A girl in her early twenties stepped down from the bus and began walking toward the college gates. The morning air was brisk, buzzing with the hum of vehicles and the chatter of students around her. Earphones rested snugly in her ears, enclosing her in a private world of music—her footsteps light yet purposeful. A college backpack hung loosely over one shoulder, swaying gently as she moved. She wore a soft denim-blue kurta paired with off-white straight pants—simple, yet effortlessly elegant. She looked like any other student—calm, unaware, moving through the comfort of routine.

Just as she neared the college entrance, a rough tug yanked her earphones out, the sudden jolt startling her. She turned—and froze.

Standing in front of her was a guy with narrowed eyes and a clenched jaw. Rage flickered across his face.

“How dare you complain about me to the police?” he spat, his voice seething with accusation.

She stumbled back a step, her breath catching in her throat. Fear gripped her chest as her fingers tightened instinctively around the strap of her bag.

“Please… let me go. Or I’ll call the police,” she said, voice trembling yet trying to summon strength.

He let out a mocking scoff, pulling a crumpled sheet of paper from his pocket. Slowly, almost theatrically, he unfolded it and held it up in front of her.

“Recognize this?” he sneered. “Your precious complaint letter.”

And before she could respond, he tore it into shreds and tossed the pieces at her face like confetti of contempt.

“Stalking? Harassment? Are you serious?” he sneered, his voice rising. “I never harassed you. I love you. I’ve been protecting you, and you... you twisted that into a crime. You’ve completely misunderstood my love for you, baby.”

He took a step closer and raised his hand to tuck a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. She recoiled at his touch, disgust and fear flashing in her eyes.

“Okay, I forgive you,” he said, as though he were doing her a favor. “Now give me a kiss.”

Tears welled in her eyes as she shook her head. “Please… let me go,” she whispered, her voice trembling with desperation.

He leaned in closer, his tone mockingly gentle. “Shhh. Don’t cry.” He reached out and wiped a tear from her cheek with the back of his hand. “Now come on. Give me my kiss and you can walk away. A peck is fine if that’s all you can manage. But if I kiss you... it’ll be more than that. Your choice.”

“Please,” she whimpered, her body trembling as she stepped back, shaking her head.

“Fine. You’ve made your choice,” he growled and leaned in.

But before his lips could touch her, a hand shot out from behind  and gripped the back of his neck—firm, unrelenting. The pressure was enough to stop him mid-motion, and yanked  him backward with such force that he gasped.

“Go on,” a cold, commanding voice said behind him. “Kiss her now.”

The guy turned his head, already sensing the shift in air. When he saw who it was, his face turned ghostly pale.

"ACP Viren Chandravanshi. A name whispered in reverence, and screamed in fear.”

A swift, calculated kick to the back of his calf dropped him to his knees in front of Sunaina. The pain registered immediately, and he let out a sharp gasp.

Viren loosened his grip just enough to allow the guy to breathe—but not enough to let him escape.

“S-Sorry, sir... I won’t do this again,” he stammered, eyes wide with fear.

Viren took off his sunglasses slowly, almost ceremoniously, and tucked them into the front pocket of his shirt. His expression didn’t shift. His voice didn’t rise. But the weight of his words fell heavy.

“You’re apologizing to the wrong person.”

The guy turned to Sunaina instantly. “S-Sorry, Sunaina…”

“That’s not enough,” Viren said, his voice calm, measured, dangerous.

“I’m sorry, sister,” the guy stammered. “I won’t trouble you again. I swear, no one will. I promise.”

Viren leaned in slightly. “I’m letting you go this time. But if anything—anything at all—happens to her, you’ll be my first and only suspect. From this moment on, it’s your responsibility to protect her from afar. And more importantly—stay out of her surroundings. You’re not to be seen anywhere near her. I’ll be watching. No second chances. Understood?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll protect her... just like I would my sister,” he nodded fervently, his voice nearly a whisper.

“Good,” Viren said. “Make sure you do. Otherwise, I’ll show you exactly what I’m capable of.”

The man nodded frantically, too afraid to speak.

“Thank you, sir,” Sunaina said softly, wiping the tears from her cheeks.

Viren turned his gaze toward her, his face softening slightly. “I’m just doing my job.”

