The Hyderabad sun beat down mercilessly, its glare reflecting off the cracked pavement outside Rishi's office.
It was 11 AM, and the city pulsed with its usual chaos—blaring horns, the sizzle of roadside dosas, and the distant hum of a million lives colliding.
Rishi stepped out of his jeep, his leather jacket sticking to his skin in the humid air. His sharp eyes swept the street, a habit born from years of sniffing out trouble in the city's shadows.
But today, something snagged his attention: three boys, barely ten, dressed in crumpled school uniforms, their backpacks sagging like burdens too heavy for their small frames.
They stood in front of his office, their faces drawn, eyes darting nervously.Kids don't linger like this.
Not at this hour. Something's wrong. Rishi's gut twisted, a familiar prickle of instinct. He approached them, his boots scuffing the pavement.
"Hey, kids,"
he said, his voice softer than the gravelly tone he used with deadbeat clients.
"What're you doing here? School's that way."
The smallest boy, with messy hair and a tear-streaked face, looked up. His lips trembled, and before he could speak, a sob tore through him, raw and jagged.
The other two boys shuffled closer, their own eyes glistening with fear. This isn't truancy. This is terror.
Rishi crouched to their level, his leather jacket creaking.
"Easy now. Come inside. You're safe here."
He led them into his office, a cluttered cave of case files, flickering fluorescent lights, and the faint scent of cigarette smoke clinging to the walls. The creaky ceiling fan spun lazily, doing little to cut the heat.
Rishi rummaged through a desk drawer, pulling out a crumpled packet of chocolates.
"Here,"
he said, handing them out.
"Eat these. Then tell me what's going on."
The crying boy, clutching the chocolate like a lifeline, couldn't stop sobbing. His friend, a stockier kid with a stubborn set to his jaw, tried to speak but choked on his words, his face crumpling. The third boy, wiry and wide-eyed, seemed to hold it together better.
Rishi fixed his gaze on him.
"Kid, talk to me," he said, his voice low, urgent.
"What's got you all like this?"
The boy swallowed hard, glancing at his friends.
"I'm Bittu," he whispered, his voice barely cutting through the hum of the fan.
"It's… it's Bablu's sister, Meera. She's been missing for three days. Bablu… he can't sleep without her stories. He's falling apart, sir."
Rishi's chest tightened. Three days. Missing girl. No wonder these kids are a mess. He turned to the crying boy—Bablu.
"That true, kid? Your sister's gone?"
Bablu nodded, his small body shaking.
Rishi placed a hand on his shoulder, his voice steady but laced with steel.
"Don't cry, Bablu. I'm gonna find her. But you gotta help me. Tell me everything."
Bablu sniffled, wiping his nose with a grubby sleeve.
"M-my name's Bhavan… but everyone calls me Bablu. I'm in fourth class at Loyola School.
Meera… she's my sister. She's in B.Tech. She's always there, telling me stories, helping me with homework. But three days ago… she didn't come home."
His voice broke, and he buried his face in his hands.
Three days. No trace. This is bad. Rishi's mind raced, piecing together fragments.
Before he could press further, the office door creaked open. Praveen, his lanky partner with a perpetual smirk, stepped in, a cigarette dangling from his lips. His grin vanished when he saw the kids.
"What the hell, boss?" he said, flicking the cigarette into an ashtray.
"Why's it looking like a school assembly in here?"
Rishi stood, his expression grim.
"Praveen, drop the attitude and get over here. We've got a case. Missing girl, Meera, Bablu's sister. Three days gone. These kids are scared out of their minds."
Praveen's eyes narrowed, the playful glint gone. He grabbed a notepad from the desk and sat across from Bablu, his pen tapping the paper.
"Alright, kid," he said, his voice softer now.
"Start talking. What happened to your sister?"
Bablu took a shaky breath, his small hands gripping the chair.
"She… she didn't come home. My parents, they're searching everywhere. They went to the police, but the police… they're saying she ran away.
Eloped with some guy. But Meera wouldn't do that! She's not like that!"
His voice rose, desperate, and he dissolved into sobs again.
Rishi leaned forward, his mind churning. Elopement? That's the cop's go-to when they want a case off their desk. Lazy bastards.
"Bablu," he said, his tone calm but commanding,
"look at me. I'm gonna find Meera. I swear it. But I need every detail.
When did you last see her?
What was she like before she disappeared?"
Bablu's eyes, red and swollen, met Rishi's.
"She… she was different the last two months. Quiet. Not smiling. She was sick a lot, going to the doctor. She stopped talking to me, to anyone. Three days ago, she said she was going to a friend's birthday party. She… she never came back."
Health issues. Withdrawal. Then a sudden disappearance. Rishi's instincts screamed foul play.
He glanced at Praveen, who was scribbling notes, his jaw tight.
"Alright, kids," Rishi said, standing.
"You're late for school. We're dropping you off, and then we're starting the search for Meera. You did the right thing coming here."
Bablu reached into his bag, pulling out a small plastic cover jingling with coins and a few crumpled notes.
"This… this is all we have," he said, his voice trembling.
"For your fee."
Rishi's throat caught. These kids are breaking their piggy banks for their sister. He looked at Praveen, who gave a small nod and took the coins with a gentle smile.
"You're our clients now, kid," Praveen said.
"We've got your back."
Rishi and Praveen herded the boys into the jeep, the engine growling as they navigated Hyderabad's chaotic streets toward Loyola School.
The city blurred past—neon signs, crowded markets, the stench of exhaust—but Rishi's mind was elsewhere. Three days. No leads. A girl who's not herself. This isn't a runaway case. Something's rotten.
At the school, Rishi met the headmaster, a stern man with a pinched face and wire-rimmed glasses.
"These boys are shaken," Rishi said, his voice low.
