The world tilted beneath Rahul's feet. Every word echoed in his skull like a hammer strike. He'd walked straight into the worst possible place—the one office in the city that would tear him apart if they knew the truth.
His stomach turned. The air left his lungs.
No. No, no, no—
The inner voice laughed in his head, cruel and gleeful.
Oh, you're finished. They're talking about Ananya. Right in front of you. And you have to sit here and pretend you're innocent.
Rahul's fingers dug into the armrests, nails biting the wood. Sweat rolled down his spine. His wounded shoulder throbbed with his pulse.
Devaraj lifted the paper Soma had dropped, eyes scanning it lazily as he drew on his cigarette.
"Puppet doll, you say?"
"Yes, sir! Isn't it fascinating?" Soma leaned forward, almost bouncing with excitement. "My contact at the station said they found it near the old warehouse district. Human organs sewn inside a handmade doll. The cops are calling it the most brutal killing they've ever seen."
Devaraj's eyes narrowed slightly. "Any suspects?"
"One," Soma said. "Some college guy—the girl's boyfriend. They had a big fight before she vanished. Cops think he lost it. Kidnapped her, killed her… cut her open."
Rahul's vision tunneled. His breath came in ragged bursts.
They think I did it.
They're sure I did it.
Devaraj flicked ash into the tray, unbothered. "We'll follow up later. First, get me some chai. Strong. Two sugars. And make sure it's hot this time—not that cold gutter water you brought yesterday."
"Yes, sir! Right away!" Soma turned, but before he could leave—
"I—I need to make a phone call."
Both men looked up.
Devaraj frowned. "Now? You just got here."
Rahul's mind scrambled for words. "I need to… tell my uncle I got the job. And, uh, ask him for my ID number. For the paperwork."
It sounded flimsy even to his own ears.
Devaraj studied him, cigarette dangling from his lips. Then he sighed. "Fine. Soma, show him where the phone is. And don't forget my chai."
"Yes, sir!" Soma chirped, motioning Rahul to follow.
Rahul grabbed his bag and hurried out, his heartbeat pounding like war drums.
The office was alive—typewriters clacking, phones screaming, voices overlapping in a storm of chaos. The air reeked of ink, sweat, and ambition.
Soma moved through the crowd easily, grinning over his shoulder. "So, you're the new guy, huh?"
Rahul barely heard him. His mind replayed Soma's words again and again.
They found the organs. They think I did it. They think I killed her.
"…Yeah," he muttered.
"Cool, cool. I'm Soma—Dev sir's assistant. Been here two years." He leaned closer, conspiratorial. "This place is crazy, yaar. But the stories? Unreal. You like crime?"
Rahul's stomach twisted. "I… guess."
"Good, because that's all we do. Murders, scams, everything dirty. Last month, Dev sir exposed a neta who stole taxpayer money. Front page! The guy nearly fled the country." Soma laughed proudly.
They reached a desk by the back wall. A black landline sat next to a half-finished cup of chai and a pile of crumpled notes.
"There you go," Soma said, patting the phone. "Call your uncle. I'll get the chai. You want one?"
Rahul shook his head. "No."
Soma shrugged and vanished into the noise.
Rahul stared at the phone. His hands trembled as he lifted the receiver. The plastic was cold, almost clammy.
He dialed Manish Sir's number from memory. Each beep sounded like a countdown.
Click.
"Hello?"
"Sir!" Rahul hissed, voice low. He cupped the receiver with his palm. "What the hell did you do?!"
Paper rustled on the other end. Then came Manish Sir's calm, steady tone.
"Ah, Rahul. You reached safely. I was worried."
"Worried?!" Rahul's voice cracked. He glanced around, paranoid. "You sent me to a crime journalist! He's offering me a job! They're investigating Ananya's case right now! Do you know what that means?!"
"Calm down, Rahul."
"How can I calm down? If anyone finds out who I am—"
"They won't."
"You don't know that!"
Manish sighed, patient but firm. "Rahul, listen to me carefully. This is the only way forward."
Rahul gritted his teeth. "What are you talking about?"
"If you work there, you'll gain access—to reports, evidence, the police files. You'll see everything they see. You can follow the investigation from the inside."
Rahul froze. Access to the case. Access to the truth.
"And Devaraj is my old friend," Manish continued. "We go back twenty years. He's head of that department. Working under him gives you cover. No one will suspect a thing. You're just another intern."
Rahul's thoughts spun. "But if someone recognizes me? If my photo—"
"It's not public. You're a suspect, not a convict. No solid evidence, no clear picture. Keep your head down. You'll be fine."
"Sir—"
"Rahul." Manish's tone sharpened. "You came to me begging for help. You wanted to prove your innocence. This is how. Don't throw it away because you're scared."
"I—"
"I have to go. Someone's at the door. Good luck, beta. Trust yourself."
Click.
The line went dead.
Rahul stared at the receiver, disbelief etched into every breath.
"…He hung up. That bastard actually hung up."
He slammed it down, chest heaving. His hands wouldn't stop shaking.
If I stay, I could clear my name. If I fail... they'll bury me alive.
The inner voice purred, low and venomous.
You're walking a razor's edge, Rahul. One wrong step—and they'll kill you before the cops even arrive.
He shut his eyes, forcing his breath steady. I don't have a choice. I never did.
He turned back toward Devaraj's office.
Devaraj looked up as Rahul entered, lighting another cigarette. The flame flared briefly, illuminating the tired lines on his face.
"Well?" he asked. "Got your ID number?"
Rahul hesitated, then nodded. "Yes, sir."
"Good."
Devaraj slid the appointment letter across the desk again, along with a pen.
"Sign it. Bottom right."
Rahul stared at the paper. His pulse hammered in his ears.
This is madness.
But it was his only way forward.
He took the pen. It felt like holding a weapon.
The tip touched the paper.
Rajesh Mishra.
The signature wavered slightly—imperfect. Not his handwriting. Good.
Devaraj nodded, tucking the paper into a file. "Welcome to the team, Rajesh. Don't make me regret this."
He called out, "Soma!"
Soma appeared instantly, holding two steaming cups of chai like trophies. "Yes, sir?"
"Show Rajesh around. Filing, deadlines, how not to get beaten up during interviews—the usual. He starts now."
Soma grinned wide. "Yes, sir! Come on, newbie. Lesson one—never trust anyone. Lesson two—carry a notebook. Lesson three—"
"Soma," Devaraj groaned, "move."
"Right, sir!"
Rahul followed Soma back into the noisy office, dazed. The hum of typewriters, the chatter, the smell of ink—it all blurred into one long, anxious pulse.
Soma pointed around with endless enthusiasm. "That's Ramesh—handles court cases. Don't talk to him before noon. That's Priya—corruption stories, sharp as a knife. And over there—"
But Rahul wasn't listening. His mind was miles away.
I'm inside now. I can find out what they know. I can uncover the truth.
He looked around—the reporters, the files, the phones. Somewhere in this building lay the truth about Ananya. About The Puppet Dancer. About him.
The voice in his head whispered, half-admiring, half-condemning.
Welcome to the lion's den, Rahul. Let's see how long you last before they smell the blood on you.
Rahul's jaw clenched.
I'll survive. I have to.
Because if he didn't… he was already dead.