Date.. 08/05/2025
"Sir, someone is here to see you," a constable said from the doorway.
Sanam Rana didn't look up. He was too focused on the photographs spread across his desk — two grotesque yet strangely captivating statues. No, not statues.
Bodies.
Real human beings, sculpted and posed like art installations. One had been a high-ranking politician. The other, a mafia boss involved in organ trafficking. Both now frozen in death — their corpses transformed into flawless, horrifying sculptures. One body organs are missing and other one's were brutally scratched from some pen and covered with money instead of clothes
The detail. The precision. The... beauty of it disturbed him. Who could do this? Who could create such art from violence?
He didn't even realize someone had entered the office until the sharp snap of fingers jolted him back to reality.
"What the hell are you doing?" the man barked.
Sanam looked up, startled. A tall, broad figure loomed over him — face twisted in fury.
"It's been two damn years since my brother was killed, and you still haven't found the killer? What is the CBI even doing, huh? Drinking chai and admiring corpses?"
Sanam's mouth went dry. His fingers trembled slightly.
That voice belonged to Ravindra Sharma, younger brother of the late Minister Ramchandra — the first known victim of the so-called Artist of Blood. Ravindra wasn't as powerful as his brother had been, but he was feared — especially for his temper.
"W-we're trying our best to find the killer, sir," Sanam stammered, his voice low.
"Trying?" Ravindra scoffed, stepping closer. "You'll trying from fucking two years. You people are useless."
With that, he turned sharply and stormed out, heading toward the office of Sanam's superior.
Sanam exhaled shakily, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked down at the photo again — the lifeless statue of a man who once ruled headlines.
And now, all that's left of him... is art.
Sanam stared at the crime scene photographs again, eyes tracing every twisted detail — the way the bodies were posed, painted, and placed like works of public art. He couldn't understand it. Not just the violence… but the control.
How does someone kill men this powerful… in broad daylight… and vanish like smoke?
Two murders. Two years apart. Each victim a titan — one a politician, the other a mafia kingpin. Both turned into statues, displayed publicly like trophies. And yet no one had seen anything. No CCTV. No witnesses. No evidence — except one chilling detail:
A weird sign like some signature."
"Two murders in one year… both in public places… and nothing?" Sanam muttered to himself. "If he's a serial killer, then why did he disappear for two years? Why not kill again?"
No answers. Just questions — always more questions.
A few minutes later, Ravindra stormed out of the building, slamming the glass door behind him.
Sanam exhaled. But the moment was short-lived. His boss's superior — a senior CBI officer — burst into the room.
"What the hell have you people been doing for two years?!" the officer barked, fury radiating from every word. "One of the highest-profile murders in the country — and not a single lead? Not a name? Not even a goddamn clue?!"
Sanam stood up instinctively, but the man wasn't done.
"This department has become a bloody joke," he continued. "You let politicians scream at you like you're their personal servant. Are we law enforcement or slaves?!"
His voice echoed through the room.
And Sanam?
He just stood there — silent, burning with humiliation.
He had no defense. Only the case files.
Just then, the door creaked open again.
Inspector Vijay Singh strolled into the office, humming an old Bollywood tune under his breath — completely unaware of the tension filling the room like smoke.
He stopped mid-step the moment he saw the senior officer's expression.
"You."
The officer's voice turned ice-cold. "What the hell have you been doing for the past two years?"
Vijay blinked, confused. "Sir, I—"
"You're the lead on this case!" the officer roared, stepping forward. "And you walk in here like you don't give a damn? Two high-profile murders, two years of failure, and you're humming songs?"
"Sir, we're try—" Vijay started.
"Shut up."
The officer cut him off before he could finish. "You want to talk about trying? Let me tell you how the public sees this mess. That killer — the one turning victims into statues — he's being hailed as some kind of hero now! The media loves him."
He began pacing the room, voice sharp and filled with frustration.
"They say we couldn't catch a goddamn organ-trafficking mafia. That we couldn't protect a corrupt politician — one with decades of scandal under his belt. Now we're a joke. A walking embarrassment. Headlines call this 'The Case the CBI Can't Solve.' And the higher-ups? They're breathing down my neck!"
His voice cracked, a mix of rage and helplessness.
"The killer's turning our department into art, Singh. And we're just standing here… watching it happen."
The silence that followed was heavy — crushing.
For once, even Vijay had no comeback.
The senior officer's final words echoed like a gunshot:
"Another team will handle it from now on."
And then he left — just like that.
Sanam glanced at Vijay, hoping—just for once—that the man would speak up, say something to defend them. But Vijay remained silent, jaw tight, eyes cold.
The door slammed behind the officer.
A tense silence filled the room.
Then Vijay turned to Sanam, voice sharp with anger.
"What the hell did you do? Why are they suddenly kicking us off the case?"
Sanam swallowed. "I… I didn't do anything," he said, nervous and a little annoyed. "That politician's brother came again today. He found out we still don't have any leads, so he—"
"It's all your fault," Vijay snapped, cutting him off.
Sanam clenched his fists but didn't argue. There was no point. Arguing with Vijay was like trying to win a fight with a wall. Dangerous. Pointless.
Vijay shook his head and stormed out of the office.
Left alone, Sanam slumped into his chair. He pulled out his phone and opened social media — and there it was again.
#TheArtistOfBlood was trending.
The case still had a chokehold on public attention. Everyone had an opinion — journalists, influencers, armchair detectives. Some called the killer a bloodthirsty monster, others whispered about him like a vigilante.
Sanam scrolled past images of the statue-like corpses. The brutality was undeniable… yet the composition, the arrangement…
Why does it feel like something made for a museum?
He threw the phone onto the desk, disgusted with himself.
No. Don't admire this. Don't.
This isn't art. It's murder.
And yet…
It stayed in his mind — that cold, beautiful horror.
Even after being officially removed from the investigation, Sanam couldn't let it go.
This was his first major case — his first chance to prove himself. And now it was slipping through his fingers like dust.
No leads. No suspects. No hope.
Still, he refused to give up.
Vijay hadn't let it go either. For all his aggression and arrogance, Vijay was deeply invested in solving the mystery. Maybe even more than Sanam.
Sanam respected him for that.
Despite his temper, his corruption, and his ego — Vijay Singh was sharp. At 38, he was still physically strong, fiercely intelligent, and dangerously experienced in the field. But he had a tendency to blame others when things didn't go his way.
Sanam, on the other hand, was different.
An introvert. Book-smart. Quiet. Observant.
At 31, he lacked Vijay's physical strength or confidence. He had a lean frame, soft voice, and a face that didn't exactly command authority — but his mind never stopped working.
He had the potential to be great. He just didn't believe it yet.
---
Two days later, both men received sudden orders:
Transfer to Himachal Pradesh.
Two new bodies had been found.
The murders were strange — not statues like before, but brutal, methodical, and twisted in their own ways. Enough similarities to raise alarms… enough differences to disturb everyone.
Sanam looked at the file again.
Something is wrong.
And as their car climbed into the misty, isolated hills of Himachal…
Sanam had no idea he was heading straight toward the truth.
Or the monster.