Sleep was a foreign country Rahul could no longer visit.
He lay on the thin mattress in Room 304, staring at water stains on the ceiling that looked like continents on a map he couldn't read. The ceiling fan rotated slowly, its shadow passing over his face in rhythmic intervals—darkness, light, darkness, light—like the world telling him what he was becoming.
The pink file.
It crawled through his mind like an insect he couldn't squash. He imagined Priya sitting in her cabin, reading reports, scanning witness statements, connecting dots that led inevitably toward him. Every page she turned brought her closer to the truth he desperately wanted to hide—and desperately needed to know.
His shoulder throbbed dully beneath the bandage. The infection had passed, but the ache remained, a permanent reminder that he was living on borrowed time.
He could steal the file. Break into the office at night. Pick the lock on Priya's drawer. Take what he needed and disappear.
Too soon, the dark voice said. You don't even know where she keeps the key. Patience. Watch first. Learn. Then strike.
The voice was right. It was always right, in its cruel way.
No. He needed information first. He needed to understand Priya—her routine, her habits, her vulnerabilities. Only then could he move.
Somewhere outside, a dog barked. An auto-rickshaw sputtered past. Bhopal breathed in the darkness, indifferent to his insomnia.
Learn her patterns. Predators study their prey before they feed.
Rahul closed his eyes, but the pink file stayed behind his eyelids, glowing like something radioactive.
Morning arrived weak and gray. Rahul reached the office an hour early, before even the peon had unlocked the front door. He waited across the street at a chai stall, sipping lukewarm tea that tasted like rust, watching the building like a man planning a heist.
Devaraj arrived first, cigarette already lit, shirt wrinkled despite the early hour. Then came the junior reporters, stumbling in with sleep still clinging to their faces. Then Soma, beedi dangling from his lips, nodding at Rahul from across the street.
And finally—Priya.
She walked with purpose, bag slung over one shoulder, glasses catching the morning light. No hesitation in her stride. No fear. She moved through the world like someone who knew exactly what she was capable of.
Rahul followed from a distance, slipping into the newsroom after her.
The day unfolded slowly. Rahul sat at his desk, typing meaningless sentences, answering phones that rarely rang, blending into the newsroom noise. But his eyes kept drifting toward Priya's cabin.
She worked with mechanical precision. File removed from drawer, notes taken, file returned. The drawer clicked shut every time—lock engaged, key withdrawn, key tucked into her bag. Never a deviation. Never a moment of carelessness.
She took calls in the corridor, never inside her cabin. Phone pressed tight against her ear, voice low, eyes scanning the newsroom as she spoke. Police informants, probably. People who couldn't afford to be overheard.
She ate lunch at her desk—simple roti and dal from a tiffin box—and worked while chewing, pen moving across paper between bites.
She left the office last. Long after Devaraj had gone home. Long after the peon had swept the floors. Sometimes she sat alone in her cabin past nine o'clock, reading files under the harsh fluorescent light.
Rahul cataloged it all. Every habit. Every pattern. Every potential weakness.
She's good, he thought. But everyone makes mistakes eventually.
Everyone except her, the dark voice whispered back. She's better than you.
The moment arrived on the third day of his surveillance.
Rahul stood near the water cooler, glass in hand, when Priya emerged from her cabin. She stopped. Looked directly at him.
"You're new, right?"
His throat locked. The glass trembled in his hand. "Yes, ma'am."
"What's your name?"
"Rajesh."
Her eyes studied him through her glasses—sharp, calculating, missing nothing. "You've been watching me. Three days now. You arrive early, leave late. Yesterday you refilled your water glass four times in one hour. Nobody's that thirsty."
Blood drained from his face. She'd been counting. She'd noticed everything.
"I—no, ma'am, I was just—"
"Don't lie. I've been doing this job eight years. I notice things." She adjusted her bag on her shoulder. "So. Why are you following me?"
The newsroom noise faded. Phones rang in the distance. Typewriters clacked like distant gunfire. But all Rahul could hear was his own heartbeat hammering in his skull.
