.
"No biryani, no chai, sir."
Kiran smirked, sliding a small, tightly wrapped bag across the counter, its weight heavy with secrets.
"Biryani's ready. Where do I open it?"
Chotu nodded to the stall's back corner, where a rickety curtain hid a cramped room.
"Inside, sir. Nice and quiet."
Behind the curtain, a figure waited—a man in a cap, his face shrouded by a mask, his posture taut as a drawn bowstring.
Kiran slipped in, shutting the curtain with a soft rustle.
"Anil, it's not safe here," Kiran whispered, handing over the bag, his voice tight with fear and resolve.
"You're the last one standing. Everyone's hunting you. This bag—it's everything we've got on Arjun's case. Get to a safe place."
Anil's masked face tilted, his voice a low rasp.
"You're sticking your neck out, Kiran. Why?"
Kiran's jaw clenched, his eyes haunted.
"Because Arjun was my friend. Because someone's got to stop this—monsters . You've got the files. Don't waste them."
He pressed a burner phone into Anil's hand, its plastic cold and final.
"If you need me, use this. Now go."
Anil nodded, slipping out like a wisp of smoke, vanishing into the evening crowd.
Chotu watched from the counter, his hands steady as he poured tea, but his mind raced. Anil's gone, but it's not over. That bag—it's a bomb, and I just lit the fuse.
The voice in his ear returned, a lifeline in the storm.
"Anil's got the evidence. We're close, Chotu. One name in those files could blow this wide open—a minister, maybe higher. Stay sharp. You're not just a chai wala anymore."
Chotu's eyes flicked to the street, where a shadow lingered under a flickering street lamp, its outline too still, too deliberate.
Friend or foe?
He didn't know. The kettle hissed, the crowd roared, and Chotu poured another cup, his hands steady but his heart a caged bird.
In Hyderabad's underbelly, trust was a mirage, and Chotu was learning fast—pour the tea, play the part, and never look back.
Night cloaked Hyderabad in a restless hush, the city's pulse slowing to a predatory crawl. Kiran patrolled the dimly lit streets on his night rounds, his boots scraping the cracked pavement, his flashlight slicing through the dark. The air was thick with the scent of street food and diesel, punctuated by the distant bark of a stray dog.
His partner for the night had veered off to cover the opposite side of the beat, leaving Kiran alone in the silence.The city's watching, he thought, his grip tightening on his baton.
Anil's got the files, but for how long? The station's a viper's nest—someone's leaking, someone's pulling strings.
Arjun trusted the wrong people, and now he's gone. I can't make that mistake.
Priya's face flashed in his mind—her laugh, her warmth, the way she hummed while cooking biryani.
If they find out what I've done, she's not safe. I'm not safe. But I can't stop now.
A shadow moved, too fast. Before Kiran could react, an iron rod cracked against his skull with a sickening thud. The world spun, stars exploding behind his eyes, and then—blackness.
He wokeforest fire of pain seared through Kiran's body, a relentless, scorching torment. His head throbbed, blood crusting his temple, his wrists burning against rough rope binding him to a chair.
A faint click, and a flickering light sparked to life, casting eerie shadows across a grimy, abandoned room. The walls were stained with mildew, the air heavy with damp and decay.
A figure loomed over him, face hidden behind a lion mask, its plastic snout glinting with menace, its eyes cold and unyielding.
"Missing files, Kiran,"
the voice behind the mask growled, low and deliberate, each word a blade.
"Evidence from the station. Gone. Who took them?"
Kiran's heart sank, the truth a lead weight in his chest. The evidence room breach—Arjun's case files, the ones he'd handed to Anil.
The theft wasn't random; someone inside the department was covering tracks, feeding a shadow network that strangled the city. The rot went deeper than he'd feared, a web of corruption woven into the station's bones.
His wounds screamed as he shifted, but the pain was nothing compared to the dread clawing his gut.
"I don't know,"
he rasped, his throat dry, his voice barely a whisper.The lion mask tilted, unconvinced.
"Don't play dumb, officer. You were in that room. You think we don't have eyes?"
The figure leaned closer, the snout inches from Kiran's face, the stench of cheap cologne mingling with mildew.
"Names. Now."
Priya's smile flickered in his mind, fragile and distant. They'd married just months ago, dreaming of a small house, a child's laughter. Now, tied to this chair, he saw it all crumbling.
"Please… I'll tell you everything. Don't hurt my family."
I'm sorry, Priya, he thought, his chest tightening. I thought I could outrun this, keep you safe. But this city—it eats people like us.
The lion's a puppet, same as me. Someone bigger's pulling the strings, someone Arjun got too close to. If I talk, I'm dead. If I don't, Priya's dead.
The lion's eyes sparked, a predator tasting blood. Kiran's voice cracked, shame and fear choking him.
"I… I gave a phone to Anil. He has the files. I was just following orders."
"Anil,"
the lion repeated, savoring the name, his tone cold as steel. He straightened, towering over Kiran.
"This is your first and last chance. Work for us. Find Anil, get those files back, or we wipe out your family. Priya first."
The threat landed like a blade, slicing through Kiran's resolve. He nodded weakly, tears mixing with the blood on his face.
"I'll do it,"
he whispered, the words ash in his mouth.The light flicked off, and the world dissolved into darkness.
Morning light pierced Kiran's eyes as he woke in a hospital bed, the sterile smell of antiseptic sharp in his nose. His head was bandaged, his body a map of bruises.
A cluster of officers stood by his bed, their faces a mix of concern and suspicion, their eyes probing for cracks in his armor.
"What happened, Kiran?"
one asked, notepad ready, his tone laced with doubt.
"Accident..."
Kiran mumbled, his voice flat, the lie bitter on his tongue.
"Slipped on my rounds, hit my head."
The officer raised an eyebrow, his pen hovering.
"Slipped? You look like you went ten rounds with a truck. Sure you don't remember anything?"
Kiran forced a weak shrug, his gaze fixed on the ceiling.
"Just a bad night."
The officers left, their footsteps fading, but the lion's threat echoed in his skull, a relentless drumbeat.
He had to find Anil—not for the lion, but to warn him, to keep the files safe. First, he had to protect Priya. Safe houses, distant relatives—anywhere she could hide.
The station was a snake pit, and the lion's network had eyes everywhere.
Hyderabad sun beat down on Chotu's tea stall, its tin roof creaking under the midday heat. His eyes sharp, scanning the crowd. The slap from the constable still stung, a bruise blooming on his cheek like a warning. But he wasn't just a chai wala—not today.
Anil had vanished, the bag of evidence tucked under his jacket, a ghost slipping into Hyderabad's veins. Chotu knew little about him, only that he was the last thread in a case that had swallowed Arjun and his team.
Whispers of betrayal, bribes, and blood money hung over the station like a curse. Chotu's job was simple: play the innocent kid, move pieces across the board, and don't get caught.
That shadow by the lamp last night—it's still out there, he thought, stirring the chai, the steam curling like a warning.
Anil's gone, but the game's not over. The voice says I'm close,
but close to what?
A bullet?
A name?
I'm no hero, just a kid with a kettle and too many secrets.
But Arjun didn't back down, and neither will I. Ma needs me. The truth needs me.He poured another cup, his smile fixed, but his heart raced.