Srikanth Mittal stepped into the quiet morning corridors of the Investigations Bureau, the weight of last night's crime heavy on his shoulders. He had barely slept, his mind replaying the gruesome scene of the Eye Cutter's latest victim.
Now, in the pale dawn light filtering through high windows, he felt oddly small. Doors lined the hallway like vaults of secret burdens. Behind one of them sat his boss, Commissioner Bhattacharya, waiting to deliver news that would change everything.
Srikanth took a deep breath and knocked. The door swung open before he could finish. Commissioner Bhattacharya, a stern man with sharp eyes, gestured for him to sit. "Mittal," he said quietly, steepling his fingers, "you know what the media's calling this killer. They've named him the Eye Cutter. Politicians are screaming for results, and now the pressure's on us." He let the words sink in. "Under this pressure, I'm putting you in charge of this investigation. I want updates every morning, every detail."
When Srikanth stepped out, Detective Ramesh was waiting by the elevator, a cup of coffee in hand. "So?" Ramesh asked softly. Srikanth ran a hand through his hair. "He made me lead officer," he replied, voice low.
Ramesh raised his eyebrows. "You? This case? Brace yourself, boss." Srikanth forced a smile. "No pressure, right?" The two shared a brief laugh, though tension lingered beneath their faces. They headed back to their cabin.
In the small bureau cabin, Srikanth sat at his desk and Ramesh leaned against the doorframe. A junior officer placed a sealed folder on the desk. "Latest CCTV footage from the murder scene, sir," he said.
Srikanth opened the folder and found a flash drive. Plugging it in, he played the video. Grainy footage flickered on the screen: a dim alley behind a closed nightclub, glistening pavement and tall trash bins. Suddenly a figure appeared under a streetlamp's glow. A woman in a red saree moved slowly across the pool of light, a small burlap bag in her hand. She took two quick steps and disappeared around the corner.
Srikanth shut off the monitor. Ramesh leaned in. "She's covering everything — face, hands," he said quietly. "All we see is that red saree." Srikanth frowned. "Why a saree?" he muttered. "Maybe to taunt us. Make us think she's female." Ramesh's eyes narrowed. "Or to hide a disguise," he said. "The killer could be wearing that saree to fool us." Srikanth nodded.
He rewound the tape and watched the figure's gait again, searching for any clue in her step or the way she walked. Then the footage ended abruptly.
Srikanth sat back, feeling drained. He opened the medical examiner's report on his desk. The words were clinical, but the details were monstrous. The victim had been strangled — ligaments torn, larynx crushed. After death, each eye had been pried out with a pair of surgical tweezers. The sockets were empty and raw.
They looked at each other, pale. All their careful questioning, all their CCTV review — none of it had shown the killer's face. If the Eye Cutter was watching, he had slipped away again.
Days passed with no new leads. Srikanth and Ramesh worked feverishly — phone logs, interviews, the victim's contacts — but the Eye Cutter remained a ghost. Then, one afternoon, Ramesh burst into the cabin holding a police report. "Got something," he announced. Srikanth took the paper. It was a Delhi Police report on a routine drug bust. "They picked up a taxi driver, Harish Kumar," Ramesh explained. "And look at this: during the search, they found a pair of surgical tweezers covered in blood in his vehicle."
Srikanth's stomach knotted. Bloodstained tweezers. That was the Eye Cutter's signature. He looked at Ramesh. "They're the same type," he said quietly. "We have to question this guy."
Within the hour they were at the central lockup. Harish Kumar was brought in. He was a heavyset man in his early forties, with a sweaty face and a thick mustache. His small, beady eyes shifted warily under the fluorescent lights. He sat on a bench, still in the orange jacket the police had given him. When he saw Srikanth and Ramesh, he jumped to his feet, startled.
"Inspector," he said, voice trembling in a heavy Bhojpuri accent. "I… I coope—"
"Sit down, Harish," Srikanth said, taking a seat across from him. He slid the bloody tweezers onto the table. They glinted under the light. "These were found in your taxi," Srikanth said. "Explain."
