In the dim light of the single bulb that hung crookedly from the ceiling, Gauri stood before the cracked mirror, fastening the last of the glittering bangles onto her wrists. The costume her mother had forced on her shimmered under the light, but to Gauri it felt like chains.
Her kohl-lined eyes brimmed with tears that blurred her reflection. She pressed her lips together, trying to steady the storm inside her chest. Behind her, Charvi sat on the bed, clutching the edge of her shawl, her face streaked with tears.
"This is all my fault," Charvi whispered, her voice trembling. "If I wasn't such a burden, Ma wouldn't make you do this. I'm the reason you're suffering, Didi."
At once, Gauri turned, her eyes fierce even through the wetness. She crossed the room in two steps and cupped Charvi's face, gently shushing her. "No more of that. Do you hear me? You are not a burden. You are my heart, Charvi. Everything I do, I do because I want to protect you. Never blame yourself."
Charvi broke down again, but Gauri wiped her tears with the edge of her dupatta. Then, in a voice soft but steady, she began to recite, half to soothe her sister, half to remind herself:
"Even in the darkest night,
a flame learns how to burn.
Even when wings are broken,
a soul finds its return.
Tears may fall like endless rain,
but I will rise above the pain."
Charvi clung to her tightly, and for a moment the suffocating room seemed to breathe with them.
Gauri closed her eyes, drawing strength from the words, from the warmth of her sister's arms. She straightened, adjusting the dupatta over her shoulder. Her smile was thin, fragile, but it was enough to convince Charvi.
"Don't cry anymore," Gauri whispered. "Tonight, I'll carry this weight. Not you."
And as she turned back to the mirror, her reflection seemed less like a broken girl and more like a soldier walking into battle—armed not with swords, but with sacrifice.
Night draped the Kothari Mansion in silence, broken only by the distant hum of the city outside. In his room, Vihaan sat at his desk, skimming through the last of the case files when his phone buzzed.
It was his junior, Harsh. The urgency in his voice was unmistakable.
"Sir, you need to see this. We've found… something unusual. A strange marking, carved into the signboard of a bar in Kalbadevi."
Vihaan straightened, his brows furrowing. "Marking? What kind of marking?"
There was hesitation on the other end before Harsh replied, "It looks… ritualistic, sir. Like it doesn't belong. The locals are spooked. We think it might be connected."
Vihaan's jaw tightened. "I'll be there immediately." He cut the call, grabbed his jacket, and strode toward the door.
As he stepped into the dim corridor, he nearly bumped into Yug, who was yawning, a glass in hand. "Bhaiya? Where are you off to at this hour?"
Vihaan glanced toward the shadows of his mother's closed door. His voice lowered. "Listen, Yug. Don't let Ma know I've gone out tonight. She'll only worry."
Yug blinked, instantly alert at his cousin's tone. He gave a crooked grin, though his eyes betrayed concern. "Fine, fine. My lips are sealed. But you'd better come back in one piece—or I'll be the one getting scolded."
Vihaan smirked faintly, patting Yug's shoulder as he passed. "That's an order, Inspector Yug—keep my secret safe."
Yug saluted playfully, watching as Vihaan disappeared into the night. But once alone in the corridor, his grin faded. Something in his brother's eyes had carried a weight heavier than any ordinary case.
And in the silence that followed, the mansion's old walls seemed to whisper with unease.
The smoky air of the Kalbadevi bar churned with the stench of alcohol and sweat, dim lights dancing across the cramped room. On the small stage, Gauri swayed in forced rhythm, her anklets jingling as men tossed money at her feet. Behind the shimmer of her costume, her eyes glistened with silent tears.
At a corner table, ACP Vihaan Kothari and Harsh sat disguised in ordinary clothes, their eyes sharp despite their casual fronts. They weren't here for entertainment—they were hunting.
"Sir," Harsh whispered, scanning the crowd, "no sign yet. But someone here doesn't belong. I can feel it."
Vihaan's gaze swept the room with a predator's patience, searching for the hooded man they'd been chasing for months. His eyes caught on the stage—and froze.
There she was.
The dancer. Young, fragile, her beauty only amplifying the sorrow behind her smile. For a moment, Vihaan's heart stuttered, their eyes locking across the distance. An unexpected jolt ran through him, as if fate had tangled their threads for a fleeting second.
But then his expression hardened. His jaw clenched, and he tore his gaze away with quiet disdain. A dancer. Selling dignity for coins.
"Sir?" Harsh nudged him. "Over there."
Vihaan followed Harsh's discreet gesture. Near the bar's back exit, a tall figure sat unnaturally still, his face shadowed beneath a hood despite the dim heat of the room. He wasn't drinking, wasn't cheering, wasn't even blinking—just watching.
Vihaan's eyes narrowed. The hooded man.
"Stay sharp," he muttered, his disgust for Gauri momentarily replaced by the sharp pull of duty. "If he moves, we follow."