The bathroom's sterile chill seeped into Q's bones as he gripped the scope, his hazel eyes narrowing at the glint buried in Chakraborty's skull. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the low hum of forensic scanners, but the team's focus was singular, their breaths shallow in the tense silence. Q adjusted the scope's lens, revealing a metallic chip, no larger than a SIM card, embedded in the brain tissue. Its micro-circuitry pulsed faintly, a sinister heartbeat etched in silicon, as if it were alive.
"Bloody hell," D muttered, leaning closer, his cigarette forgotten, its ember fading on the tile. "What is that thing?"
Q's voice remained steady, though his pulse thrummed in his ears. "Not sure yet. Sonia, can you extract it?"
Sonia nodded, her gloved hands moving with the precision of a seasoned pathologist. She retrieved a slender probe, her movements calm despite the grotesque tableau. With surgical care, she extracted the chip, its surface catching the forensic lights as she placed it in a sterile vial. Kriti, clutching her notepad like a lifeline, scribbled furiously, her earlier nausea replaced by fascination. W, ever the tech obsessive, peered over Sonia's shoulder, her auburn hair catching the UV glow, her green eyes dissecting the chip's potential.
"It's got a data layer," W said, her voice low with excitement. "Could be a storage device, maybe a transmitter. High-grade, custom. We'll need to crack it."
Q's gaze flicked to the typewriter, a vintage Royal Quiet Deluxe, its black enamel gleaming like a dark altar. The severed fingers, arranged in a macabre arc, pointed inward, their waxy tips a grotesque homage. Something about the typewriter's placement—centre stage, untouched by blood—nagged at him. "First, we figure out what this chip's telling us," he said, his tone clipped. "It's a message. The killer's playing with us."
Sonia handed the vial to a tech, who scurried to a portable analyser, then turned to Q. "The chip's placement suggests it was inserted post-mortem, likely through the wound at the skull's base. The killer had tools and time."
Q nodded, his mind racing. The chip was a deliberate provocation, a riddle to draw S.I.L.O. deeper into the killer's game. He stepped back, addressing the team. "Listen up. The killer's left us a riddle. This chip's the key, but it's tied to this room. Spread out, check everything. Look for patterns, anomalies."
The team dispersed, their boots whispering against the blood-streaked tiles. Q's eyes lingered on the typewriter, its presence almost sacred. He approached, D trailing behind, their steps synchronised. As they moved toward the staircase, Q's gaze caught a faint smear on the wooden steps. He knelt, his fingers hovering over the mark, the diluted blood glistening. "Blood trail," he said, his voice low. "Fresh, but washed out. The body was dragged down from upstairs."
D crouched beside him, tracing the smear's irregular pattern. "Twisted, like the body was contorted. Killer was strong but methodical." He pointed to a scuff mark on the bannister. "Shoe print, partial. Size 10, maybe. Synthetic sole."
Q nodded, filing the details away. The trail led to the second floor, toward Chakraborty's library-cum-office. The team ascended, the old stairs creaking, each groan echoing in the humid air. The musty scent of leather and ink enveloped them as they entered the library, a sanctuary untouched by the chaos below. Bookshelves stretched to the ceiling, their dark wood polished. Bengali literary gems stood proudly: Rabindranath Tagore's Gitanjali, its spine cracked from countless readings; Bankim Chandra Chattopadhyay's Anandamath, a fiery cornerstone of nationalist fervour; and Sarat Chandra Chattopadhyay's Devdas, its pages yellowed but cherished. English works flanked them—George Orwell's 1984, its dystopian warnings dog-eared; Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness, its binding frayed; and Salman Rushdie's Midnight's Children, a vibrant tapestry. Each book was a piece of Chakraborty's soul, a novelist who wove Bengal's heritage into global narratives.
At the room's heart stood a sleek PC setup: dual 4K monitors, a custom-built rig with RGB lighting, and a mechanical keyboard. Yet, beside it, the typewriter held court, its vintage elegance commanding reverence. A brass plaque read: To Dinesh, my dreamer. Write your truth. – Baba. Q's fingers brushed the plaque, empathy softening his sharp features.
"This was his anchor," he said softly. "His father gave him this. It's why he never abandoned it."
D nodded, his smirk absent. "Sentimental bastard. Killer knew it, too. Staging the fingers here—it's personal."
W bypassed the PC's login with a decryptor. "High-end security software, but no recent activity. He hadn't touched this in days. The typewriter was his obsession."
L lounged near a window, flipping through Devdas, smudging pages. "Waste of time," he muttered. "Killer's long gone."
Q ignored him, focusing on the typewriter. The chip's riddle gnawed at him. He tapped a key, the clack echoing like a gunshot. "The chip's a clue, but the typewriter's the lock." He knelt, probing the desk's underside. A faint seam caught his touch, and a soft click revealed a concealed panel. Inside lay a black rose, its petals unnaturally perfect, and a holographic projector the size of a coin, etched with cryptic symbols.
