The house was quiet, almost too polite for its own good. The kind of silence that didn't come from peace, but from something having been removed.... like music that had suddenly stopped in the middle of a song.
Justice Raghu Nandan's bungalow sat neatly in the heart of Banjara Hills. Even in death, the man's home looked too tidy to be real. Sridhar unlocked the door and stepped aside. Vishal followed, not saying a word yet.
The living room looked untouched. Sofa cushions perfectly placed, a glass of water still on the coaster, an old wall clock ticking away like nothing had happened. Vishal's eyes moved fast, but his body stayed still .... the way a dog sniffs the air before growling.
Sridhar led him to the bedroom.
"He was found here. Right side of the bed. No sign of struggle. Eyes wide open."
Vishal crouched beside the bed, fingers brushing the floor. He noticed something instantly..... the light scratch mark beside the bedside table leg.
"Drawer was pulled out. Then shoved back in a hurry."
Sridhar blinked. "What?"
"This leg," Vishal pointed. "It's moved. Just a little. Dust line's broken. Someone opened this after cleaning."
He pulled open the drawer. Empty.
But inside the handle, a thin smear of red kumkum. Not much... just enough to whisper something had been here.
"He didn't wear kumkum, did he?"
Sridhar shook his head.
Vishal stood up slowly. "Where's his study?"
The study was lined with bookshelves, two generations worth of law, history, and justice arranged with the kind of obsessive neatness only judges and retired army officers seem to maintain.
On the desk sat a framed photo of the judge with three others. Sridhar walked in and pointed them out.
"Left to right.... Manek, businessman. Rakesh, MLA. And Vani, school principal. Friends from school. Still met once a month, here."
Vishal picked up the frame and stared at it for a second longer than needed.
He moved to the bookshelves, running his fingers along the spines until one of them didn't quite fit — thicker, more used. A green volume titled Criminal Amendments (1997–2015).
Inside was a hollowed-out space. And inside that, a flash drive, wrapped in paper.
He opened the note.
"If anything happens to me, give this to Vishal."
Vishal's face didn't change, but he blinked slowly.
"I've never met this man. Not once. Why the hell would he leave this for me?"
Sridhar had no answer.
Back at his office, Vishal tossed the flash drive on the desk like it was a trick coin. He wasn't alone for long.
Footsteps came up the stairs. Firm, annoyed ones.
His landlord, Mr. Narayana, walked in like he owned the building .... which, to be fair, he did.
"You're solving murders, but you can't pay rent?"
Vishal didn't look up. "I'm solving murders so I can pay rent. Bit of a long game."
"You said the same thing last month!"
"And yet you didn't throw me out. Emotionally attached to me, are you?"
"I'm attached to the money you owe!"
Behind him, the landlady appeared calm sari, silver hair tied back neatly, carrying a small lunchbox.
"Let him be, Naru. He'll pay. One day."
Narayana scowled. "He's always charming when he owes money."
She handed the lunchbox to Vishal. "Eat something. You look thinner than last week."
"Flattering as always," Vishal said with a smile.
She smiled back, touched his head gently, and left. Narayana followed, muttering under his breath.
Vishal opened the box. Lemon rice. Still warm.
He sighed, smiled faintly, and returned to the flash drive.
The laptop groaned as it started up. The flash drive was inserted. One video file. Password protected.
Typical.
He glanced at the small case it came in. A sticky note was stuck inside.
Just one word, written in blue ink:
"MILKTEA"
He typed it in.
The file opened.
The video began to play.
And just like that, the smile dropped off Vishal's face.