Harish's Adam's apple bobbed. "Sir, I…" he stammered, "I'll be honest. I carry things for people. Drugs, cash… I did run that contraband. But murder? No sir. I'm no killer. Those tweezers aren't mine."
"Then why were they in your car?" Ramesh asked bluntly. "They have blood on them."
Harish closed his eyes, trembling. "It's not mine," he blurted. "A friend's. Dr. Prakash Yadav — he's a quack, sir, not a licensed doctor. He asked me to drive a patient once. He promised money. But it went wrong. The woman… she died after his illegal surgery. Dr. Yadav ran away. I swear, maybe he left those tweezers in my cab."
He opened his eyes, desperation in them. "Sir, look at me. I'm big and slow — not your killer. I told the truth about the drugs. I'm telling the truth about this. I know nothing of the Eye Cutter."
Srikanth exchanged a glance with Ramesh. They had to test Harish's story. Srikanth nodded. "We'll hold you here," he said. "Send the tweezers to forensics."
Harish collapsed onto the bench, burying his face in his hands. "Thank you," he whispered. "I swear…"
The night dragged on. Harish sat quietly as Srikanth and Ramesh waited in the evidence room.
By morning, the confirmation arrived. The blood on the tweezers matched exactly the records of Dr. Yadav's missing patient — not any of the Eye Cutter's victims. Srikanth covered his face with his hands for a moment.
Ramesh rubbed his eyes. "He was right," he said quietly. "Those tweezers came from that other case, not ours."
Srikanth leaned back. "We were fooled," he said quietly. "Those tweezers were never our missing link."
All of it made chilling sense now — but it also meant the real killer was still out there. Srikanth stood up. "We need to find Dr. Yadav," he said. "Get me his address."
They had little time. The interrogation notes gave Yadav's location in Ghaziabad. By dusk, Srikanth and Ramesh were with a squad at a derelict clinic on the city's edge. The police breached the door. Inside, they found Dr. Prakash Yadav cowering under a table, hands and face smeared with blood. He was dazed and stupefied. They arrested him on the spot.
In a stark interrogation room, Srikanth faced the captured doctor. Dr. Yadav's eyes were wild. He kept muttering incoherently about the operation. "What did you do, Dr. Yadav?" Srikanth pressed.
The doctor's voice was broken. "I… I did an operation on a patient. Illegal. She… she had complications. I couldn't save her. She died… I panicked." He shook uncontrollably. "I hid, Inspector. But I swear, I had nothing to do with any murders. Not those you're talking about."
Srikanth watched the man. When he spoke again, his voice was clearer. "Check the records," Yadav insisted. "I had one patient that night, and I messed up. I ran. But I swear — I never killed anyone's eyes."
The evidence and his confession aligned: one dead patient, a guilty conscience, no serial murders. Finally, Srikanth sat back. The interrogation was over. Dr. Yadav would be charged for the illegal procedure and the accidental death, and nothing else.
Srikanth and Ramesh left the station in silence. They had uncovered a horrifying sub-plot, but it solved nothing of the Eye Cutter. The real killer was still free.
Later that night, Srikanth sat alone in the empty bureau, the image of the red-saree woman still on his screen. He reviewed every detail: the hidden face on video, the horror of the autopsy, the tangled leads and dead ends. His eyes burned with fatigue. Outside, the city was quiet and the distant traffic a faint hum.
He realized, with a sinking heart, that they were still no closer to catching the Eye Cutter than when this nightmare began. The killer was still at large — somewhere in the shadows of the city, watching and waiting. Srikanth switched off his desk lamp and stood as the pale light of dawn began to seep through the window. The case file lay thick on his desk, full of notes and theories, but it offered no certainty.
The night had been long, and for a moment Srikanth felt truly alone. The hunt had only just begun, and the darkness around him held its secrets tight.