Blood pooled under the shattered desk. Flesh and bone lay scattered in cruel, jagged pieces. The air smelled metallic, sharp as a knife.
Sana stood frozen in the doorway, her breath locked in her throat.
She had never seen anything so horrifying.
Around her, voices rose in panicked whispers.
Who could do this?
Sana pressed her hand over her mouth, fighting the urge to retch.
Mr. R. Khanna, her boss, had been strict. Cold. Always demanding more work, more hours.
But he didn't deserve to die like this.
No one did.
She closed her eyes, and the noise of the room faded.
The thoughts didn't.
They came to her like radio signals, one after another:
Look at all that blood…
What kind of monster would slice a man apart?
I saw her leave last night…
It was after ten…
Her heart skipped.
After ten.
She remembered the time she'd left.
10:05 PM.
Her face had been the last one the security camera saw.
Sana felt her legs wobble. She reached for the wall to steady herself.
The main officer in charge barked orders:
"Search everything. No detail is too small."
"Yes, sir!"
She heard boots stomp across the marble floor.
Footage, we need footage.
In one corner, a technician worked on the CCTV monitor.
The screen flickered.
Images rolled past—office lights dimming, employees leaving.
Then the clock struck ten.
The last person visible was Sana, walking out with her bag.
After that, the screen turned black.
Missing footage. Someone erased it, she thought, cold dread spreading in her chest.
But she didn't say a word.
"Everyone here will be questioned," a policewoman announced. "Please wait in the lobby until called."
A low hum of fear rippled through the staff.
Sana's thoughts were a blur.
Why me? Why was I the last?
Suddenly, a hush fell over the room.
All eyes turned toward the entrance.
He had arrived.
He was taller than any man she'd ever seen, over six feet. His uniform fit perfectly over broad shoulders. He walked with a calm authority that made everyone instinctively move aside.
IPS Officer Siddharth Chauhan.
Even before she read anyone's mind, Sana knew who he was.
His reputation had reached every corner of the city.
In the silence, she caught the quick, excited whispers of her colleagues.
Oh my God, that's Siddharth Chauhan!
He's solved so many impossible cases…
Only two years on the force, and he's already famous.
A girl near Sana leaned toward her friend.
"Look at him. Six feet tall, and so handsome. If I married him, my life would be perfect," she gushed.
The other woman snorted.
"You idiot. He's twenty-five. Younger than you by three years."
"So what? Younger men are better," she teased.
Sana might have smiled on another day. But today, her chest felt too tight to even breathe.
Siddharth ignored the gossip.
He moved straight to the CCTV monitor, studying the last few seconds of the footage.
His dark eyes narrowed.
Someone planned this, Sana heard his mind say—steady, focused.
He turned slowly.
And when his gaze fell on her, Sana felt pinned in place.
His eyes were sharp as a blade.
Behind him, a young officer was watching Sana.
The man's thoughts were clear as glass:
So beautiful…so innocent. If I wasn't married, I'd ask her to be my wife.
Siddharth's lip curled in faint contempt.
Without looking at the officer, he spoke coldly.
"Don't be fooled by an innocent face."
"Sir?" the officer stammered.
Siddharth's voice was even but deadly quiet.
"Even the gentlest-looking girl can be a dangerous killer."
Sana's heart stopped.
He was looking straight at her.
A part of her wanted to protest—to tell him she had nothing to do with this.
But her voice wouldn't come.
Instead, she could only stare at her boss's blood drying on the floor.
Siddharth walked toward her with unhurried steps.
The crowd seemed to part for him without a word.
When he stopped, they were barely a foot apart.
He studied her face carefully, his gaze taking in every detail—her wide, frightened eyes, her pale lips, her trembling hands.
"Your name?"
His voice was deep, smooth as polished stone.
"S-Sana," she whispered.
"Sana…?"
"Just…Sana."
He glanced at the CCTV screen again.
"You were the last to leave the office last night."
"Yes," she admitted, her throat dry.
"What time did you go?"
"Ten…five. Maybe ten-ten," she stammered.
"And after you?"
"No one," she said honestly.
For a moment, his eyes searched hers.
Sana felt a strange prickle in her chest.
His thoughts came through to her in a clear, steady stream:
She looks terrified. But is it guilt—or shock?
Her pupils dilated. Breath uneven. Hard to say.
Stay neutral.
He stepped back, crossing his arms.
"Did you see anyone suspicious?"
"No."
"Hear anything?"
"No."
"Notice anything wrong with Mr. Khanna yesterday?"
She hesitated.
She remembered the way her boss had been glancing at the accounts file all day. Nervous. Distracted.
But she didn't want to say it. Not yet.
"He seemed…tired," she murmured.
A flicker of disappointment crossed Siddharth's face.
Not helpful.
He turned to the other officers.
"Check every file in this office. Bring me any record Mr. Khanna touched yesterday."
"Yes, sir!"
Sana's hands curled into fists.
She could feel everyone staring.
The gossip, the suspicion, the pity.
And over it all, a heavy silence.
She took a shaky step back.
Her mind was spinning.
Someone erased the footage. Someone wanted me to be the last one seen.
She swallowed.
Someone wants me blamed.
Siddharth looked back at her one last time.
His voice was low, careful.
"We'll need your statement, Sana."
"I understand," she said softly.
But inside, her heart was thudding against her ribs.
Who did this?
Why frame me?
And what if the killer was someone I already knew…?
Sana forced herself to breathe slowly.
She couldn't afford to fall apart.
Not when her life—and the truth—was slipping through her fingers.