Atharva's Pov

The smell hits me before the sight does.

Burnt flesh has a distinct odor. Sweet. Metallic. Wrong.

The warehouse is silent except for the distant drip of water hurting concrete. My boots echo as I step inside, each sound controlled, measured. The team is already here, but no one speaks when I arrive. They never do.

Because they know what my face looks like when it’s bad.

And this… is bad.

The body lies at the center of the room, half-soaked in a shallow pool of murky water. Steam still rises faintly from the skin. He was burned first. Deliberately. Long enough to blister, not long enough to erase.

Controlled rage.

I crouch down.

The throat is the first message. A deep, precise stab wound carved straight across the front of his neck. Not wild. Not frenzied. Clean. Intentional. Whoever did this wanted silence before death.

His hands are worse.

Both palms sliced open. Defensive wounds? No. Too symmetrical. Too deliberate. The cuts are vertical, almost ritualistic. A punishment. A statement.

I shift my gaze lower.

His private area is stabbed repeatedly. Overkill. Personal. That kind of mutilation isn’t about murder. It’s about hatred. It’s about humiliation. It’s about sending a message no one can misunderstand.

And then the burn marks.

Patchy. Calculated. Not enough to destroy identification entirely. Just enough to scar the surface. To make the body scream without a voice.

After burning him, they poured water.

I run a gloved finger over the cracked skin. The texture confirms it. The sudden cooling would have intensified the damage. Made the flesh tighten, split, distort. Whoever did this wanted the rage visible. They wanted the violence preserved.

Not hidden.

I straighten slowly.

This wasn’t a crime of passion. Passion is messy. This is surgical cruelty. The killer took time. Thought through every incision. Every wound carries intention.

My jaw tightens.

The warehouse smells like vengeance.

I’ve seen bodies. I’ve seen massacres. I’ve seen men beg for mercy and monsters smile while denying it.

But this…

This feels familiar.

Not the method.

The emotion behind it.

Controlled fury. Calculated punishment. Precision layered over chaos.

It’s not random.

It’s a signature being born.

One of my officers approaches carefully. “Sir… no identification yet. Face is partially damaged.”

I nod once.

Good.

The killer doesn’t want him recognized immediately. They want confusion. Fear. Anticipation.

They want us to wonder who deserves this next.

I look at the body one last time.

The cuts on the hands. The targeted mutilation. The deliberate burn and water shock.

Punishment for touch.

Punishment for desire.

Punishment for something the victim did with his hands and body.

My mind begins building patterns.

This wasn’t just murder.

This was judgment.

And somewhere in this city, someone is walking around calmer than they’ve ever been… because this was justice in their eyes.

My emerald gaze hardens.

They think they ended something tonight.

What they’ve really done… is start a war.

And I don’t chase monsters.

I dissect them.

The night air feels heavier when I step out of the warehouse.

Rain begins again, softer now. Almost respectful.

I remove my gloves, toss them into the evidence bag, and walk toward my car. Every officer on site straightens when I pass. No one asks questions. They know I’m already ten steps ahead.

Rudra is leaning against the SUV, tablet in hand, jaw tight. He’s been with me long enough to read the silence in my stride.

“Sir,” he says quietly.

I stop in front of him, meeting his eyes. “I need the full forensic report. Priority level one.”

He nods immediately. “Already sent the body to the lab.”

“Not enough,” I say, my voice low but firm. “I want toxicology, burn pattern analysis, blade width estimation, angle of incision, water composition from the floor, everything. I want to know the exact sequence of torture. No assumptions. Only facts.”

Rudra straightens. “You think it’s connected?”

I hold his gaze for a second longer than necessary.

“The throat wound was controlled. The hands were symbolic. The mutilation was personal. The burn and water sequence was deliberate. This wasn’t spontaneous.”

Rain slides down my temple, but I don’t blink.

“Pull up the files of the last three unsolved murders,” I continue. “The ones with excessive force and targeted mutilation.”

Rudra swipes across his tablet. “The businessman found in the river. The college professor in his apartment. And the unidentified male from two weeks ago.”