He forced his voice steady. "I'm not following you, ma'am. I'm trying to learn. You're the best crime reporter here. I wanted to understand how you work."
It was partially true. The best lies always were.
Priya's expression didn't change. She studied him for three long seconds—weighing him, measuring him, deciding something.
"Stay out of my way."
She walked off, heels clicking against the tile floor.
Rahul exhaled slowly, hand still trembling around the glass.
She noticed everything. She's faster than me. Sharper.
Which means you need to be smarter, the voice countered. Not faster. Smarter.
The next day, Soma appeared at Rahul's desk like a ghost materializing from smoke.
"Time to work."
Rahul looked up, startled. "Where?"
"Same case. The Sapphire Lounge murder." Soma grinned. "Vikram Malhotra had enemies. We're going to find them."
Excitement and nervousness collided in Rahul's chest. Another investigation. Another chance to prove himself. Another step deeper into the darkness he was learning to call home.
"When do we leave?"
"Now."
The streets of Bhopal's commercial district smelled like diesel and desperation. Shops lined both sides—electronics, clothing, hardware—all crammed together like teeth in a diseased mouth. Vendors shouted prices. Auto-rickshaws honked. A cow sat in the middle of the road, chewing cud, causing a traffic jam nobody questioned.
Soma moved through the chaos with practiced ease. Rahul followed, notebook in hand, trying to look professional while his mind raced with possibilities.
They questioned shopkeepers first. Had they seen Malhotra? Did they know about his gambling debts? Any threats?
Most shook their heads, eyes sliding away. A few answered in monosyllables, words careful and measured. One spat paan juice onto the street and muttered, "Ask the people he owed money to. If you dare."
Every question felt like pulling teeth. Every answer came wrapped in suspicion and fear.
Rahul watched Soma work—calm, patient, never pushing too hard, never backing down. He asked the same question five different ways until someone finally gave him a name: Rakesh Tiwari, small-time moneylender with big-time connections.
They found Tiwari's office above a pharmacy—narrow stairs reeking of cigarette smoke and something chemical that burned the back of Rahul's throat. The man himself sat behind a desk piled with ledgers, gold rings on every finger, belly straining against his expensive silk shirt. A young assistant stood in the corner, filing papers, thin and nervous.
"Press?" Tiwari laughed, a wet, ugly sound. Gold teeth flashed. "What do you want? I already told the police everything."
"The police hear what they want to hear," Soma said smoothly. "We're just trying to understand who wanted Malhotra dead badly enough to slit his throat in a nightclub."
Tiwari leaned back in his leather chair, the wood groaning under his weight. He lit a thick cigar, the smoke filling the small office. "Understanding gets expensive. Particularly when it involves dead men who owed money."
Soma didn't reach for his wallet. Men like Tiwari weren't bought with fifty-rupee notes.
"Malhotra owed me three lakhs," Tiwari continued, smoke curling from his nostrils. "Promised to pay. Kept promising. Then someone opened his throat like a goat at Bakr-Eid. Now I'll never see that money. You want me to cry about it?"
"Who else did he owe?"
"Everyone. Gambling dens in Indrapuri. Protection money to local gangs. Import taxes he never paid. The man lived like a maharaja on borrowed cash and borrowed time." Tiwari tapped ash into a crystal tray. "But you're wasting your time here. I didn't kill him. Bad for business—dead men don't pay debts."
"Anyone specific who wanted him dead?"
Tiwari's smile faded. He studied them both, eyes calculating. "That's the kind of question that gets reporters killed, bhai. And I don't answer questions that dangerous. Bad for my health."
He gestured toward the door with his cigar. "My assistant will show you out."
The young man stepped forward quickly, eager to please. "This way, please."
They descended the narrow stairs, the assistant leading them out through the pharmacy. Outside, he paused, glancing nervously back at the building.
Soma pulled out two fifty-rupee notes. "Your boss doesn't like answering dangerous questions. What about you?"
The assistant's eyes locked onto the money. A hundred rupees—more than he probably made in three days. His hand twitched.
"I don't know anything..."
Soma added another fifty. "Where can we find people who knew Malhotra? People who might actually talk?"
