The apartment smelled faintly of lavender and fresh paint. Sunlight poured in through the French windows as Spandana stood still, taking it all in. The move to Mumbai was supposed to feel heavier. But there she was alone, away from home, in a quiet apartment that didn't judge her, didn't yell, didn't expect her to be anyone but herself. A rare comfort.
The silence was brief. Her phone buzzed, flashing a message from HQ.
"CI Spandana. URGENT: Briefing on 'Silver Link' case. Report to Colaba Station, 3rd Floor. 4 PM sharp."
She tucked her hair behind her ear, staring at the words. "Silver Link." She'd heard whispers. A girl had been found dead claimed as suicide. Her expensive diamond chain gone, her dignity robbed, her truth buried under flashy headlines and police negligence. The girl had filed no complaint, left no note just silence and trauma painted across her cold body But she couldn't answer. Not now. Not until justice had a face.
Spandana threw on her jacket, strapped her holster out of habit not requirement and walked out like she belonged to the city already.
The girl was 18. Barely. A college student who had posted her sunset photos like any other teenager. Her friend reported her missing yesterday. Today, her body was found in a rented room near Byculla, hanging from a ceiling fan.
It wasn't suicide. Not to Spandana.
She stood inside the dim room, the body already moved, forensic team finishing up. But it was in the details. A discarded gift box with a velvet lining. A torn diary page. And the chain. Lying on the bed, as if placed there to mock whoever walked in next.
Spandana's hands curled into fists.
"She was reaching out," said Constable Iqbal, gently. "We found a chat log. She had messaged an unknown number. We suspect she tried to contact the same officer who was suspended before."
"She tried to contact me?" Spandana whispered.
Iqbal nodded. "She messaged an account registered to your service ID. Maybe she thought you could help. Maybe she believed the name."
Spandana turned to the mirror across the bed. Her reflection didn't flinch. But her heart thundered.
"You're damn right she could've been helped," she muttered. "And I will help the rest."
The chain glinted under the light silver, cold, and quiet.
Not for long.
Outside, the Mumbai night breathed with neon lights and car horns. But Spandana's mind was a storm. She walked back to her apartment, hands trembling slightly. Not from fear. From fury.
She didn't cry. Didn't scream.
She simply picked up her notebook, titled the page:
"The Chain Case: Not Another Girl."
And began writing down names, signs, and every damn clue the city didn't want her to see.
Mumbai's early morning chaos didn't match The sky over Mumbai hung low and heavy, reflecting Spandana's state of mind. Her brows were furrowed, eyes bloodshot—not from sleep, but from rage, disgust, and helplessness. The cold case file that landed on her desk two days ago had spiraled into something darker than she anticipated The suicide of the girl from the chain case had splintered something deep inside her—something she had tried to keep intact even through years of fieldwork. She hadn't gone home in over 24 hours. Her phone buzzed endlessly with missed calls from her mother back in Hyderabad.
The CCTV footage from the shady hotel room shattered Spandana's composure. Four men. Laughing. Forcing drugs into her. One after another. The girl had tried to fight—barely—but her strength was reduced to numbness hotel room was already seared into her memory. The girl—drugged, limp, eyes wide in horror—was abused like she was no longer human. Spandana had watched it all, jaw tight, fingers curling into fists. Four men, all smug, all wealthy, and all vanished into the underworld of Mumbai's rich-and-wild parties.
They had filmed it all.
But one face kept coming back. The leader. Long hair, aviators even at night, his voice barking orders to the others. He called himself "Roy."
And then left her.
"Check railway stations, long-distance buses, airstrips. He's slippery, but not invisible," she told the team. "He'll run."
When Spandana saw the footage, her throat clenched, her knuckles white from clutching the table. That diamond chain Spandana recognized it. The same one being worn by a man she had noticed in the footage from a bus stop cam nearby. The bastard had the audacity to flaunt it And run he did. But Spandana was faster.
She didn't go home that night. She didn't call her mom back. She sat in her car, tracing leads, matching faces with names, calling in favors she never used narrowed down Roy's movement using his last known ATM withdrawal near Dadar. Then she hacked into private bus operators' CCTV systems with unofficial help from Harika. They spotted him boarding a private bus headed for Nashik.
