Chapter 1 – The eyes that don't blink
New Delhi | January 12, 2019 | 5:27 AM
The winter in Delhi didn't whisper — it stabbed. Cold wind slithered through the half-open windows of Srikanth Mittal's apartment, brushing against his sweat-drenched skin.
He twisted in bed, trapped in a nightmare.
Jars.
Dozens of them.
Stacked on steel shelves, each filled with a cloudy liquid.
And inside—eyes. Human eyes. Some open wide, staring. Some shut as if asleep. Others… blinking.
His breath caught. He was screaming but no sound came out.
RINGGGG! RINGGGG!
Srikanth jolted upright in bed, heart hammering, drenched in sweat. His trembling hand slammed on the table, knocking over a bottle before grabbing the phone.
"Mittal here..." he croaked.
"Sir," said a voice — crisp, tired, but alert. It was Ramesh, his assistant from the Investigation Bureau of India. "We've got another one."
Srikanth closed his eyes. Another murder. His nightmare wasn't just a dream.
"Where?" he asked, rubbing his face.
"Lajpat Nagar. Public restroom. Male, approximately 17. No eyes. Same M.O."
Srikanth groaned quietly and stood up. "I'll be there in twenty minutes."
---
The apartment was small but neat — one bedroom, one study, one kitchen, and a cluttered living room that served as a dining hall, library, and war room all at once. Srikanth moved swiftly, brushing his short hair and putting on his thick wool coat. He passed a door and knocked lightly.
"Sameer?" he called.
From inside, a tired teenage voice grunted, "Haan... I'm awake."
Srikanth opened the door. His 17-year-old brother Sameer sat on the bed, rubbing sleep from his eyes, his school bag lying half-zipped near the chair.
"You have class at 8, right? I'll drop you on the way."
Sameer nodded. "Another murder?"
Srikanth didn't answer, but Sameer could see it in his eyes. His elder brother, only 23, carried more weight on his shoulders than most men double his age. Losing both parents in a car crash when he was just 16 had turned him into a student, a breadwinner, and a father figure all at once.
"You okay?" Sameer asked softly.
Srikanth paused, as if deciding whether to lie.
"No. But I'll manage," he said, giving a half-smile.
---
Lajpat Nagar Public Restroom | 6:12 AM
The scent of blood mixed with cheap disinfectant filled the air, creating a cocktail so foul even the rats seemed to avoid the area.
Srikanth ducked under the yellow police tape. Ramesh greeted him, his face pale, holding a handkerchief to his mouth.
"Third stall on the left," Ramesh said quietly.
Srikanth stepped in. The body lay sprawled inside the stall, head tilted against the wall. Blood had pooled below the neck and soaked the boy's clothes. His eyes were—missing. Clean sockets stared back at Srikanth, hollow and horrifying.
Srikanth didn't flinch. He'd seen this before. Seven times, in fact.
"All cases the same," Ramesh whispered beside him. "Victim between 23-24. Male. Same precise eye removal. No other organs touched."
Srikanth crouched down, his mind whirring.
"This wasn't rage. This was… craft," he muttered.
He turned to Ramesh. "And the CCTV?"
Ramesh hesitated. "Checking. There's a camera at the entrance. Local shopkeeper said he saw someone last night — wearing a hoodie. Face not visible."
Srikanth stood up sharply. "So what are we doing, Ramesh? Sleeping? Collecting bodies like Pokémon cards?"
Ramesh flinched. "Sir, we're trying—"
"Try harder. This is the eighth victim. If you were the one with missing eyes, would 'trying' be enough?"
Srikanth stormed out, dialing the local police station. Before he could speak, his phone buzzed again — a call from the precinct.
"Sir," the constable said, panting, "you won't believe this. Victim's family received a parcel this morning."
"What kind of parcel?"
"A purple gift box. With an E on the top."
Srikanth's blood froze.
"What was inside?"
"Sir… two eyes. Human eyes. Covered in blood. Perfectly preserved."
Srikanth didn't speak. He just clenched his fist until his nails dug into his palm.
The Eye Cutter had left his calling card.
---
7:10 AM | Mittal Household
Sameer sat on the sofa, flipping through the news channels, his breakfast untouched. The headlines screamed about the serial killer targeting Delhi's youth. The eighth victim. Panic was setting in.
Srikanth returned home briefly to drop his coat and grab a drive with old case files.
"Bhaiya," Sameer said, "what's with the letter 'E'? Why not an M, or R… or anything?"
Srikanth paused at the door.
"That's what scares me," he muttered. "He wants us to ask."
---
9:45 AM | Bureau HQ – Special Crimes Division
The team sat around a large table covered in files, photos, and crime maps. A red circle marked every victim's location. They formed a pattern — but not one Srikanth could recognize yet.
"This guy," Srikanth began, "is not random. He's precise. Ritualistic. He removes the eyes because… he believes they hold something."
"Like a trophy?" Ramesh offered.
Srikanth shook his head. "No. Trophies are taken to remember. These aren't trophies. They're… offerings. Messages."
A junior analyst raised a hand nervously.
"Sir, about the gift box — we found fibers inside. Velvet. And… something else."
"What?"
"A tiny thread of paper. Burnt at one end. It had writing."
The room fell silent.
"What did it say?" Srikanth asked.
The analyst read from the report:
"The eye is blind unless the mind sees."
Srikanth sat down slowly, staring at the evidence board.
"Gentlemen," he said, "we're not dealing with a killer."
Everyone turned to look at him.
"We're dealing with a philosopher."