The assistant snatched the money, stuffing it into his pocket quickly. His voice dropped to a whisper. "Indrapuri. The underground card games near the old Regal cinema. Every Thursday night. That's where Malhotra played. That's where he owed money." He glanced back again. "But don't tell anyone I told you. Tiwari saab finds out, I'm finished."
"We never met," Soma said.
The assistant nodded and disappeared back into the pharmacy.
Rahul watched the exchange with fascination. Information for money. Everyone has a price. The question is just finding the right amount.
Malhotra's house sat behind high gates in Bhopal's wealthy district—New Market area, where the roads were paved and the streetlights actually worked. The smell of polished wood and expensive cologne hung in the air, thick and cloying.
A watchman stood at the gate, suspicious eyes narrowing as they approached.
"Press," Soma said, flashing his ID. "We need to speak with Mrs. Malhotra."
The watchman checked their IDs carefully, taking his time, making them wait. His eyes lingered on Rahul's face just a moment too long. Finally, he unlocked the gate.
"Ten minutes. No more."
Inside, the house was a museum of wealth—marble floors, crystal chandeliers, portraits of Malhotra in expensive suits shaking hands with politicians and businessmen. Everything screamed money. Everything reeked of corruption.
Mrs. Malhotra sat in the living room, draped in a silk saree, eyes red but dry. Grief performed for an audience, rehearsed and controlled.
Soma leaned close to Rahul, voice barely a whisper. "Keep her talking."
Before Rahul could respond, Soma stood, stretched casually. "Washroom?"
Mrs. Malhotra gestured vaguely toward the ground floor. "Down the hall."
Soma nodded and walked off—but his footsteps moved toward the stairs, not the hallway.
Rahul's pulse spiked. He's going upstairs. He's going to search.
Mrs. Malhotra looked at him expectantly. "Well?"
Rahul swallowed, opened his notebook. "Ma'am, I'm very sorry for your loss. We're trying to understand what happened. Did your husband have any enemies?"
Her hand paused mid-dab with the handkerchief. "Define enemies. Business rivals who sent gifts on Diwali? Or the kind who send death threats?"
"Either. Both."
"My husband was successful. Success creates..." She searched for the word. "Friction."
"What kind of friction?"
"The usual kind. People who wanted favors. People he refused. Competitors who couldn't compete legitimately."
Upstairs, a floorboard creaked.
Mrs. Malhotra's eyes flicked toward the ceiling. "Did you hear something?"
"I didn't hear anything, ma'am." Rahul kept his voice level, his pen moving across paper. "You were saying about competitors?"
She studied him for a moment, then continued. "My husband built his business from nothing. Naturally, that created... resentment."
"Did he mention any specific threats recently?"
Another creak from upstairs. Rahul's heart hammered. Come on, Soma. Hurry.
"He stopped telling me about his work years ago." Mrs. Malhotra's voice turned cold. "Wives are decorations in houses like these, not confidantes."
A door closed somewhere above them. Soft. Careful.
"Was he involved in any unofficial business dealings?"
Mrs. Malhotra's eyes sharpened like broken glass. "What are you implying?"
"Nothing, ma'am. Just trying to understand the full picture—"
"My husband was a respected businessman. These rumors about gambling and debts are lies spread by jealous people who couldn't achieve what he achieved."
Soma reappeared at the top of the stairs, camera tucked into his bag, face perfectly calm.
"Thank you for your time, ma'am," Rahul said quickly, standing. "We won't take up any more of your day."
They left before she could ask more questions, before the watchman could look too closely, before anyone noticed Soma's camera.
Outside, the afternoon sun pressed down like a weight. Rahul exhaled slowly, adrenaline still buzzing in his veins like electricity through wire.
"What did you get?"
Soma grinned, patting his bag. "Photos. Lots of photos."
Back at the office, Soma spread the images across his desk—walls, portraits, certificates, documents Malhotra had left carelessly visible. Rahul leaned in, scanning each one with growing fascination.
Business licenses. Import permits. Photographs of Malhotra at formal events, always surrounded by other wealthy men in expensive suits, all of them smiling like they owned the world.
