The constable outside the murder room had woken from his nap, cigarette dangling from the corner of his lips, eyes glazed with boredom. Soma didn't even glance at him. He moved past like the man didn't exist, heading instead toward a nervous-looking waiter hovering near the back exit.
The boy was thin, barely twenty, hands twitching as if they had a life of their own. He inhaled smoke with trembling lungs, dragging on the beedi like it could sustain him.
"Press," Soma said, flat and authoritative. Not a question. A statement. He pulled a fifty-rupee note from his pocket, folded it neatly, holding it between thumb and forefinger like a calling card. "We'll pay for the truth. What did you see?"
The waiter's eyes locked onto the money, wide and glassy. Rahul watched, fascinated, disgusted. Truth, it seemed, had a price tag.
"I—I didn't see much, saab," the waiter stammered. "I just serve drinks. I don't—"
"But you were working last night," Soma interrupted, still calm, casual. The money stayed in view. "The businessman who died. You saw him come in, didn't you?"
The waiter's Adam's apple bobbed nervously. "Yes… around ten PM. Big man. Expensive watch. Loud voice. He had two girls with him—regulars from the club circuit. Took them to Room 7."
"And then?"
The boy glanced over his shoulder, voice dropping. "Maybe twenty minutes later… someone else went in. I didn't see the face—kept his head down. Hood pulled up. Moved like he knew where he was going."
Rahul's pulse quickened. "What happened next?"
"The girls… they ran out screaming. Blood on their clothes. One kept repeating… 'His throat… his throat…'" The boy's hands shook violently. "The manager called the police. They arrived fast. Too fast, saab. Like they were already nearby."
Soma's expression didn't change, but Rahul caught a flicker of interest in his eyes.
"And the man in the hood?"
"Gone. Like smoke."
Soma pressed the fifty rupees into the boy's hand. He snatched it, stuffed it into his pocket, and disappeared into the alley, leaving only the smell of smoke behind.
"You just… bought that information," Rahul said, disbelief threading his words.
"Welcome to journalism," Soma said, lighting a beedi of his own. The acrid smoke curled into the evening air. "Police will tell you whatever protects them. Witnesses stay silent unless motivated. Money is truth's favorite language."
Truth costs. Rahul remembered Soma's words from the bus. And I have fifty rupees total. If he wanted to investigate Ananya's death—really investigate—he'd need resources, networks. Not just courage or desperation. He needed power.
The alley behind The Sapphire Lounge was the city's secret underworld, the ugly twin of its bright facade. Darkness pooled between buildings like ink spilled in water. Rusted AC vents dripped onto cracked concrete, forming oily puddles that reflected fractured neon. Rats skittered along walls, tiny claws clacking against metal grates. The air smelled of garbage, urine, and something metallic, old blood or simply the decay of the city itself.
Soma navigated it like home. "Raju!" he called softly.
A shape slid from the shadows. Short, wiry, clothes decades past their prime. Sharp, fox-like face, eyes darting like a predator sizing up prey.
"Soma bhai," the man rasped, cigarette-scarred voice rough as gravel. "Looking for stories again?"
"Always," Soma replied, pulling out another fifty-rupee note. "What do you know about last night's murder?"
Raju's gaze followed the money. "Depends… what are you buying?"
"Everything," Soma said.
Raju assessed Rahul with suspicion, then turned back to Soma. "Businessman owed money. Gambling debts. Warned twice. Paid once. Got comfortable. Third time, they sent a professional."
"How professional?"
"Clean cut. No hesitation. Knew exactly where to strike for fastest bleed-out. This wasn't passion, bhai. This was business."
Rahul's stomach twisted but he kept his face neutral. Professional work. Clean. Efficient. No emotion. Just like journalism.
"Third killing this month," Raju continued, slipping the fifty rupees into his pocket. "Same style. Same victims—people who owed the wrong crowd. Police know. They always know."
"And they do nothing?"
Raju laughed, bitter and short. "Do nothing? They're partners, bhai. Half the gambling dens, half the protection rackets—police get their cut. Why would they stop their own business?" He leaned in, voice dropping. "This city has more killers than saints. And some of them carry badges."
Soma nodded slowly. "The businessman's name?"
"Vikram Malhotra. Import-export. Fancy office. Dirty money. Ask around Indrapuri—everyone knew he liked cards more than common sense."
"Appreciate it, Raju."
"Anytime, bhai. You know where to find me."
Raju melted into the shadows. Rats scurried, water dripped, the alley swallowed him whole. Rahul stood frozen, absorbing everything. This is how information flows. How truth moves. Through back alleys, paid whispers, invisible networks.
If he wanted to find out what really happened to Ananya, he needed to master this world. Survival was no longer enough.
They walked through Bhopal's darkening streets. Vendors lit flickering oil lamps, streetlights buzzed with half working bulbs. Somewhere, a temple bell rang, the faithful responding in echoing chants.
"You're quiet," Soma observed.
"Thinking," Rahul said carefully.
"About?"
"How you… do this. Build sources. Get information."
