Tuesday, Evening, Mall.
Evening wrapped the city in a dull orange haze.
The rain had stopped hours ago, but the air still smelled of wet concrete and exhaust.
Arnab walked through the mall's wide corridor, a paper coffee cup in hand, pretending to be just another tired face among the crowd.
His eyes, however, kept drifting to the reflections in the glass. Every corner, every moving shape, he noted without turning his head.
He wasn't nervous, just careful.
The message from Gaurav had been simple:
"Second floor, west wing. Washroom. 6 p.m. He'll know you."
Arnab climbed the escalator, passed the food court, and slipped into the men's washroom near the closed end of the floor. The cleaner had just left. Only one stall door was shut.
The faucet dripped.
A man stepped out from that stall, drying his hands with a paper towel.
Mid-thirties, stocky, ordinary face, but the way he moved was too measured, too quiet.
He glanced once at Arnab in the mirror. "You came alone?"
Arnab answered without looking at him. "Was told to."
The man nodded, reached into his jacket, and pulled out a plain brown paper bag, folded neatly at the top.
"Straight from the dock. Clean."
Arnab took it. "Anything else?"
The man paused, eyes on the mirror. "Same words, different city. Keep it dry."
"Got it."
The man gave a single nod, tossed the towel, and walked out without another word.
Silence returned, just the soft hum of the air vent and the steady drip of water.
Arnab stood still for a moment, feeling the weight of the bag in his hand.
It wasn't heavy, but it carried the kind of promise that could end lives.
He walked out, blended into the moving crowd again. As he moved past the corridor lights, he tugged the paper bag slightly, sliding it behind his belt, the shape hidden beneath his hoodie. The cold press of metal against his back felt both foreign and familiar, a secret no one around him would ever notice.
Outside, the mall's lights blinked against the damp glass walls.
Arnab moved toward the parking area, planning to leave, and then he froze.
Through the tinted glass of the upper level, he saw two familiar faces stepping out from the movie hall:
Shanchayita and Ashmit.
They were laughing.
Ashmit carried a bucket of popcorn, and Shanchayita's hair caught the light as she brushed it back, smiling at something he said.
Arnab's hand tightened slightly around the paper bag.
He said nothing. Just followed their path with his eyes.
They turned toward the street outside, and after a moment of stillness, Arnab began to walk too, keeping distance.
The evening crowd had thinned; most shops were closing.
He followed them across the street to a small coffee shop, its yellow sign flickering at the edge of the lane.
They went in, found a corner seat near the glass window.
Arnab didn't enter.
He crossed to the narrow alley, where the shadows from the buildings met. From there, he could see their reflections in the glass.
He waited. Watched.
Minutes passed. He didn't know what he was waiting for, only that something felt off.
The air around him carried the same unease as the city itself, quiet, but restless.
He leaned against the wall, eyes fixed, the paper bag now tucked safely inside his jacket.
Rainwater dripped from a broken pipe nearby, steady and slow.
Then, through the blur of lights, movement caught his eye.
Shanchayita.
She burst out of the café, almost knocking the door open.
Her face was pale, terrified.
Ashmit wasn't behind her.
Arnab pushed off the wall, his instincts already in motion.
She looked over her shoulder once, then ran straight toward the alley.
"Shanchayita?" he called her.
When she saw Arnab, she stumbled and fell right into his arms.
He caught her, steadying her by the shoulders.
Her breath came in sharp, panicked gasps.
"Arnab…" she whispered, voice trembling. "I… he..Ashmit...he tried to…"
"It's okay. Slow down. What happened?"
She clutched her kurta, her fingers tight around the fabric. "He… he tried to kiss me. I said no. He got… angry. I ran…" Her eyes darted to every shadow, every reflective puddle as if expecting him to appear behind her.
Arnab's jaw tightened imperceptibly. Inside, a surge of fury coiled like a tightly wound spring. Ashmit! That fucker! Thinking his father's influence and a brash smile could override decency. Arnab's fingers flexed; his body remained perfectly still, calm, unshakable, but beneath that exterior, the storm brewed. Every instinct screamed to chase, to strike, to tear that arrogance apart.
But he didn't. Not yet.
"I've got you," he said quietly, a measured calm that belied the storm inside. "Nothing's going to happen now."
Her eyes widened at the certainty in his voice, confusion mixing with relief....
Present,
Arnab's Flat, 9:30 P.M.
Arnab unlocked the door to his apartment. The lights stayed dim, he didn't bother turning them on. The streetlights outside were enough.
He shut the door, leaned his head back for a moment, exhaled slowly.
Then he reached into the back of his hoodie, pulled out the paper bag, and placed it on the table.