And then Rahul saw it.
A photograph on the wall, slightly larger than the others. Malhotra shaking hands with another man at some charity function. Both grinning. Both dressed in tailored sherwanis.
The other man was Niraj's father.
The room tilted. Rahul's breath caught in his throat like a stone.
That face—he'd seen it before. At the university. Picking up Niraj in a black Mercedes. Laughing with the dean in the administrative building. The same man who'd probably paid bribes to get Niraj through the police exam. The same man whose son had framed Rahul for murder.
And now that same face smiled from a photograph with Vikram Malhotra, a murdered businessman with gambling debts and organ-dealing connections.
They're all connected, the dark voice hissed. Rich men. Corrupt police. Dead bodies. It's all one web, and they tried to bury you in it.
"You okay?" Soma asked, noticing his stillness.
Rahul forced his face neutral, his voice steady. "Yeah. Just... a lot to process."
But inside, his mind raced like an engine overheating. Connections forming. Patterns emerging. Niraj had framed him for Ananya's murder. Niraj's father knew Malhotra. Malhotra was murdered. Someone was covering something up. Something big. Something worth killing for.
Follow the thread, the voice urged. Pull it until the whole web unravels.
Night fell over Bhopal like a curtain dropping on a stage. The streets emptied. Shops pulled down shutters. Streetlights flickered—some working, most not. The city transformed into a patchwork of light and shadow, safe zones and danger zones, the boundaries shifting with each hour.
Near Malhotra's house, the watchman locked the gate and walked three blocks to a public phone booth, coins clinking in his pocket. He dialed a number he'd memorized weeks ago.
"Sir, two reporters came today."
A pause. Then a voice on the other end, smooth and controlled: "Which newspaper?"
"Daily Truth."
Longer pause. Breathing on the other end. Calculation happening in the silence.
"The one who asked about the gambling debts—describe him."
"Young. Maybe twenty-five. Nervous energy but trying to hide it. Called himself Rajesh."
"Rajesh." The voice repeated the name slowly, tasting it like expensive wine. "And the other?"
"Younger but older than other one .Confident. Name was Soma. "
The silence stretched longer this time. When the voice returned, it carried weight. "If they come back, call immediately. Not later. Not when convenient. Immediately. Understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. You'll be compensated."
The line went dead.
The watchman hung up, lit a beedi, and walked back to his post. Somewhere in the city, someone powerful now had their names, their faces, their newspaper. Someone was watching.
Room 304 welcomed Rahul back with its familiar smell of dust and old wood. He locked the door. Bolted it twice. Checked the window latch even though he was three floors up.
His mind replayed the day on an endless loop: Priya noticing him, counting his water refills, seeing through him like glass. Soma's stealth photography, the risk of discovery. Mrs. Malhotra's performed grief and sharp deflections. And that photograph—Niraj's father shaking hands with a murdered man.
Everything was connected. He could feel it now, sense it the way animals sense earthquakes before they strike. The rich, the police, the murders—threads woven together into a web he was only beginning to see.
He thought about Priya. Sharp. Fearless. Capable. She hunted truth like a predator, unafraid of consequences. Eight years of death threats and she'd backed down from zero.
That's what you need to become, he thought. Fearless. Relentless.
You're already becoming it, the dark voice whispered. You're learning to hunt. Soon, you'll learn to kill.
But first, he needed that pink file. Whatever it took. However dangerous.
He thought about the photograph again. Niraj's father. Malhotra. Money flowing through hidden channels. Power protecting power. And somewhere in that web, the truth about Ananya's murder.
Follow the trail, the voice urged. Find the connections. Uncover the conspiracy. Make them pay.
But ambition burned hotter than fear. Hunger outweighed caution. The need for truth consumed everything else.
Rahul lay on the mattress, staring at the ceiling fan spinning shadows across his face.
Outside, night fell ,Dogs barked. Auto-rickshaws sputtered. Life continued, indifferent to his obsession, blind to his transformation.
The pink file waited in Priya's locked drawer.
The truth waited somewhere in that web of corruption.
And Rahul Kumar—no, Rajesh—was learning to hunt.