“I wish every officer did,” Sunaina replied bitterly. “Ordinary people like us... we have to beg, pay bribes, or pull strings with influential people just to get basic justice. Just to make someone do their damn job.”

Viren’s expression darkened. “Which police station did you file the complaint in?”

“Attapur Police Station,” she replied.

Without another word, he pulled out his phone and called the Circle Inspector of Attapur Police Station.

“Jai Hind, sir,” came the greeting as the call connected.

“Jai Hind. I want every officer from your station at CBIT College immediately,” he ordered and ended the call.

Within minutes, the sound of tires on gravel announced the arrival of a police jeeps. Ten uniformed officers stepped out and approached Viren Chandravanshi. They stood in formation and saluted him.

“At ease, officers,” he said.

He turned to Sunaina. “Point out the ones who were present when you filed your complaint.”

She pointed at six officers.

Viren stepped forward and fixed them with an unblinking stare. “Who handed the complaint letter to Rajesh?” he asked.

The group exchanged nervous glances, their mouths dry.

“Now,” Viren said, his voice firm and unforgiving.

One officer stepped forward hesitantly, lowering his gaze.

“Who took her complaint?” Viren asked.

Another officer stepped up beside the first officer.

“You two are suspended for one month—effective immediately—for negligence of duty,” Viren announced, his voice carrying across the silent crowd.

The officers exhaled in relief. A suspension was bearable—barely. But they knew well that when Viren Chandravanshi was angry, mercy was rare, and fury, legendary.

“I could’ve done this at the station,” Viren said, his voice raised just enough for the bystanders to hear. “But I chose to do it here, in front of the public—so they understand: no one is above the law. Everyone pays for their crimes, regardless of position, influence, or power.”

He turned to the senior officer. “Vikrant, Circle Inspector of Attapur—you have a lot to explain officer. See me in my office.”

He reached for his sunglasses, slipped them on with practiced precision, and walked toward his vehicle. The crowd parted in silent awe as he passed. He slid into the passenger seat, and the car drove off, fading into the distance.

After a long silence, one of the younger officers leaned toward Vikrant and whispered, “Sir… Viren sir doesn’t lose his cool, even in the most serious cases. I’ve seen him calm in murder investigations, terror threats, political pressure… everything. But why does he always get furious when it’s about crimes against women—even the minor ones?”

Vikrant exhaled deeply, watching the road where Viren had just disappeared.

“I wish I knew,” he said quietly. “I wish I knew.”

Samira, Aryahi, Niyati, and Surya sat around the low table, their gazes fixed on the very same video Kalika had sent to Samira. The dim light from the screen flickered over their faces, the silence in the room thick enough to feel.

“It’s a common tactic in secret services and intelligence agencies,” Niyati explained, her tone steady but her eyes sharp. “They send messages or emails embedded with self-destruction codes—once read, they delete themselves automatically, leaving no traces behind.”

Aryahi leaned forward, studying the frame frozen on the screen. “Just look at the video—it’s flawless. Normally, people keep a watch, a phone, or some personal item on the bedside table. But here? Nothing.” She tapped the side of the screen lightly. “And the most interesting detail—he’s hidden himself so thoroughly, there isn’t even a reflection. Anything that could catch it—mirrors, vase, glass, polished metal—it’s all missing from the room. That’s not coincidence. That’s someone who knows exactly what he’s doing. A seasoned player.”

Niyati nodded grimly. “If we had the original file, it would’ve been different. There was a high chance we could’ve traced something back to whoever sent it. But this…” She gestured to the laptop. “This is a recorded copy. I ran every tool I had, exhausted every lead, but I—”
She stopped abruptly, swallowing the rest of her words before they could sound like excuses. The frustration in her eyes gave her away. Without another word, she rose from her chair, her footsteps sharp against the floor as she left the room.

The door swung open almost immediately, and Chandika strode in, her presence brisk and purposeful. She carried a manila envelope and placed it on the table before Samira.

“This just came in,” Chandika said, her tone clipped but steady.

Samira opened the envelope, unfolding the report inside. Her eyes scanned the neatly typed words.