The paper was slightly damp at the edges. He unfolded it carefully.
Inside lay a .45 Colt revolver, matte black, heavy, gleaming faintly under the half-light.
No serial number. No scratches. No past. But with two extra magazines worth of bullets.
Arnab lifted it, feeling the cold weight against his palm.
He turned it once, thumb brushing over the cylinder, the trigger guard, the grip.
The smell of oiled metal filled the room.
Click.
The dry sound echoed softly.
He glanced at the clock on the wall. It was late. He set the gun and the bullets aside in the drawer, locked it, and sat on the edge of the bed.
The city outside murmured faintly, sirens in the distance, a dog barking, a train passing somewhere far away.
Arnab leaned back, eyes half-open, thoughts fading.
For the first time that day, his heartbeat slowed.
The room smelled faintly of gunpowder.
He closed his eyes.
Wednesday, Morning.
Place: Unknown
The room smelled like cold pizza and burnt circuits.
Three computer screens glowed in the dark, throwing green light over a table buried under chaos; half-eaten noodles, a slice of pepperoni gone stiff, two Coke cans, empty chip packets, and a coffee mug that hadn't been washed in days.
Dirty shirts and jeans were piled in one corner like they'd grown there.
A man sat in front of the screens, early twenties, messy hair, tired eyes, a stubble that had forgotten the last time it met a razor.
He tapped fast, eyes jumping between lines of code flying down the screen.
Firewalls flared and died like match flames.
Security systems blinked red, then black.
He smirked. "Too easy."
Another firewall cracked.
He leaned back, grabbed the pizza slice, took a bite. "Dinner's solved," he muttered. "Who needs balance in life when you've got good bandwidth?"
His phone buzzed, the old black one, the one that only rang when it mattered.
No name on the screen. Just a number.
He wiped his hand on his shirt and answered.
"Talk."
A voice came through, low and steady. "You still do quiet jobs?"
"Always," he said. "Depends on the noise."
The voice hesitated. Then, "Targets: MLA Arunava Sen. His son, Ashmit. Payment, usual route. No trace. No leaks."
He raised an eyebrow, spinning in his chair.
"Sen, huh? Big name. Lotta friends in uniform."
"Not your concern," the voice said flatly. "You're just opening doors."
"Payment first."
"Half now. Half after confirmation."
"Fair."
The line went dead.
He set it down, cracked his knuckles, and turned back to the screen.
Now it was work time.
He opened a fresh terminal, code flowing like water.
"Let's see, MLA Arunava Sen," he muttered, typing. "Government firewall… ministry archives… confidential zone."
The first layer broke in seconds.
The second took longer, a small challenge. He liked that.
As he waited for the next encryption key, he thought about dinner again. "Maybe noodles later," he said to himself. "Or order momo? Eh."
Beep.
The third firewall fell apart.
He started digging deeper, tracing schedules, financial transfers, private servers.
A list popped up, security detail rotation, private mansion address, travel log, Ashmit Sen.
"Interesting," he murmured. "Daddy's boy got a weekend party."
He kept going, opening silent paths through servers like tunnels through a wall.
Every keystroke left no footprint. No log. No echo.
His code was poetry, ruthless and clean.
Then a new window flashed.
Incoming trace detected.
He smiled. "Cute."
Two clicks. Trace blocked. Counter-route activated.
The threat vanished.
A beep from his side monitor; payment received. Half, just like promised.
He checked the origin, offshore. Untraceable. Professional.
He leaned back, stretched, cracked his neck. "Alright, mystery man. You pay well."
He decided to dig a little, curiosity biting at the edges of his calm.
He opened a side console and started tracing the phone call's path.
Hops, proxies, dead ends, all normal.
Then he hit the final line; Public Booth, Sector 7, Kolkata.
He frowned. "Sector 7? You serious?"
He zoomed in on the area, no cameras, broken lamps, an abandoned street corner near a tea stall.
"Damn," he whispered. "Guy knows how to disappear."
He tried one more deep trace. Nothing.
He shut the window, rubbed his eyes. "Alright. You win this round."
He turned back to the main terminal.
Lines of code blinked green. Access granted. Data tunnel established. Objective locked.
He hit ENTER.
Somewhere far away, a defense server flickered, a firewall blinked red, then fell silent.
He leaned back in his chair and watched the screens cool down.
"Job done," he said softly. "And dinner's cold."
He typed a final message through an encrypted relay;
Task complete. Awaiting confirmation.
A reply came seconds later;
Acknowledged. Payment soon.
He shut off the monitors one by one. The glow died slowly, leaving the room in darkness again.
