Chennai – June 13, 2025
Naveen lived a life that rarely made noise. He preferred it that way. His one-bedroom flat on the outskirts of Chennai was quiet, modest, lined with crime novels, newspaper clippings, and a dusty corkboard cluttered with thumbtacks and red thread that never quite led anywhere. Yet.
He wasn't officially a detective—not yet—but he lived like one. He watched people more than he spoke to them. Observed patterns, collected facts, noticed what others missed. The city moved around him in a blur of noise and color, but Naveen lived in its quieter corners, where details whispered.
When Flight AS-279 went down, something inside him stirred.
Like most of the country, he watched the news with horror. The numbers. The names. The smoke.
But where others stopped at mourning, Naveen kept digging. He collected everything—screen-grabbed every news broadcast, downloaded passenger lists, traced aviation logs, cross-checked ATC transcripts leaked on fringe forums. Something about the whole thing didn't sit right.
The timeline was off by minutes that mattered. The black box remained unrecoverable even after two days—unusual for a crash so close to the city. And then there was the radio silence from the Ministry of Civil Aviation, despite massive public outcry.
And the whispers about Rathnadevi. The mystery passenger. The vanishing minister.
He'd never met her. Had no personal connection.
But something about this case reached inside him, touched a bruise that had never healed. He didn't name it. Didn't analyze it. Didn't talk about it. Not even to himself.
On the evening of June 13, he packed a single duffel bag and walked to the Central Station.
The platform was crowded, humid, restless. As the 8:40 PM train to Hyderabad pulled in, he felt a quiet certainty settle in his bones—not the thrill of curiosity or the hunger for fame.
Something deeper. Older. Sadder.
He boarded without hesitation.
He wasn't chasing answers for the world.
He was chasing a truth that had been waiting for him.