Soma smiled. "Three years. Took me three years to build a network. Every informant is a relationship—trust, money, favors. You pay them, but you protect them. Raju feeds me stories because I never burned him. Never used his name where it could hurt him."
He lit another beedi. "You need informants to survive in this business, Rajesh. Truth is currency. Trust is how you trade it."
Rahul absorbed the words like a man dying of thirst drinking water. Information equals money. Trust equals currency.
Strategy. Patience. Resources.
"Where do you find informants?"
"Everywhere. Chai stalls. Police stations. Hospitals. Morgues." Soma counted on his fingers. "Anyone who sees what nobody else notices. Cleaners. Drivers. Prostitutes. Street kids. The invisible people."
Rahul understood invisibility intimately now. Maybe that was his advantage. He knew how to move unseen, how to listen, how to become a shadow.
"You really want to learn this?" Soma asked. "Or just killing time until something better comes along?"
"I want to learn. I need to," Rahul said. Something in his voice convinced Soma.
"Then pay attention. Ask questions. Build your network slowly. And remember—" He pointed with his beedi. "Everyone wants something. Find that, and you find what they know."
The dhaba at the crossroads smelled of frying vada pav and chai so strong it seemed almost visible. Plastic chairs, metal tables, fluorescent tubes humming with insects. Nine PM, the day bled into night.
Soma ordered for both—hot, greasy, perfect. Rahul's stomach ached from hunger, forcing him to eat slowly, chew thoroughly, savor every bite. Chai burned his tongue. He didn't care.
"You don't talk much about yourself," Soma said, amusement flickering.
"Not much to tell."
"Everyone has something to tell," Soma said. "Where'd you work before this?"
"Small town. Factory job. Boring. Wanted something different." The lie felt natural now.
"Hmm. Crime journalism is definitely different. Different from boring. Different from safe. Different from sane."
A TV played in the corner, anchors grimly announcing the latest murders, camera zooming on Bhopal streets, generic shots of flashing police lights.
"—police continue their search for the primary suspect in the college murder case. Twenty-two-year-old Rahul Kumar remains at large after allegedly kidnapping and murdering his ex-girlfriend Ananya Sharma. Authorities describe him as dangerous and—"
Rahul froze. Hand halfway to mouth, vada pav suspended in midair. Don't react. Don't look. Don't breathe.
"—the victim's organs were discovered in a handmade puppet doll, leading investigators to believe this may be connected to an older pattern of killings. Police have intensified—"
"Sick bastard," someone muttered nearby.
"They always look normal," another voice agreed. "Then you find out they're monsters."
Rahul forced his hand down, expression blank. Liar. Murderer. Monster. Voices weren't just from the TV anymore—they were in his head, Ananya's voice, his own inner darkness.
"Secrets get journalists killed, you know," Soma said, casual but sharp. "If you're hiding something big, it finds a way out. Usually at the worst possible time."
"I'm not hiding anything," Rahul said, lying to himself and Soma. The taste of ash lingered in his mouth.
Soma studied him. Then nodded. "Good. I like you, Rajesh. Don't make me regret it."
The bus ride back was endless. Rahul watched Bhopal blur past—lights and darkness, life and decay—everything moving while he stayed frozen.
Soma got off three stops early. "You did fine. Didn't vomit near blood, didn't faint, didn't ask stupid questions. You'll survive this job."
"Thanks."
"Tomorrow, we write the story. You'll see how messy truth turns into clean lies. Sleep well, yaar."
The bus doors closed. Rahul rode alone, Room 304 waiting in silence. He locked the door, bolted it twice, collapsed into the chair, shoulder throbbing, mind racing too fast to catch.
The day replayed in fragments: drugs and girls, police beating a bound man, truth sold for fifty rupees, Raju's bitter words: "This city has more killers than saints."
He pulled out his notebook, cheap paper yellowing at the edges, and wrote:
If I want to investigate… I need leverage and money.
leverage opens doors. Money buys keys.
Everyone hides something. I need to hide better.
This wasn't survival anymore. It was hunting. Someone had framed him for Ananya's murder. Someone who understood police procedures, evidence, perfection.
Niraj was obvious—rich, vengeful, connected. But smart enough? Ruthless enough? Or someone else? Someone he hadn't considered yet?
He needed a network, informants, knowledge of the underbelly, following money, connections, hatred—and invisibility.
Pretending to be Rajesh, the quiet reporter. Staying alive.
Exhaustion hit him—physical, mental, emotional. Shoulder throbbed, stomach full but heavy, eyes burning. He stumbled to the bed, didn't remove his shirt. Mattress groaned. Ceiling fan spun shadows over his face.
Outside, Bhopal hummed—autos honking, distant music, laughter cutting the night. A city of three million where nobody knew his real name. Where he could disappear. Or learn to hunt.
His last thought before darkness claimed him:
Tomorrow, I start building my network. Tomorrow, I become someone else entirely.
The darkness was merciful. Room 304 welcomed him. Silence. Exhaustion. Faint hope that, somewhere, the truth waited in the city's shadows.