The sign was modest, almost invisible against the peeling paint of the old commercial building in a bustling, slightly down-at-heel lane off Nungambakkam Main Road. "Third Eye Solutions," it read in simple black lettering, with a smaller Tamil script underneath. Below it, in even smaller print: "Discreet Enquiries. Personal Matters. Verification Services." No flashing lights, no bold promises. Just the quiet suggestion of problems solved.
Inside, the office of Third Eye Solutions was a single, cramped room. A battered wooden desk, a creaking ceiling fan that stirred the humid air with weary inefficiency, and two mismatched chairs for clients were its primary furnishings. A faded calendar from two years ago still hung on the wall, next to a framed print of a serene, smiling Buddha that seemed entirely out of place given the room's general air of benign neglect. A single, struggling potted plant drooped in the corner, a testament to infrequent watering. This was Dexter's new stage.
Mr. Kumar – or rather, Mr. K. Kumar, as the chipped nameplate on the desk proclaimed – sat behind the desk, appearing every bit the part of a small-time private investigator. His kurta was neatly pressed today, his beard trimmed slightly. He looked like a man who listened more than he spoke, a man who understood the city's undercurrents. The air in the small office was thick with the smell of old paper, dust, and the faint, lingering aroma of the incense he burned each morning – a nod to local customs, and a subtle way to mask other, less pleasant odors that might cling to him.
The transformation from itinerant sketch artist to fledgling PI hadn't been sudden. It had been a calculated evolution, born from the incident with the jasmine seller and the reawakened hum of the Passenger. Sketching was too passive. Observation alone was no longer enough. He needed a plausible reason to delve deeper, to gather information, to get closer to the parasites that thrived in the city's shadows. A PI license, surprisingly easy to obtain with fabricated references and a modest fee, provided the perfect cover.
His current "active" case, as per the thin folder lying open on his desk, involved a Mr. Pillai, a textile merchant convinced his new, much younger wife was being unfaithful. Dexter had spent a few evenings discreetly observing Mrs. Pillai. So far, her only clandestine meetings had been with her yoga instructor, involving more downward-facing dogs than illicit embraces. It was tedious, but it paid the rent for this small office and his even smaller room, and more importantly, it allowed him to move through the city, observing, listening, without raising suspicion. He'd already drafted a preliminary report for Mr. Pillai, filled with innocuous details of Mrs. Pillai's shopping trips and social calls, all designed to gently disabuse the man of his suspicions without causing undue marital strife. Such was the bread and butter of K. Kumar, PI.
These small cases were the grist for his mill, the camouflage for his true purpose. They provided him with a legitimate reason to be in certain places, to ask certain questions, to access information that would otherwise be beyond the reach of a simple sketch artist. They also provided a steady, if small, stream of income that supplemented the dwindling funds from his previous life. And sometimes, they provided useful tools. Mr. Pillai's case, for instance, had necessitated the purchase of a new camera with a decent zoom lens – a lens that had proven quite useful in his other ongoing investigation.
Today, however, Mr. Pillai's folder was merely a prop. Spread beneath it, shielded from any unexpected visitor, were his sketches of the market thief – the man in the new shirts. He'd given him a name in his private lexicon: "The Mongoose," for his quick, darting thefts and his ability to disappear into the crowd.
Dexter had spent the past week meticulously, almost obsessively, tracking The Mongoose. He'd learned his patterns: the specific markets he favored on different days of the week, the cheap lodge in a Triplicane alleyway where he rented a room by the week, the grimy tea stalls where he boasted of his exploits to other petty criminals, the small, out-of-the-way temple he sometimes visited, perhaps seeking a twisted form of blessing for his day's thievery. He knew The Mongoose's approximate schedule, his preferred escape routes, even the brand of cheap cigarettes he smoked. The Mongoose was small-time, yes, but the cruelty he'd shown the jasmine seller, the clear enjoyment he took in his petty sadism, had tripped a wire. He fit the Code, even this far from Miami. He preyed on the vulnerable. He caused harm beyond the monetary. He would continue. And he clearly derived pleasure from it.
He's ripe, the Passenger purred, a contented sound in the back of Dexter's mind, a familiar warmth spreading through his chest. This city is a jungle, Dexter. And even the smallest predators need culling. It's about balance. Order. You know this.
Dexter's preparations had been careful, adapted to this new environment. His usual tools were thousands of miles away, sunk with the Slice of Life or lost to the Oregon snows. Here, he had to improvise. He'd visited several hardware stores, purchasing items that, individually, were innocuous: heavy-duty plastic sheeting, thick rope, strong duct tape, a set of sharp, industrial-grade cutting tools ostensibly for "clearing dense brush" from a "newly acquired property." He'd even found a local equivalent of M99 – a potent animal tranquilizer – sourced from a less-than-scrupulous veterinary supplier he'd identified through one of his PI "enquiries." It was all stored securely in a rented locker at the central railway station, a place of constant transit and anonymity.
The most challenging part had been finding a suitable location. Chennai was a city that never truly slept, a place where every square inch seemed occupied. But his PI work, and the long hours spent exploring the city's forgotten corners, had eventually yielded a possibility: a derelict godown, a warehouse, near the mostly-abandoned port lands, scheduled for demolition but currently caught in bureaucratic limbo. Its windows were boarded up, its gates rusted but not impassable with the right tools. It was isolated enough, especially after dark. He'd scouted it twice, confirming its structural integrity and its blessed emptiness. He'd even begun to prepare a small section, cleaning a concrete slab, ensuring no easy escape routes.
He looked at the sketch of The Mongoose once more, his eyes lingering on the cruel smirk. A faint smile, cold and precise, touched Dexter's own lips. Mr. Kumar, the PI, was a useful mask, a carefully constructed persona. But tonight, as the city lights began to blur the edges of the fading day, another, older mask would be donned. The ritual was calling. The city of Chennai, with its millions of souls, its ancient gods and hidden alleyways, was about to become a new hunting ground. The scent of saffron and spice would soon mingle with something far more familiar, something intrinsically Dexter.