"Their sister, Meera, is missing. We need their parents' contact details and address."
The headmaster's expression softened, and he handed over a slip of paper.
"Find that girl, Mr. Rishi," he said gravely.
"This family… they're good people. They don't deserve this."
Rishi and Praveen drove to Bablu's home, a modest house tucked in a quiet lane. The air felt heavy, oppressive, as if the house itself was mourning.
Rishi rang the bell, and a woman in her mid-forties opened the door. Lakshmi, Bablu's mother, looked like a ghost—her face gaunt, her eyes sunken, her sari wrinkled as if she'd slept in it for days.
"Hi, madam," Praveen said cautiously.
"Are you Bablu's mother?"
Lakshmi's hand flew to her chest, her voice trembling.
"Bablu?
What's happened to my son?
Is he hurt?"
Her eyes darted between them, wild with fear.Rishi raised a hand, his voice steady.
"Bablu's fine, ma'am. He's at school, safe.
We're here about Meera."
Lakshmi's shoulders sagged, and she gestured them inside. The house was a shell of itself—curtains drawn, a half-eaten plate of rice on the table, the air thick with despair.
"This home…"
Lakshmi whispered, her voice breaking,
"it's nothing without Meera. She's our heart. And now… she's gone."
This place feels like it's given up. Rishi's eyes scanned the room, noting the faded family photos, a cracked vase, the eerie stillness.
"Can we see Meera's room?"
he asked.Lakshmi led them to a small bedroom, its walls plastered with engineering diagrams and a few Polaroids of Meera laughing with friends. Rishi's gaze swept the space, his fingers brushing over a notebook on her desk, its pages filled with neat handwriting. Under a scarf, he spotted a bottle of prescription pills—unmarked, half-empty.
What the hell is this? He slipped the bottle into his pocket, his mind buzzing. Medication. No label. This isn't right.
"Where's your husband?"
Praveen asked, his notepad open, pen poised.
"He's at the police station," Lakshmi said, her voice barely audible.
"For updates. But they're useless. They keep saying Meera eloped with a boy, Charan. They say he's missing too, so it must be true. But my Meera… she'd never do that. Never."
Rishi's ears pricked at the name. Charan. The convenient scapegoat.
"Tell us about Meera," he said, turning to Lakshmi.
"Anything strange lately?
Her health, her behavior?"
Lakshmi's eyes filled with tears, and she clutched the edge of a chair.
"She wasn't herself. The last two months, she was… distant. Always tired, sick. She was seeing a doctor, taking medicines. She stopped talking, stopped laughing. We thought… maybe college stress. Or maybe…" Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"Maybe someone was troubling her. But she wouldn't tell us."
Rishi's pulse quickened. Someone troubling her? That's a lead.
"What happened the night she disappeared?" he pressed.
Lakshmi's face crumpled, and she sank into a chair.
"Three days ago, she said she was going to a friend's birthday party. She hadn't gone out in weeks, so we were happy she was socializing.
She called us that night, around 11 PM, from an unknown number. She said her friend's bike got a puncture, and she was coming home in another friend's car.
'Five minutes, Amma,' she said. 'I'll be home in five minutes.'"
Lakshmi's voice broke, and she covered her face.
"We waited. 11:30, midnight, 1 AM. We called that number, but it was switched off. Her father went out, searched the streets, called her friends. They all said she left the party by 10:30. We didn't know what to do."
Rishi's mind churned. Unknown number. A car. A timeline that doesn't add up.
"What happened next?"
he asked, his voice low, urgent.
"The next morning, we went to the police," Lakshmi said, her voice hollow.
"Filed a complaint. They said they'd investigate. But that afternoon, an officer came here. He was… strange. Asked odd questions—about Meera's friends, her habits, if she had a boyfriend.
Then he said she eloped with Charan. Said Charan's missing too, so it's obvious. But I know my daughter. She wouldn't run away. She wouldn't leave us like this."
Rishi's gut twisted. The police are pushing this narrative too hard.
Why?
He exchanged a glance with Praveen, whose pen had stopped moving, his jaw clenched.
"Do you have Charan's details?" Rishi asked.
"Anything you know about him?"
Lakshmi nodded, pulling a crumpled paper from a drawer. "
His address, his number.
Please… Meera's a good girl. Don't let them tarnish her name. The police… I think they're covering something up.
They're not even trying to find her."
Rishi took the paper, his eyes narrowing.
"Don't worry, ma'am. We'll find Meera. And we'll get to the bottom of this."
As they left the house, Rishi's mind was a storm. Unmarked pills.
A girl who's not herself.
A police force too quick to dismiss a missing person.
This isn't just a disappearance. Someone's pulling strings. He climbed into the jeep, Praveen sliding in beside him.
"Boss,"
Praveen said, his voice low,
"this stinks. The cops are burying this case. And those pills… what was Meera into?"
Rishi gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white.
"She wasn't into anything,"
he said, his voice hard.
"She's a victim. My gut's screaming it. Meera's caught in something big—something the police don't want us to find. And this Charan? Either he's a patsy, or he's in on it."
Praveen leaned back, his eyes dark.
"So what's the play?
Charan's house?"
Rishi nodded, his jaw tight.
"We start there. But I'm telling you, Praveen, this city's got secrets, and Meera's disappearance is just the tip. Whoever's behind this… they're not ready for us."
The jeep roared to life, tearing through Hyderabad's labyrinthine streets toward Charan's address.
Rishi's mind churned with dark possibilities. Three days. A girl who's not what she seems. A police force with something to hide.
And a name—Charan—that might just crack this case wide open. The city loomed around them, its shadows deepening, and Rishi knew one thing for certain: this was no ordinary case. This was a fight for the truth, and he was just getting started.
To be continued…