Chapter 2: Echoes of the Past
The drizzle thinned to a steady mist, turning the crime scene into a blurred painting of flashing sirens and shadowed figures. Arjun stood rigidly, every muscle taut, as if his body hadn't yet caught up with the storm inside his chest. Riya Five years of silence, and suddenly she was back, kneeling by a corpse, talking about "messages" in murders that already smelled of conspiracy.
He forced his mind to detach, to become the detective again. "Don't get poetic with me, Riya. What kind of message?"
Riya's gloved fingers traced the edge of the rose petals. She avoided his eyes. "Each victim was left in a public place. Each one had connections to someone powerful. Whoever this is… they're not just killing. They're making a point."
Before Arjun could push her further, a constable called him over. "Sir, we found something."
He followed the officer to the gutter where rainwater carried crimson streaks away. There, wedged between the concrete and mud, lay a cigarette butt. Ordinary—except for the faint lipstick stain on its edge.
The same shade of deep wine red that Riya wore tonight.
Arjun felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. He glanced at her across the street, her face unreadable as she continued her work. Coincidence? Or… planted?
The sound of footsteps broke his spiral. Arjun turned to find a familiar silhouette striding toward him—Inspector Dinesh Rawat, his superior officer and long-time friend.
"Arjun," Rawat said, lowering his voice. "Word from above is that Kabir Malhotra's name shouldn't come up in your reports. Not directly."
Arjun stiffened. "You've got to be kidding me."
Rawat's expression was grim. "Orders. You know how it is. Kabir has too many politicians in his pocket. Keep your head down."
But Arjun's gaze shifted to where Kabir's car had been moments earlier. He clenched his fists. Keeping his head down had never been his style.
When the scene began to wrap up, he walked back toward his car. Rain tapped rhythmically against the roof, the only sound between him and Riya as she approached.
"You shouldn't be here," he muttered, opening the driver's door.
She tilted her umbrella, studying him with a quiet intensity. "You don't believe me, do you?"
He paused, meeting her eyes. There it was—the same warmth that had once undone him, now wrapped in layers of secrecy.
"Belief," he said finally, "isn't something I can afford anymore."
Before she could respond, he slid into his car and drove off, leaving her standing in the storm, a figure caught between light and shadow.