The man did not resist.
That was the first thing Detective Raghav Malhotra noticed, and it unsettled him more than the body itself.
Most scenes announced violence the moment you stepped into them. Disarray. Broken furniture. A chair knocked over in panic, a glass shattered in desperation.
Violence left signatures even when killers tried to clean up after themselves. It carried emotion. Urgency. Fear.
This apartment had none of that.
The lights were still on. Soft, warm illumination filled the living room, evenly distributed, as if the space had been prepared for viewing. A faint citrus scent drifted through the air—artificial, controlled—coming from a small diffuser plugged discreetly into a socket near the wall. It hummed quietly, steady and patient, as if unaware that its purpose had already failed.
The body lay between the sofa and the low glass table, placed with care. Male. Mid-fifties. Well groomed. Clean-shaven. His clothes were expensive, but not ostentatious—dark slacks, a pressed shirt, sleeves buttoned neatly at the wrist. Someone who valued restraint.
There was a single wound at the base of the neck.
Precise. Devastating.
No blood spatter stained the walls or furniture. No signs of struggle marked the floor. A folded towel had been placed beneath the man's head, absorbing what little blood escaped gravity. It was unnecessary. Whoever did this knew that.
Malhotra crouched slowly, ignoring the ache in his knees, and studied the man's face. The eyes were half-open, unfocused, the expression neutral. Not frozen in terror. Not contorted by pain.
Calm.
Execution, he thought. Not murder.
"Time of death?" Malhotra asked without looking up.
"Forensics estimates between two and four a.m.," Officer Sameer Khan replied from the doorway. His voice was low, professional.
"Building security cameras went offline for exactly twelve minutes. Not a second more. No forced entry. Locks were engaged from the inside."
Twelve minutes.
Malhotra straightened slightly and exhaled through his nose. That window was too clean. Too exact. Most criminals misjudged time—stayed too long, rushed too fast, left something behind. Panic created margins of error.
This scene had none.
"What about motive?" Malhotra asked.
There was a pause behind him. Khan shifted his weight.
"Nothing so far," Khan said. "Victim is Dr. Anirudh Sen. Behavioral consultant. Worked with both private institutions and government advisory boards. No criminal record. No known enemies. Divorced. No children. Financials are clean."
Malhotra's gaze flicked briefly to the bookshelf lining the far wall.
Behavioral consultant.
It was becoming a pattern, and he didn't like that.
"How many is this now?" he asked quietly.
Khan didn't answer immediately. He didn't have to.
"This makes five," Malhotra said. "Different cities. Different professions. Same method. Same level of control."
"And no message," Khan added. "No notes. No symbols. No demands. Nothing left behind."
Malhotra stood and slowly scanned the room. Psychology texts filled the shelves—cognitive theory, behavioral modeling, policy ethics. Everything was arranged with deliberate symmetry. A desk stood near the window, its surface immaculate. Tablet centered. Documents stacked flush. Stylus aligned parallel to the edge.
Even the waste bin was empty.
"This wasn't personal," Malhotra said.
"Personal killers want chaos. They want to feel something."
Khan nodded. "This feels… procedural."
That was the word Malhotra had been avoiding.
Procedural implied process. It implied repetition. It implied intention beyond the individual.
He moved toward the window and looked out at the city. Dawn hadn't arrived yet, but the sky was beginning to pale at the edges. Traffic flowed below, indifferent. Lights flickered on in distant buildings. Life continued without interruption.
Five people were dead, and the city had already adjusted.
That disturbed him more than the silence in the room.
"Any connection between the victims?"
Malhotra asked.
"Nothing obvious," Khan said. "Different institutions. Different jurisdictions. No shared cases we can identify."
Yet.
Malhotra turned back toward the body. Dr. Sen's hands rested loosely at his sides, palms open. No defensive wounds marred the skin.
No tension lingered in the fingers.
He trusted the person who killed him.
That realization settled uncomfortably in Malhotra's chest.
"Who found the body?" he asked.
"Building maintenance," Khan replied.
"Routine inspection after a water pressure alert. They thought he'd collapsed."
Malhotra grimaced faintly. "They always do."
Forensics moved quietly around them, documenting every angle, every surface. Cameras clicked. Gloves snapped. Evidence bags whispered open and shut. The rhythm was familiar, almost comforting in its predictability.
He stepped closer to the body again, eyes drawn back to the towel beneath Sen's head.
It hadn't been placed in haste. The fold was clean. Deliberate.
It wasn't mercy.
It was consideration.
"Whoever did this," Malhotra said slowly, "was in control from start to finish."
Khan hesitated. "You think the victim knew him?"
"I think," Malhotra replied, "that the victim didn't believe he was in danger."
That was worse.
People who feared for their lives made mistakes. They fought. They ran. They resisted.
Dr. Sen had done none of that.
Malhotra straightened and adjusted his gloves. "Run Sen through everything. Advisory boards. Committees. Ethics panels. Government contracts. Anything involving restricted access or classified review."
Khan raised an eyebrow. "You think this is institutional?"
"I think," Malhotra said, "that five coincidences is negligence."
Khan nodded once and stepped aside to make the call.
Malhotra lingered, letting the room speak to him. The silence wasn't empty—it was curated. Maintained. Like the crime itself.
This wasn't about rage.
This wasn't about revenge.
This was about completion.
Forensics finished photographing the body. A sheet was drawn up, covering Dr. Sen's face with clinical efficiency. Another life reduced to procedure, to paperwork, to a case number that would soon blend into others.
At the doorway, Malhotra paused and looked back one last time.
No cruelty.
No spectacle.
No message.
Just a body, placed with care.
Whoever was doing this didn't want attention.
They wanted results.
And for the first time since the calls had started coming in, Malhotra felt something cold settle into his gut.
This wasn't a man hunting people.
This was something dismantling a system—one piece at a time.