“Yes.” My voice turns colder. “I want comparative analysis. Injury patterns. Psychological profiling. Geographic overlap. Victim backgrounds. Especially anything related to assault complaints, harassment cases, sealed records.”

His expression shifts slightly. He’s starting to see it.

“You think the killer is selecting targets?”

“I don’t think,” I reply quietly. “I conclude.”

I open the car door but pause before getting in.

“Rudra.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get me the forensic report within twelve hours. I don’t care who you have to wake up.”

He nods. “Yes, sir.”

“And one more thing,” I add, my voice dropping into something far more dangerous. “Dig into the victims’ personal histories. I want to know who they hurt. Not just legally. Personally.”

Rudra swallows but doesn’t question it.

As I slide into the driver’s seat, I look back once at the warehouse.

This isn’t random violence.

This is calculated retribution.

And somewhere in this city, someone believes they’re cleansing it.

My fingers tighten around the steering wheel.

Let them believe it.

Because the moment I find them…

I won’t just arrest them.

I’ll understand them first.

⚜️

The drive home is silent.

Not because the city sleeps.
But because my mind doesn’t.

By the time I enter the Yadhuvanshi house, the lights in the living room are still on.

They’re waiting.

They always wait.

My father, Rajveer Yadhuvanshi, looks up first from the newspaper he isn’t reading. His hair has more silver than I remember, but his eyes are still steady. Observing. Protective.

My mother, Apeksha Yadhuvanshi, rises immediately from the sofa when she sees me.

“You’re late,” she says softly, walking toward me. Not accusing. Just worried.

“I know,” I reply, placing my keys on the console table.

She studies my face the way only a mother can. “Bad case?”

I loosen my tie, shrug off my coat. “You don’t want the details.”

My father folds the paper slowly. “We’ve seen enough of the world, Atharva. Tell us.”

I hesitate.

Not because I can’t speak.

Because once I start describing it, it becomes real again.

“There have been four murders in the past month,” I say finally, voice calm, detached. “Different victims. Different locations.”

My mother’s brows knit together. “Random?”

“No.” My jaw tightens. “That’s the problem.”

My father leans forward slightly. “Interlinked?”

I nod once. “Same psychological signature. Controlled execution. Excessive mutilation. Symbolic injuries.”

The room grows heavier.

“Same method?” he asks.

“Yes.”

My voice turns colder without my permission.

“Throat targeted first. Hands deliberately cut. Sexual mutilation. Burned. Then water poured over the body.”

My mother inhales sharply but doesn’t interrupt.

“It’s not chaos,” I continue. “It’s structured rage. The killer isn’t impulsive. They’re methodical. Patient.”

My father’s eyes sharpen. “Serial.”

“Yes.”

Silence settles between us.

My mother moves closer. “Do you know who’s doing this?”

For a second, something flickers in me. Frustration. Irritation.

“No,” I answer flatly. “And that’s what makes it twisted.”

I run a hand through my hair.

“All four cases are interlinked. The victims share patterns in their personal histories. Complaints. Allegations. Things that were buried.” My gaze hardens. “Someone is choosing them.”

“Revenge?” my father asks quietly.

“Justice,” I correct. “At least in the killer’s mind.”

My mother steps closer and gently touches my arm. “You look tired.”

“I’m fine.”

“You haven’t been fine in years,” she whispers, not accusing. Just stating truth.

I pull my arm back, not harshly, but enough.

“This isn’t about me,” I say. “It’s about finding whoever thinks they can play executioner.”

My father stands now, his presence still commanding despite age. “Be careful.”

I let out a dry breath. “I’m always careful.”

But we all know that’s not true.

Because careful men don’t look into monsters’ eyes the way I do.

And careful men don’t feel something disturbingly familiar when they see rage carved into flesh.

As I walk toward the staircase, my mother calls softly, “Atharva…”

I pause but don’t turn.

“You’ll catch them,” she says.

My eyes darken slightly.

“Yes,” I reply.

“I will.”

