As Kalika stepped into her home, the scent of sandalwood lingered in the air—a comforting trace of her mother’s evening prayer ritual. The aroma of freshly brewed tea and crisp onion fritters mingled with it, wrapping around her like a warm embrace. Overhead, the ceiling fan hummed softly, stirring the stillness. The evening heat clung to her skin, heavy and persistent, like a memory she couldn’t quite shake.

Before she could even set her bag down, her father’s voice carried from the living room.

“Kalika.”

“Yes, Nana,” she called back, her voice steady out of habit, not feeling.

She walked in and sat beside him on the couch, the worn cushions sighing under her weight. He patted the space beside him gently, and she obeyed the silent command.

“Tomorrow, a boy’s family is coming to see you,” he said, as casually as if announcing the weather.

Kalika blinked. “But Nana—” she began, her voice rising in protest.

He raised his hand, silencing her.

"He comes from a reputable family," he said. "His father is the Home Minister, and the boy himself is the Youth Wing President of their party. I’m just a middle-class man, Kalika—I don’t have the kind of influence or power to protect you, not in the world you’re navigating.”

His voice didn’t rise. It was soft, almost weary. That quiet helplessness cut deeper than anger ever could.

“An IFS officer is always on unstable ground. You never know when a diplomatic crisis will erupt, or when a single misstep could turn allies into enemies.”

His eyes met hers—unflinching, yet pleading.

“You’ll face more than your share of battles, and politics will snake into every corner of your life. I’m not questioning your strength, Kalika. But even the strongest need someone to watch their back. Someone who will protect them when the world turns cruel. And... he’s a good man.”

From the kitchen doorway, her mother stepped in silently. Bhagya Sri crossed the room with grace, her saree whispering against the marble floor. She sat behind Kalika and gently ran her fingers through her daughter’s hair.

“Just meet him once,” she said, her voice as soft as the twilight filtering through the curtains.

Kalika nodded.

But the yes didn’t come from her heart—it came from the ache in her father’s voice, from the weight in her mother’s touch, from the silence she didn’t know how to fill with her own truth.

Later that evening, Kalika sat at the edge of her bed, the softness of the mattress doing little to ease the weight in her chest. Her elbows rested on her knees, her face buried in her hands.

The question reverberated inside her like a drumbeat.

Why did you agree to the proposal?

Because I couldn’t find a reason strong enough to stop it, she whispered to herself.

Because Nana wasn’t really asking—he was telling. And I... I didn’t know how to defy him without breaking him.

She looked up, her gaze vacant. Her thoughts unwillingly spiraled back to the previous night.

How had she gotten home?

Why couldn’t she remember?

There was a gap in her memory—dark, unsettling. And now, this sudden marriage proposal felt like a tide crashing over her, pulling her under before she could catch her breath.

Her eyes landed on the business card lying on her nightstand. The gold-embossed lettering caught the light:

Trinetra Detective Agency – There’s always more to see.

"She reached out and picked it up, turning it over slowly in her hand, like a photo of a deity—something fragile yet powerful. In that moment, it felt like the only anchor she had in a world tilting beneath her feet.”

Jubilee Hills, Hyderabad.

Aryahi and Surya stood in front of the Parallax Club. One glance was enough to tell that this place catered exclusively to the elite—sleek cars lined the curb, and a sharply dressed valet stood at attention by the entrance. The building itself gleamed with opulence, its tinted glass exterior reflecting the city lights like a jewel.

They began walking the perimeter, eyes scanning for any visible CCTV cameras. After a few minutes, they spotted a nearby gas station and headed in that direction, hoping to find more surveillance coverage or leads.

Aryahi approached the security officer stationed outside the gas station, engaging him in conversation about the area’s camera placements and the footage retention policy. Meanwhile, Surya approached the gas station staff inside, asking general questions about any suspicious activity they might have noticed the previous night.

As Surya spoke to a cashier, his attention was drawn to a man pacing nearby, shouting into his phone.

"Hey, where are you? I’ve been waiting here for thirty minutes!" the man barked. "I told you yesterday that my car needs repairs. It’s parked right across from the Parallax Club! If anything happens to it, I won’t spare you!" With that, he ended the call abruptly, clearly agitated.

