Rain hammered against the asphalt, washing away the blood before the forensics team could even bag it.
Abhay stepped out of his black SUV, his boots sinking into the thick mud of the alleyway.
Pulling his leather jacket tighter around his shoulders, he cursed under his breath.
Friday night was supposed to be his first night off in three weeks, but the universe clearly had other plans.
"Abhay!"
Daya’s booming voice cut through the downpour.
Standing near the yellow police tape, the massive CID officer looked like an immovable wall against the storm.
Ducking under the tape, Abhay approached his mentor, wiping water from his eyes.
"A mess," Daya grunted, pointing toward a dumpster at the end of the narrow passage. "Clean hit. No shell casings. No eyewitnesses. Just a body with a neat hole right between the eyes."
Headlights cut through the darkness as a white sedan pulled up to the curb.
Meera stepped out, holding a silver equipment case with a white-knuckled grip.
Dark hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, though a few stray strands were already plastered to her forehead by the rain.
Abhay felt his chest tighten, a familiar ache blooming behind his ribs at the mere sight of her.
They hadn't spoken since the disastrous mission in Goa.
Months of silence, shattered by a midnight dispatch call.
"Am I late?" Meera asked, her voice cool and professional as she approached the crime scene.
She didn't look at Abhay directly, focusing all her attention on Daya.
"Just in time," Daya replied, stepping back to give her room. "Rain is ruining the scene. We need to move fast before all the trace evidence is gone."
Walking over to the corpse, Meera knelt in the mud.
Ruined instantly, her designer jeans soaked up the filthy water, but she didn't seem to care.
Abhay watched her hands—steady, precise, moving with a surgeon's absolute confidence.
"Caliber looks like a nine-millimeter," she murmured, shining a penlight into the victim's glazed, lifeless eyes. "Point-blank range. But look at the bruising around his neck."
Abhay knelt beside her, his shoulder brushing against hers.
Shockwaves of static electricity seemed to pass between them, raw and undeniable.
Quietly, she stood her ground, refusing to flinch or draw away from his sudden warmth.
"Surgical gloves," Abhay noted, forcing his voice to remain steady. "The killer held him down first. This wasn't a quick execution. It was a brutal interrogation."
"Do we have an ID?" Abhay asked, looking back up at Daya.
Reaching into his pocket, Daya handed over a wet leather wallet wrapped in a plastic evidence bag.
"Sanjay Malhotra," Daya announced. "Chief accountant for the Singhania Group."
Singhania Group was a name that sent an immediate chill down Abhay's spine.
Everyone in Mumbai knew the Singhanias, a powerful family that operated legitimate shipping businesses on the surface while controlling a massive underworld network underneath.
---
Fluorescent lights flickered overhead in the CID briefing room, casting harsh shadows across the whiteboard.
Daya threw a thick manila folder onto the metal table.
"Malhotra was skimming," Daya announced, pacing the length of the room with heavy, measured steps. "We found encrypted offshore accounts in his personal laptop. He was stealing millions from the Singhanias."
"Or he was being set up," Abhay countered, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed.
His eyes remained fixed on Meera, who was setting up her laptop at the corner desk.
Autopsy reports will take twelve hours, but she was already analyzing the toxicology data.
"Paralyzed?" Daya frowned, crossing his massive arms.
"Exactly," Meera agreed, turning her screen toward them. "He was fully conscious, able to feel pain, but unable to move a single muscle. It's the signature of a contract killer known only as the Viper."
Silence stretched across the room, heavy and suffocating.
Abhay tightened his fists inside his pockets, his jaw clenching.
He knew that name all too well.
Years ago, the Viper had slipped through his fingers in Delhi, leaving a trail of bodies and a shattered team in his wake.
---
Daya's phone buzzed, prompting him to step out into the hallway to answer a call from the ACP.
Left alone, the tension between Abhay and Meera became almost physical.
"You shouldn't have taken this case," Meera said softly, not looking up from her screen.
"I didn't have a choice," Abhay replied, taking a step toward her.
"Danger follows you, Abhay," she whispered, finally looking up to meet his intense gaze.