⚜️

Morning light filters through the tall windows of the Yadhuvanshi house, soft and golden — almost mocking.

It’s 9 a.m.

I adjust the sleeves of my navy blue kurta, the fabric crisp, traditional. Simple. The only softness I allow myself.

I descend the stairs slowly.

My mother notices first.

Her expression falls instantly.

“Not again, Atharva…”

My father exhales under his breath, already knowing.

I stop at the last step.

“I can’t help it, Dad.”

My voice is calm. Too calm.

My mother walks toward me, her eyes scanning my face like she’s searching for the boy I used to be.

“It’s been five years,” she says gently, but there’s exhaustion beneath it. “Every Friday. Every single Friday you go to Varanasi to perform aarti for her return.”

I don’t respond.

The name isn’t spoken. It doesn’t need to be.

“She hasn’t come back,” my mother continues, softer now. “Not a call. Not a letter. Even her parents don’t know where she is.”

Her words land exactly where they’re meant to.

“And maybe…” her voice trembles slightly, “maybe she won’t.”

My jaw tightens, but I don’t let the emotion surface.

“At least for God’s sake,” she whispers, stepping closer, “focus on yourself. Look at you, Atharva. You’ve barely slept. You look tired. Drained.”

I hold her gaze.

“I am fine.”

“You are not,” she insists. “You’re chasing killers all week and ghosts every Friday.”

Silence stretches between us.

My father finally speaks, quieter, more measured. “Son… devotion is powerful. But obsession can destroy.”

I look away toward the window.

The sun is bright today.

It used to make me smile.

“She’s not a ghost,” I say, voice low. “She’s alive.”

My mother’s eyes fill slightly. “How do you know?”

Because I would feel it.

Because some bonds don’t snap.

Because the universe wouldn’t be cruel enough to let me breathe while she doesn’t.

“I just know,” I reply.

My father studies me carefully. “And if she chose to leave?”

The question slices deeper than any blade.

“She didn’t,” I answer instantly.

The certainty in my tone silences the room.

I step toward the door, picking up my car keys.

“I’ll be back by night.”

My mother’s voice follows me, fragile but firm. “Five years, Atharva…”

I pause, hand on the door handle.

“Yes,” I say quietly.

“Five years.”

And not a single Friday missed.
Because it was exactly five years from today she dissapered and never returned back.

My sweetheart

⚜️

By the time I reach Varanasi, the sun is dissolving into molten gold.

It’s 6 in the evening.

The sky burns in shades of saffron and crimson, and the sacred river flows like time itself endless, patient, unforgiving.

The moment I step onto the stone steps of Dashashwamedh Ghat, something inside me quiets.

The chaos.
The blood.
The rage.

Here… only devotion survives.

Priests in coordinated saffron robes stand aligned, brass lamps in their hands. The scent of camphor, incense, and marigold garlands thickens the air. Conch shells echo across the river, vibrating through bone and memory.

“Har Har Mahadev!” the crowd chants.

The name of Shiva rolls across the water like thunder.

I remove my shoes and step closer to the edge of the Ganga. The cold stone presses against my bare feet. I bow my head.

Five years.

Five years of standing here.

Five years of lighting a diya in your name.

The aarti begins.

“Om Jai Ganga Mata…”
The hymn rises, rhythmic, reverent. Brass lamps swirl in synchronized arcs, flames dancing in widening circles. The priests move clockwise  slow, deliberate, powerful  offering light back to the river that has witnessed every sin and every salvation.

I take the small diya from the priest beside me.

The cotton wick trembles before catching fire.

I close my eyes.

“Om Namah Shivaya… Om Namah Shivaya… Om Namah Shivaya…”

The mantra vibrates through my chest.

The flames rise higher as the large multi-tiered lamps are lifted toward the sky, then lowered toward the river, then rotated in sweeping motions  upward for the heavens, outward for the world, downward for the waters.

The bell rings continuously.
The conch blows again.
The crowd sways like devotion itself has taken form.

And in the middle of it all, I stand still.

My fingers tighten around the diya.

In my mind, your face is clearer than the fire before me.