Surya stepped closer, seizing the opportunity.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said politely.

The man turned, still fuming. “Yeah? What is it?”

“I couldn’t help but overhear your call. I might be able to help with your car,” Surya offered. “By any chance, does your car have a dashcam?”

The man frowned, then nodded. “Yeah, it does. Why?”

“We’re investigating something that may have happened near the Parallax Club last night. Your dashcam could have recorded something useful. If you're okay with it, I’d like to take a quick look at the footage.”

The man hesitated, still visibly annoyed, but then sighed. “Alright. If it helps you and gets my car fixed faster, fine. Come on.”

They walked back toward the parked car together. Surya popped the hood, made a few quick adjustments, and soon had the car running again.

“Thanks,” the man muttered, mildly impressed.

“No problem,” Surya replied, opening the glove compartment to retrieve the dashcam memory card. With the man's permission, he connected it to his laptop and reviewed the footage from the previous night.

Moments later, a glimmer of interest crossed Surya’s face. “Got it,” he said, and quickly copied the relevant clips. “This could really help. Thank you.”

The man gave a brief nod. “Hope you find what you’re looking for.”

Back at the gas station, Surya found Aryahi finishing up her conversation with the security officer. He showed her the dashcam footage, and together they reviewed the clips. They also collected surveillance footage from the gas station’s security system for cross-reference.

Aryahi returned to the agency to begin analysis, while Surya headed to the Traffic Management Centre, hoping for additional city camera footage that might tie everything together.

Ameerpet Police station, Hyderabad.

Samira and Niyati stepped into the police station, their presence immediately commanding attention. The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead, casting a stark glow over the sterile environment. Officers moved aside respectfully as the two women made their way in.

“Thank you for coming, ma’am,” said Inspector Chandika, approaching with brisk steps.

“This way, please,” she added, gesturing toward a corridor leading to the interrogation wing.

They walked in silence, the urgency in Chandika’s stride speaking volumes. As they reached the end of the hallway, they stepped inside the room.

They stood just outside the observation room. A large one-way mirror took up most of the wall, offering a clear view into the dimly lit space beyond. A man sat alone at the table, slumped forward. His face was marred with bruises, dried blood crusting his temple, and his wrists were cuffed to a metal ring bolted into the tabletop. He looked worn, broken—but not quite shattered.

“We’ve tried everything,” Chandika said with visible frustration. “He’s not talking. And we’re running out of time. If he doesn’t open up, I’m afraid we won’t be able to find the boy.”

Samira’s gaze was calculating, observant. “Do we have anything on him? Anything personal?”

Chandika nodded. “Yes. His mobile is being analyzed, and we found this in his pocket.” She handed over a worn-out brown leather wallet.

Samira opened it carefully. Tucked inside was a passport-sized photograph of a boy—no older than ten—and a folded piece of paper hidden behind it. As she pulled out the photo, she noticed the man inside the room was unconsciously brushing over a bracelet on his right wrist with the fingers of his left hand. A nervous habit. Or something more.

“Zoom in on that bracelet,” Samira instructed the officer monitoring the CCTV feed.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, adjusting the camera.

The screen sharpened to reveal a braided brown leather band with a rectangular metal plate. The engraving on the metal plate read: "Prithvi loves Nana.”

flicker of emotion crossed Samira’s face. She unfolded the letter but didn’t read it yet.

Holding up the photograph, she turned to Niyati. “I want this photo enlarged—normal size. Can you handle it?”

Niyati nodded, already taking the picture. “On it.”

Chandika turned to another officer nearby. “Shanti, take her to Nayak. Make sure he cooperates.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Shanti said, guiding Niyati down the hall.

Minutes later, Shanti returned and handed the enlarged photo to Samira.

“Bring me a first aid kit,” Samira said without looking up.

Shanti hesitated, but nodded and disappeared down the hallway.

Inside the interrogation room, the air was heavy with sweat, blood and pain. Samira entered slowly, followed by Shanti carrying the kit. The suspect didn’t look up.

