The bell rang, and chaos spilt into the school corridor—shoes squeaking, lockers banging, laughter echoing like static.
"LOOK! It's her again!" a generic girl yelled, waving a newspaper above her head like something might burst out.
Within seconds, students swarmed toward her. Sneakers scraped tile. Voices collided midair.
"Read it!"
"Let me see!"
The headline screamed in bold:
Masked Detective Strikes Again — Delhi's Phantom Solves Yet Another Case!
Beneath it, a grainy black-and-white image: a smooth white mask. No eyes. No name. Just a blank expression staring back.
"No photo?"
"No name?"
"Who the hell is she?"
"She just solves the case… and vanishes?"
"Is she even real?"
The hallway buzzed like a disturbed hive.
And yet—just off-centre, barely noticed—sat one girl.
She perched at the end of a worn wooden bench, knees pressed together, fingers curled around the spine of a tattered notebook. Her uniform was clean but faded. Her shoes, scuffed at the toes.
Aaradhya.
Seventeen. Class 11. Taraniketan School, Subarnagarh.
No one spoke to her. No one noticed her.
She kept her gaze low, but her eyes—dark, sharp—flicked up briefly, catching every gesture, every whisper, every eye that lingered on the page.
A small, annoyed murmur slipped from her lips.
"Loud idiots…"
The noise continued, but she didn't. She sat still—like the only silent note in a room full of static.
---
After school.
The STC bus chugged along like it hated its job, rattling through the broken streets of Subarnagarh. Dust swirled around the tires, painting the air brown.
Aaradhya stepped off without a word, her feet touching the ground with the kind of silence that draws no attention.
She walked home alone—past shuttered shops, rusting tin roofs, stray dogs, and sleepy cows. She didn't wave to anyone. No one waved back.
She stopped before an old iron gate hanging crooked on its hinges.
Shantivan Orphanage
Letters faded. One corner is bent. A crow perched on top, cawing once before flying off.
Home.
Or a cage.
Inside, the walls were damp and peeling like sunburnt skin. A weak ceiling fan churned the stale air. Paintings made by children—old, cheerful ones—still clung to the walls like lies.
Her younger brother, Amit, lay sprawled on the floor, thumbs flicking across a cracked phone screen.
"How was school?" he mumbled, eyes locked in battle with pixels.
Aaradhya dropped her bag onto the cot with a thump.
"Same."
She glanced at the clock. Then the kitchen.
"You cook today."
Amit groaned. "You know I'll burn it."
"You always do," she said, not looking at him.
Dinner was what it always was—burnt roti, watery dal, and half a spoon of mango pickle.
They sat on the floor, plates on their knees, the flickering light bulb above them casting nervous shadows.
No one spoke.
Until—
Aaradhya turned her head, slowly.
The window was open a crack. The curtain shivered, even though no wind blew.
She stared through it. Past the iron bars. Past the empty street glowing silver in the moonlight.
A feeling slid down her back like cold oil.
Someone was out there.
Not moving.
Just watching.
She stood, slow and quiet, moving toward the window.
Outside—nothing.
Just the moon. Just the road. Just silence.
And her own reflection.
She exhaled, annoyed.
"Stop imagining things," she murmured.
But even as she turned away, her spine stayed tense.
---
Meanwhile…
South Subarnagarh Police Station reeked of old sweat and cheap tea. Files stacked like leaning towers crowded the desks. The ceiling fan groaned like it had secrets of its own.
Two constables leaned over a report, expressions grim.
"Seventeen years old," one muttered. "Just disappeared after school."
"No ransom. No clue. No footprints."
"The third this week," the other said. "Something's wrong in this town."
The door creaked.
They both looked up.
A figure entered.
Tall. Slim. A long black coat falling just past the knees. Gloves. Heavy boots. And the face—
A white mask.
No eyes. No mouth. No smile.
Just stillness.
The air shifted. Colder. Sharper.
The constables stood without realising it. The inspector stepped out from his cabin, his mouth half open, words failing to form.
Silence stretched.
Then—
A voice.
Low. Rough. Like gravel scraped across stone.
"Where's the file?"
One constable jumped. Handed over the folder without blinking.
The Masked Detective didn't sit. Just read. Each page turned with the slow sound of paper surrendering.
"Girl went missing after school," the detective said. "Same pattern. Same hour."
The inspector finally found his voice.
"We—we've checked the CCTV. Nothing useful. No one saw anything."
The detective didn't reply.
She walked to the evidence board.
Pins. Photos. Strings. Chaos.
She moved one photo. Shifted a string. Changed nothing—
And everything.
A beat passed.
Then that voice again, heavy with certainty:
"She wasn't the first.
She won't be the last."
The inspector's hands trembled.
Because when the Masked Detective speaks—
The truth starts bleeding through.