Aapne humko chhodiya…
Par yeh zaroori toh nahi ki hum bhi aapko bhool jaayein.
(You left me.
But that does not mean I will forget you.)

Main har din dhoondhunga… jab tak saans chalti rahegi.
Sirf ek baar dekhne ke liye.
(I will search every day until I am alive.
Just to see you once.)

It’s been five years, Akanksha Roy Singhania.

Where are you, sweetheart?

The flame flickers as the evening breeze brushes past.

I lower the diya toward the river and gently set it afloat. The tiny light drifts away, joining hundreds of others  hope scattered across dark waters.

I keep whispering the mantra under my breath.

“Om Tryambakam Yajamahe Sugandhim Pushtivardhanam,
Urvarukamiva Bandhanan Mrityor Mukshiya Maamritat…”

The Mahamrityunjaya mantra.

A prayer for protection.
For return.
For life.

I open my eyes slowly.

The river reflects the fire like shattered stars.

I am still standing here with the same hope.

The same faith.

The same ache.

Five years haven’t dulled it.

If anything, they have sharpened it.

The final aarti lamp is raised high a blazing wheel of fire offered to the sky and the crowd chants louder.

“Har Har Mahadev!”

My voice joins them, deep and steady.

Not because I am at peace.

But because faith is the only thing that has not abandoned me.

I stand there long after the ceremony ends, staring at the floating lights disappearing into the darkness.

Waiting.

Just like I have been.

For five years.

⚜️

The chants slowly fade behind me as I walk away from the ghat. The scent of incense still lingers in the air, clinging to my kurta, to my skin, to my thoughts.

The river glows under the last threads of twilight.

For a moment, I feel lighter.

Then my phone vibrates.

Rudra.

I answer immediately. “Yes.”

“Sir,” his voice is tight, urgent. “We found something. A clue. I need to show you in person. It’s not something I can explain over the phone.”

My steps slow.

“What kind of clue?”

“A pattern confirmation,” he says. “It connects all four victims. You need to see this. Where are you?”

“I’m in Varanasi,” I reply, eyes scanning the busy walkway as devotees move past me. “Heading to my car.”

“Sir, this can’t wait.”

Before I can respond

A sudden impact.

A shoulder collides with mine.

My grip loosens.

The phone slips from my hand and hits the stone ground with a sharp crack.

For a second, everything freezes.

“I’m so sorry,” a soft voice says quickly.

I look up.

She’s dressed in a flowing white anarkali. The fabric catches the evening breeze, moving like smoke around her. Her face is partially hidden by the mist rolling in from the river and the loose end of her dupatta that shadows her features.

I can’t see her clearly.

But something

Something about the way she stands still for half a breath too long makes my pulse shift.

“It was my fault,” she adds gently.

Her voice.

Calm. Controlled. Almost… distant.

I stare at her, trying to focus past the mist, past the dim lights, past the chaos of the crowd.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

There’s concern in her tone. Real or practiced, I can’t tell.

I bend down slowly to pick up my phone.

The screen is still lit. Rudra’s voice faintly echoes through it.

“Sir? Sir, are you there?”

When I look up again

She’s already walking away.

White fabric disappearing into the crowd.

For a strange second, the world feels muted.

Like I’ve heard that voice before.

Like my body recognized something my mind hasn’t caught up to yet.

“Sir?” Rudra’s voice pulls me back.

“I’m here,” I say, my gaze still fixed on the direction she vanished.

“Where are you exactly?”

I straighten.

“Varanasi” I reply, voice returning to its usual steel. "I will be in the office tomorrow by 9.”

The call ends.

But I don’t move immediately.

The mist thickens near the river.

My fingers tighten around the phone.

It’s absurd.

Thousands of people pass through these ghats every evening.

And yet…

The air still carries the faintest trace of something familiar.

I shake the thought away.

Coincidence.

Nothing more.

Still, as I walk toward my car, I can’t help but glance back once.

White.

Gone.

And for the first time in five years

My heartbeat doesn’t feel entirely empty.

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