The next morning, she boarded a local bus just as it was pulling away. Calmly, she walked down the aisle She was already there before the bus crossed Thane.
When the bus stopped for a toll check, she climbed aboard, her eyes scanning every seat.
And there he was.
Arrogant. Listening to music. A smirk plastered on his lips. His dirty fingernail scratching his chin Roy looked up, smiling like he didn't recognize her. "Looking for someone, madam?" he asked casually.
Spandana didn't wait. She gripped his collar and slammed his face into the seat ahead, silencing the screams from the passengers.
"Yeah," Spandana said, pulling out her badge. "You."
"ACP Spandana. You're under arrest," she hissed Before he could react, she grabbed him by the collar and yanked him into the aisle. Passengers gasped, one started recording. She didn't care.
"For what? I ain't done shit!" he spat, trying to wrestle free"You thought you could run?" she growled.
Spandana pressed his arm up his back. "You don't get to talk."
"I'm not some petty criminal, lady. You can't—"
Back in her station, she locked him in a private cell. Papers were filed. But soon whispers reached her—he had already bought his way through. Lawyers. Bribed cops. "Suicide—no proof," they said.
She kneed him in the gut. "That girl died. And I saw the tape. You're not just a criminal, you're filth."
"The girl is dead. Who'll testify?" one officer shrugged, not meeting her eyes Dragged him straight out, into her police SUV, hands cuffed, blood leaking from his lip.
"Your badge is a joke," Spandana snappedIn custody, she tried to follow procedure. She filed everything, detailed all charges. But hours later, word came in his release was requested. Some senior officers had been bought off.
She stared at the cell through the night. Anger like acid in her veins. She saw that girl's eyes. Empty. Defeated. She imagined the pain. The betrayal.
"You can't be serious," Spandana shouted at the commissioner. "We have video evidence!"
When midnight fell, she entered the cell"It's being classified as insufficient. Consent can be manipulated in court. Drugs were not confirmed," the commissioner said dryly.
The man grinned. "You're not gonna do anything. You're just another puppet."
Spandana stood there, disbelief morphing into white-hot rage.
Wrong answer. She walked into the holding cell that night.
She locked the door behind her.
Roy smirked when he saw her. "Knew they wouldn't keep me long. I've got people. You? You're just another pretty face in khaki."
Her fists did what the court wouldn't. What justice failed. What society ignored. One punch for every second of that video. One kick for every second that girl cried, unseen.
Crack.
The next day, she dropped him off at courtHer slap echoed through the cement walls. She punched him in the stomach, then slammed him against the wall.
His face unrecognizable.
"You think this is a joke?" she whispered, her voice deadly calm. "She begged. She cried. You laughed. And now you'll bleed."
His spine, bruised She didn't stop at one punch. Broken ribs. A fractured nose. Her knuckles were torn, raw.
The media spun a thousand stories. "Police brutality." "Vigilante cop."
"I'll make sure even the devil fears what I do to men like you," she spat.
But her mom didn't care about that The junior constables outside didn't interfere. They looked away. They knew what this was.
From Hyderabad, her mother panicked with every call that didn't go through Afterward, she sat alone in the darkness of the interrogation room, her shirt bloodstained, eyes empty.
Her dad, calm but worried, held his wife's hand. "She's doing what's right. But she's all alone."
Back home in Hyderabad, her mother finally got through to a junior officer.
Her sister Harika barked over the phone, "I swear if she gets suspended for this, I'll burn their damn courtrooms!"
"Why isn't she answering? Why hasn't she come home?"
Spandana finally called.
"She's working, ma'am," he replied gently. "She's... dealing with something."
"I'm safe," she muttered Spandana didn't go home that night either. She stayed in the corner of the police quarters, a blanket around her and guilt curled inside her ribs like a second heartbeat. Justice hadn't been served yet—but punishment had begun.
But she wasn't. Not inside And it wasn't over.
Justice came with a cost. And that cost was her peace.