Samira gestured for Shanti to tend to his wounds. The officer dabbed antiseptic gently, cleaned the blood, and wrapped gauze over his swollen temple. He winced but said nothing. Once done, Shanti quietly left the room, closing the door behind her.

She poured a glass of water from a jug and set it in front of the man. He hesitated, then picked it up with trembling fingers and drank.

“What’s your name?” Samira asked softly.

The man looked up at her, eyes wary. “Ravi Kishore.”

“Let’s not waste time, Ravi. Where is the boy?”

“I don’t know any boy,” he replied, his voice hoarse and flat.

Samira said nothing. Instead, she placed the first photograph on the table and slid it toward him.

“Do you recognize this boy?”

He glanced at it briefly. “No,” he lied, stroking the bracelet again — a subtle, unconscious movement of longing.

Samira pulled out the second photo—the one of the ten-year-old—and placed it next to the first.

He looked. Froze.

“No… he can’t be missing,” Ravi murmured.

“He is,” Samira confirmed gently. “A missing person report was filed just a few hours ago.”

“There’s no way my son is missing! That’s impossible!” Ravi shouted, straining against the handcuffs. The chair screeched as it tilted back slightly from the force.

Samira’s tone remained calm. “What makes you so sure your son isn’t missing?”

“Because we never go after a member’s family,” Ravi replied, his voice hard. “It’s a rule. One we all follow.”

And yet,” Samira said, folding her arms, “your son is missing. So tell me, Ravi—where is he?”

“I swear, I don’t know…” His voice broke, the fight draining from him.

Samira unfolded the paper from the wallet and began to read aloud:

---

Good morning class,

My name is Prithvi Kishore and my father's name is Ravi Kishore. Ragini is my mother's name.

I love my father very much. He is a very good person. He never scolds me, no matter what I do.

One day, my mother scolded me very badly because I drew on the wall inside the house. But my father told me, ‘Draw on the wall outside the house. You should draw only here,’ he said.

He always brings me chocolates when he comes home from work, without missing a day.

My favorite part of the day is when he feeds me while telling me a story at night.

He is the best father. I love you, Nana.

I want to become like him when I grow up.

Prithvi, 5th Standard,
Section B,
Ravindra Bharathi School.

---

As Samira finished, she looked up at Ravi. His jaw was clenched, tears pooling in the corners of his eyes. His fists trembled against the cuffs.

“I just handed him over to Rashid,” Ravi said, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know where he is now. Rashid’s the one we usually call when we have kids. He comes, takes them, and pays us. But this time… this time he took the boy and didn’t pay. Said he’d settle later.”

“How does he normally pay you?” Samira asked.

“Cash.” Ravi muttered, guilt tightening his throat.

“Then here’s what you’re going to do,” Samira said, her voice calm but commanding. “Call Rashid. Tell him you need the money urgently. Come up with an excuse—anything that works.”

Ravi hesitated, then nodded. “Okay, madam.”

Samira pulled out her phone and made a quick call. “Niyati, interrogation room. Now.”

Moments later, Niyati entered, tablet in hand.

Samira handed Ravi his phone. “Call him. Speaker on.”

Ravi dialed, and the call connected.

“Hello, Rashid bhai,” Ravi said, his voice trembling.

“Yes, Ravi?” came the response on speaker.

“Bhai, I really need the money. My son’s school fees are due and my wife’s medical bills… I can’t delay anymore.”

“I understand. But I can’t come now to give you the cash,” Rashid said casually.

Niyati quickly scribbled something on her notepad and showed it to Ravi.

“Can you send it to me through online payment, bhai?” Ravi asked.

There was a pause.

“Alright. Send me your number.”

“I’ll text it to you, bhai. Thank you,” Ravi said and ended the call.

Niyati took his phone, opened the payment app, and sent the QR code to her tablet. In seconds, she modified it—embedding discreet location-tracking code—and sent the altered version back to his phone.

“Send this to him,” she instructed.

Ravi complied without protest.

Niyati took the phone back and locked eyes with Samira. “Now,” she said, a hint of satisfaction in her voice, “he’s just one click away.”