“There are no drugs in Kalika’s blood—only traces of alcohol,” Chandika began, watching Samira closely. “But when I described her symptoms to the toxicologist, he identified something else. He believes it’s a new variant of a rape drug—functions much the same way, but with a far more insidious twist. It heightens sexual arousal and sensitivity, while completely erasing memory of the event. The duration depends entirely on the dosage. It can’t be detected in the body because it’s flushed out through bodily fluids within hours. According to him, it’s been reported in some Western countries, but we have no official reports of it in India. If it’s here…” She exhaled slowly. “Ma’am, it’s more dangerous than you can imagine.”

“I’ve already started digging into it, ma’am,” Chandika added in a lower tone, “quietly, so it doesn’t draw attention.”

Samira gave a slow, approving nod. “Good. But remember—Kalika’s name must never surface. Not under any circumstances.” She closed the file, her voice gaining a firm edge. “Also, speak to Aahil Mirza. His network is vast and resourceful. If anyone can get us information from places we can’t officially reach, it’s him.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Chandika’s reply was crisp, but there was an unspoken tension in her eyes—she understood the magnitude of the storm they were about to walk into.

Niyati sat hunched on the stone steps, her elbows resting on her knees, fingers fidgeting restlessly in her lap. The courtyard beyond was quiet except for the faint hum of distant traffic and the occasional rustle of leaves. She kept her gaze fixed on the ground, unwilling to let anyone see the turmoil in her eyes.

Footsteps approached, unhurried yet deliberate. Surya eased himself down beside her, leaving just enough space so she could breathe, but close enough to let her know he was there.

“I’m fine,” she said, her gaze fixed somewhere far ahead, refusing to meet his eyes.

“Yes,” he said simply, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips. “You are.”

“I know you’ve come to console me, but I’m telling you—I’m totally fine.”

“Relax, Niyati,” he replied, leaning back on his hands. “I didn’t come here to console you. I just came out to get some air.”

“Fine,” she shot back, her tone dipped in sarcasm. “Get all the fresh air you want. Tea? Should I get it for you?” She stood abruptly, her movements sharp and restless. “Here I am—frustrated, angry at myself because I feel useless—and instead of even trying to comfort me, you’re out here for a breath of air?” Her voice rose with each word, tinged with more hurt than she intended to reveal.

He chuckled, and before she could walk away, his hand closed gently but firmly around her wrist. The touch stopped her—steady, warm, and annoyingly calm. He guided her back down to the step beside him.

Just then, the distant hum of an engine grew louder. An airplane sliced across the sky, its silver body catching the sunlight as it passed overhead. Surya tilted his head upward, following its path.

“You know,” Surya began, his eyes still tracking the plane, “the airplane was born from the human dream to fly. We don’t have wings—but that didn’t stop us. We made airplanes, parachutes, gliders. And it’s not just that. Look around—robots, machines, electronic devices… almost everything we create starts as a reminder of our limitations. Yet at the same time, those very things stand as proof of our brilliance, our resilience, and our capacity to marvel at what’s possible.

His eyes went back to the sky. “They say the sky is your limit, but we’ve already crossed it. We’ve touched the moon. That’s what makes humans remarkable—not what we can’t do, but what we refuse to stop trying for.”

Niyati exhaled slowly, his words sinking in like rain into dry soil. “I hear you. Loud and clear,” she said softly. “Instead of dwelling on what I can’t do, I should focus on what I can… right? But…” She hesitated, her voice small. “I just don’t know where to start.”

Footsteps sounded behind them, light but sure. Samira appeared with two steaming cups of tea, handing one to Surya before settling gracefully on the step beside him. Aryahi followed, placing a cup into Niyati’s hands before sitting down next to her. The warmth seeped into Niyati’s palms, steadying her just a little.

Samira took a slow sip before speaking. Her voice was calm but left no room for argument. “We are a team, Niyati. Even if one person is missing, it’s no longer a team. You are as important as every single person here. Trinetra isn’t just an agency—it’s Samira, Niyati, Surya, and Aryahi. Fix that into your hard drive.”

She took another measured sip, her eyes never leaving Niyati’s. “As for where to start—search where you lost.”

Niyati’s brow furrowed. “Meaning?”

Samira set her cup down on the step. “I mean, yes, we don’t have anything other than the video… but we do know one thing—where it happened.”

A beat of silence passed. Then, as if on cue, the three of them spoke in unison.

“Parallax Club.”

The name lingered in the air like smoke, curling with the heat of danger and the lure of hidden truths.