5:40 a.m.
Fog clung low to the park like wet cotton.
Yellow tape fluttered lazily in the wind.
A body.
Perfectly straight.
Too perfect.
Detective Aarav Sen didn't like perfect.
Perfect meant planned.
And planned meant personal.
He stared at the corpse on the bench.
Hands folded. Shoes aligned. Shirt ironed smooth.
Like someone arranged him after death.
Like a funeral display.
Then—
"Sir…"
A constable swallowed.
"You should see the eyes."
Aarav leaned closer.
Black thread.
Medical stitching.
Tight. Precise. Surgical.
Not messy like panic.
Clean like practice.
His jaw tightened.
"Whoever did this," he muttered,
"took their time."
Behind him, Dr. Mira Hasan spoke quietly:
"This isn't murder."
He glanced at her.
"This is choreography."
CID van lights flashed blue.
Gloves on.
Cameras clicking.
Evidence bags everywhere.
Forensic officer Kabir dusted the bench.
"Sir… no fingerprints."
"Wiped?" Aarav asked.
Kabir shook his head.
"No. Treated."
"Meaning?"
"Surface has been cleaned with diluted bleach… then wiped with alcohol. Professional. Even micro-residue gone."
Mira frowned.
"So he came prepared."
"More than prepared," Kabir added.
"We found something else."
He pointed to the ground.
Mud.
A single partial shoe print.
Size 9.
Military-grade sole.
Not common.
Not cheap either.
Aarav nodded slowly.
"So he's careful… but not perfect."
Mira watched the body.
"No," she whispered.
"He wanted us to find something."
Three weeks.
Four more bodies.
Each one like a staged photograph.
Library chair.
Office desk.
Driver's seat.
Courtroom bench.
Same pose.
Same stitching.
Same eerie calm.
And every time:
No blood
No struggle
No forced entry
It was like they willingly sat down… and died.
CID war room filled with photos.
Red strings.
Timelines.
Maps.
Aarav stared at the board.
"Five murders. Five different locations. No witnesses. No CCTV. No prints."
He exhaled.
"He's a ghost."
Mira stepped forward.
"Not a ghost."
She pinned the folded papers on the board.
Each one unfolded.
Each one with a single word.
LIAR.
"Ghosts don't send messages," she said.
"Judges do."
Mira began profiling.
"He's not impulsive. No rage. No overkill."
She circled the stitched eyes.
"This is symbolic."
A junior officer asked, "Symbolic of what?"
"Silence," she replied.
"He believes they don't deserve to see. Or speak. Or exist."
Aarav crossed his arms.
"So revenge?"
"Not exactly."
She looked at the victims' histories.
Teacher – expelled students for bribes
Lawyer – false testimony
Journalist – paid propaganda
Judge – corrupted verdict
"These people destroyed lives with lies."
She looked up.
"He sees himself as justice."
The room fell silent.
"He doesn't think he's a killer," she added.
"He thinks he's correcting the world."
Finally.
Something new.
From the journalist's car.
Kabir rushed in.
"Sir! Fibers!"
"From?"
"Black thread. Same as stitching. But imported silk. Rare. Used mostly in surgical training kits."
Mira's eyes widened.
"Surgical precision…"
Aarav finished:
"Medical or academic background."
Database search.
Only 12 people in the city ordered that specific thread.
One name blinked.
Rishav Malhotra.
Former law student.
Dropped out.
Parents died in prison.
Case history: false testimony.
Every victim connected.
Aarav whispered:
"We found him."
They stormed his apartment.
Door unlocked.
Inside—
Neat.
Too neat.
Files stacked.
Newspaper cuttings.
Victim photos crossed out with red ink.
A ritual board.
He didn't run.
He didn't fight.
He just smiled.
"I was expecting you."
Cold.
Calm.
Terrifying.
"I didn't kill them," he said softly.
"I ended the noise."
City celebrated.
Media screamed headlines:
THE SILENT JUDGE CAUGHT
But Mira couldn't sleep.
Because something felt…
easy.
Too easy.
Serial killers don't surrender like students submitting homework.
Then—
A letter.
"You caught the wrong silence."
Her hands shook.
That same night—
Another body.
Same stitching.
Same pose.
But different word.
LISTENER.
Aarav's voice broke:
"He's in prison. Then WHO—"
Mira whispered:
"We arrested a follower."
CID went full forensic.
Now it became war.
They re-examined everything.
Old cases reopened.
Footprints measured precisely.
Chemical analysis of thread.
CCTV shadow height comparisons.
Soil samples from shoes matched to—
University campus grounds.
Not Rishav's.
Another clue:
Every crime scene had faint chalk dust.
Microscopic.
Used in lecture halls.
Mira froze.
"Lecture halls…"
Aarav slowly turned.
"Academia."
Mira rewrote the board.
"Older male. Highly educated. Teacher mentality. Manipulative. Groomer personality."
"He doesn't kill randomly."
She circled words:
LIAR
LISTENER
"He punishes behavior."
Aarav: "So what's next?"
She swallowed.
"Witnesses."
"And after that?"
Her voice cracked.
"People who knew… and stayed quiet."
Her eyes met Aarav's.
"Like investigators."
Silence filled the room.
They were on the list.
Prison interview.
Rishav shaking now.
Not confident anymore.
"He taught me everything," he whispered.
"Who?"
"My professor… my mentor…"
Tears formed.
"He said silence is justice."
"Name."
"…Arvind Rao."
File opened.
Everyone froze.
Professor Arvind Rao.
Criminology expert.
Former CID consultant.
Trainer.
Author of "The Psychology of Silence."
He taught:
Mira.
Aarav.
Half the department.
He didn't just study killers.
He created them.
Fake press conference.
Live broadcast.
Mira:
"We are reopening every silent case."
Night.
Lights out.
Footsteps.
Slow clap.
"You finally listened."
Arvind stepped out of the shadows.
Calm.
Smiling.
Like a proud teacher.
"Society doesn't rot from liars," he said.
"It rots from people who hear truth… and stay quiet."
Before he could move—
Door smashed.
CID rushed in.
Guns raised.
Arvind didn't resist.
He just whispered:
"Now you understand me."
Final Line
Because silence is never empty.
It's full of ghosts.
And sometimes…
those ghosts stitch their own justice.