I notice myself moving quieter these days—not in words, but in how I occupy space. The office still obeys my command, my team still listens. Forensic puzzles still bend under my scrutiny. But something inside me feels dimmer, like a light I used to carry has grown heavy. Amish's absence… it's a weight I can't shake.
Then the alert hits. Gangtok. Urgent. Intelligence reports of a group poisoning the minds of a peaceful town. Hate, invisibly spreading, slowly. Someone wants violence to bloom where none should. And now I'm leading a discreet CBI team to stop it. Among the officers, Aakrit is assigned.
Aakrit.
He's always been close—too close, some might say. Since Amish left, he became my shadow. Quietly, he anchors me through endless reports, through nights that stretch on like frozen rivers. His eyes… they linger sometimes. Not obvious, not brash, but there. I notice. I notice everything.
He offers tea, just the way I like it. He finishes my sentences sometimes, sits a little too near during briefings. Comfort? Or a risk I don't want to admit exists? I tell myself it's duty, nothing else. But his presence is addictive. And in Amish's absence, it hurts more than it should.
Gangtok is beautiful, yet dangerous beneath its calm. Temples gleam in the sun, children run through narrow streets, yet hate hides in pamphlets, anonymous posts, small donations funneled like poison. No leader, no name—but it's everywhere.
I walk through schools, speak about inclusion, observe faces, read movements. Aakrit is always at my side, silent yet present. At night, over chai on quiet rooftops, he tells stories that make me laugh without effort. He never speaks of love… but his eyes confess everything I don't dare say.
And I hate it. I hate that it feels good. That I crave it. Amish hasn't contacted me in weeks. Each silent day feels like a betrayal. But this is duty. Love can wait. Or so I tell myself.
Then I notice her. Rinzing Sherpa. Young, soft-voiced, but never lingers. Gloves in mild weather. No camera ever catches her face fully. Her ID is too clean, too new. My gut screams.
Three days of tracking her. She donates to temples, joins women's circles, feeds strays—but always controlled, always careful. Nothing slips.
Aakrit breaks the wall. Intercepts a shipment labeled "festival supplies." Hidden inside: pamphlets, coded for private distribution. One fingerprint matches Rinzing. My pulse quickens.
We follow her to a closed school campus, hidden beneath a prayer hall. And then we see it: the heart of the operation.
Maps, burner phones, encrypted laptops, photos marked with red circles. Dozens of locals unknowingly drawn into her web. And at the center… Rinzing. Or rather, Vaishnavi Rao. Former psychologist. Ideologue. Calm, unafraid. "People don't need violence," she says, almost smiling. "They just need the right language to hate each other."
Arrest executed. Mission technically complete. Yet rain lashes the guesthouse windows. I stand at the window, arms folded, heart a tangle I can't unravel. Aakrit stands behind me. Silent. Protective. Gentle. I don't pull away when his hand brushes mine. Fingers intertwine. Dangerous. I know it.
And somewhere, miles away, Amish sits in a hospital bed. Phone in hand, showing "Switched off." I can feel him—though I can't hear him. I whisper to the silence, Come back. Please.
But just as the rain hammers the glass, I notice a shadow outside—a figure slipping between rooftops, moving with intent. My stomach twists. My instincts flare. Something is coming. And it's not what I expected.