Her eyes searched his face, finding the new scar running along his jawline.
"Since when do you care about my safety?" he asked, his voice dropping to a low, husky whisper.
"I never stopped caring," she said, the admission hanging in the air like a fragile glass ornament.
Step by step, Abhay closed the distance between them until he could smell the faint scent of jasmine clinging to her skin.
He stopped just inches away, his heart hammering against his ribs.
"You walked away, Meera," he reminded her, his voice tight. "In Goa. You left without saying a single word."
"Because staying would have killed us both," she breathed, her hand trembling slightly as she reached for her coffee mug.
Abhay reached out, his fingers brushing against her wrist.
Her skin was warm, a sharp contrast to the cold rain outside.
"Tell me the truth," he murmured. "Are you back because of the case, or because of me?"
Before she could answer, the door swung open.
Daya strode back into the room, his face grim.
"We have a situation," Daya said, tossing a tablet onto the table. "An anonymous tip just came in. Malhotra wasn't the only target."
Identify the target, Abhay silently demanded, his professional instincts kicking back in.
"A safehouse in the suburbs," Daya explained. "The Singhanias kept a whistleblower there. A former accountant who was ready to turn state's witness."
"We need to move now," Abhay said, reaching for his holster.
"You and Meera take the southern route," Daya ordered. "I'll take a backup team and secure the perimeter."
---
Tyres squealed against the wet asphalt as Abhay pushed the SUV to its absolute limits.
Beside him, Meera held onto the grab handle, her knuckles white.
"Slow down, Abhay!" she yelled over the roar of the engine.
"No time," he grunted, weaving through the late-night traffic.
Heavy rain continued to slash against the windshield, the wipers struggling to keep up with the deluge.
Minutes later, they pulled up to a secluded two-story house nestled behind a thick row of pine trees.
Darkness swallowed the building, with no lights visible from any of the windows.
"Stay in the car," Abhay commanded, unholstering his Glock.
"No way," Meera protested, reaching into her bag and pulling out a compact semi-automatic. "I'm not sitting here like a sitting duck."
Abhay stared at her for a second, realizing there was no arguing with her.
"Fine," he muttered. "Watch my back."
Moving silently, they crept up the gravel driveway.
Cold wind howled through the trees, masking the sound of their footsteps.
Abhay reached the front door and found it slightly ajar.
An ominous red smear stained the brass doorknob.
Gently, Abhay pushed the door open with his foot.
Silence greeted them inside the dark foyer.
Odors of iron and fresh blood hung thick in the air.
Abhay raised his weapon, scanning the dark hallway.
"Clear," he whispered, gesturing for Meera to follow.
They moved deeper into the house, their flashlights cutting narrow beams through the darkness.
Shadows stretched along the walls, mimicking monstrous shapes.
Abhay's heart hammered against his ribs, every instinct screaming at him to turn back.
This felt like a setup.
Suddenly, a floorboard creaked upstairs.
Abhay froze, raising his hand to signal Meera.
She stopped instantly, her back pressed against the wall, weapon raised.
Carefully ascending the stairs, they stayed silent, placing their weight on the edges of the steps.
Each step felt agonizingly loud.
Reaching the landing, Abhay saw a thin line of light shining from under the master bedroom door.
He exchanged a quick glance with Meera, counting down silently with his fingers.
Three. Two. One.
Abhay kicked the door open, ready to fire.
Inside, a man lay slumped over a mahogany desk.
Blood pooled around his keyboard, dripping onto the carpet.
Whistleblower dead, the room felt ice-cold.
Standing over the body was a figure dressed in tactical black, a silenced pistol raised in their hand.
"Freeze!" Abhay yelled.
Instead of running, the figure slowly turned around.
A flash of lightning illuminated the room through the window, revealing the killer's face.
Abhay gasped, his blood running cold.
Meera let out a soft whimper of disbelief behind him.
Lifting the weapon, the intruder pointed it directly at Meera's chest.
"Hello, Abhay," a chillingly familiar voice whispered from behind the mask. "Did you really think you could save her twice?"