Q activated the projector, and a shimmering message materialised: S.I.L.O., you've found my opening move. I've been watching, waiting. The game begins now. Catch me if you can. The voice was distorted, genderless, dripping with mockery.
Q's jaw tightened, his hazel eyes blazing. "The game begins," he echoed, his voice steel. "We're hunting a predator who thinks they're untouchable."
W's fingers twitched. "That rose—synthetic, lab-grown. I'll run its composition. The projector's custom, high-end."
D exhaled, smoke curling. "They're taunting us. We need to hit back harder."
Kriti spoke up, steadier. "The riddle… It's tied to the fingers. Ten fingers, ten keys. Maybe a code on the typewriter."
Q nodded. "Good catch." He examined the fingers, each pointing to a key: Q, W, E, R, T, Y, U, I, O, P. He typed the sequence, the clicks deliberate. The machine whirred, a hidden mechanism engaging. Another panel opened, revealing a sheet of paper with a cryptic phrase: The ink bleeds where the heart lies.
"It's a map," Q said, his mind racing. "The killer's pointing us to their next move."
The team's resolve hardened. They split up to scour the first and second floors. Q lingered in the library, visualising the crime: the killer, cloaked in shadow, entered through a second-floor window, bypassing biometric locks with a signal jammer. Chakraborty, working late, heard a creak. The killer struck from behind, left-handed, missing the neck. A struggle erupted—books toppled, a chair splintered. Chakraborty fought, but a chokehold subdued him. The mutilation began upstairs, blood pooling, then the body was dragged to the bathroom, staged with precision. The fingers, chip, and note were a challenge.
Q's fists clenched, veins bulging. "You want a game?" he whispered. "I'll end it."
D returned from the bedroom. "Found a 9mm in a bedside drawer, fully loaded. Never fired. He didn't have a chance."
Sonia and Kriti shared forensic updates. "Blood spatter upstairs confirms the attack started in the library," Sonia said. "Micro-abrasions on the floor suggest dragging. The killer's gloves left military-spec polymers."
Kriti added, "The chip's circuitry is black-market, transmitting low-frequency signals. We can't trace the endpoint yet."
W examined a security panel. "State-of-the-art locks—biometric, encrypted. The killer used a high-end jammer. They had skill and tech."
Q nodded, his mind a storm. "I need a moment alone," he said, his voice tight. "Regroup downstairs."
The team hesitated, then complied, their boots echoing. L slipped to the veranda, leaning against the railing as the sky darkened, rain clouds churning. "Durga Puja's coming," he muttered, lighting a cigarette. "Pandal lights, crowds, chai stalls… perfect weather, then this mess." Smoke curled into the humid air.
Inside, Q paced the library, the killer's taunt echoing like a drumbeat. L's constant disrespect—his lazy jabs, his half-hearted work, his mockery of the mission—had been a thorn all day, each barb building pressure in Q's psyche. The killer's message was the final spark, igniting something buried deep. Nausea hit like a tidal wave, his vision blurring. His posture shifted—shoulders hunching, right side weakening. His left hand twitched, becoming dominant, fingers curling with a life of their own. His hazel eyes darkened, a cold, predatory edge replacing their warmth. A cruel smirk tugged at his lips. He gripped the desk, knuckles whitening, his breathing ragged, as L's earlier taunts replayed: Hope you don't faint, princess. Waste of time. The disrespect had crossed a line, and this alter demanded retribution.
On the veranda, L flicked his cigarette into the dusk, oblivious. "Hey, Q!" he called, his smirk careless. "Still brooding? Or are you writing poetry about that rose? Bet you're crying inside, big shot." His laugh was sharp, a final needle in Q's fraying control.
The alter froze, head snapping toward the voice. His lips curled into a snarl, L's mockery a match to gasoline. He moved silently, steps predatory, shadows cloaking his approach. L, bending over the railing to feel the first raindrops, their cool touch a fleeting relief, didn't hear the tread behind him. Q's left hand, now dominant, reached out, his fingers trembling with barely restrained fury. L's voice echoed in his mind—princess, poet, waste—each word a lash. The alter's rage boiled over, and with a swift, deliberate shove, Q pushed L forward. L stumbled, his balance lost, and tumbled over the low railing, his scream raw with terror.
Kriti, climbing the stairs with fresh forensic data, froze as the scream shattered the silence. Her heart pounded, her notepad slipping from her fingers. She spun toward the veranda, rain blurring her vision, and caught a glimpse of a shadow retreating from the railing—a figure both familiar and alien, its posture wrong, its movements too sharp, too predatory. The scene was a fleeting disaster, the push itself obscured by the storm's curtain, but the aftermath was unmistakable: L was gone, his scream echoing in the void. Her breath caught, terror rooting her in place.
Was that Q? Or something else entirely?
What had she just witnessed? What force had turned their leader into a spectre of violence? The truth hung in the air, a razor's edge poised to slice through the team's fragile unity, threatening to unravel everything they thought they knew.