He sat for a while, listening to the hum of the ceiling fan and the faint sound of traffic outside.
Then he grabbed the cold pizza box, took one last bite, and muttered,
"Big names. Big money. Same end."
He stood, stretched, and tossed the empty box toward the bin, missed.
The last monitor flicked off, leaving only the blinking light of the modem.
The man they'd never see had just opened a digital door that would change lives.
Wednesday, 11 P.M.
Tangra, East Kolkata.
The streets on the east side of town smelled of stale beer, wet tobacco and the faint, sour sweetness of rotting fruit. Neon signs flickered. A stray dog padded past a pile of plastic bags.
Chhotu moved through it all like he owned the gutter, short, thick-necked, face swollen from a life of punches and cheap liquor. His laugh was a bark. His hands had forgotten gentleness.
He kicked a bottle out of his path and laughed when it shattered. "Move, you bastards!" he shouted at no one in particular. A pair of ragpickers scurried aside. Chhotu chuckled. "That's right. Remember the name."
He lived with his widow mother in a half-broken house behind the cable shop. She worked at other people's houses, earned enough to keep them both fed and cursed him every night before sleep.
"Ekdin jokhon police dhore niye jaabe tokhon bujhbi!," she used to say. One day when the police will take you, then you'll understand!
And Chhotu would laugh, "Ma, the police drinks from my bottle now."
He had come up from nowhere, as most thugs did.One small robbery, one lucky fight, a few favors to the right men, until he tasted power. It fed him and he fed it.
Now, he had a girl on his mind.
Rima. College girl. Clean eyes, soft voice. The kind that made him feel he could own the world if she just said his name right.
He remembered the way she looked this morning, walking with her boyfriend. That polished clown from the photo studio. The way she smiled at him made something boil in Chhotu's chest.
"She thinks I'm dirt," he muttered, taking another swig from the bottle in his hand. "One day she'll see who runs this street."
He walked past the betel shop. The shopkeeper nodded nervously.
"Bhai, not too much tonight?"
Chhotu grinned, showing teeth stained red from paan. "I'll stop when the city stops breathing dada."
He stopped outside a shuttered stall, the streetlight flickering above. His head buzzed. The world tilted.
He thought of Rima again, of her eyes when he grabbed her wrist the last time. She had pulled away, saying, "Stay away from me, you freak!"
And he had smiled, leaning close, breath heavy with rum. "You'll come around, Rima. They all do."
He laughed at the memory. "Who she think she is? College girl, haan? I'll buy her dreams and burn them."
He took another swig. The liquid burned down his throat. His mind drifted to tomorrow, meet Raju da, maybe collect the protection money from the fruit market. He liked that part. The fear in people's eyes was better than any drink.
"Raju da said I'm going up next year," he muttered to himself, wiping his mouth. "Real work. No more street dog life."
A gust of wind swept through the narrow lane, carrying the faint smell of wet iron. The streetlight blinked once, twice.
He stumbled, chuckling, "Even the light's scared of me."
A shadow moved behind him.
He turned, sluggish. "Who's there?"
Nothing. Just the sound of a loose shutter tapping in the wind.
He smirked. "Cowards. Can't even face Chhotu head-on."
Then he felt it. A hand. Soft cloth pressing over his mouth and nose.
"What the..."
The world spun. The smell hit him hard, sweet, chemical, choking.
He tried to grab the arm, to shout, to fight, but his limbs went heavy. His vision blurred; the lane twisted like smoke.
His last thought before everything went black was:
What's this? Chintu gang? Raju da's enemies? Or Rima's boyfriend?
Darkness folded around him.
He woke to the taste of dust and the cold of metal against his cheek. Voices. Far away. His tongue felt enormous, useless. Movement. He tried to push his hands. They didn't move. He realized his arms were bound to the chair that held him upright, the rope embracing him like a second skin. He opened his mouth to scream. The tape sealed it.
Panic was quick and bright. He flexed his fingers. The thought that kept coming was practical and sharp, one phone call, fifty men, ten minutes and the racket of the city would erupt and they would come with guns. He pictured Raju da, the sub-leader, skinny,tall, smooth, all smirks and threats, who would tear the room apart in five minutes if only Chhotu could call. He thought of the Chintu gang. He thought of the girl's boyfriend, sharp-faced, small, but with quicker hands than Chhotu had guessed. He thought of escape routes, of the slab of cracked road out front, of the one window that might still be open.
A shape moved out of the dark. The man was all black, hood, mask, jeans, an absence in motion. He carried himself like someone who didn't waste small gestures. He paused a step away and tilted his head, listening to the ragged music of Chhotu's breaths.
"You'll tell me what I need," the black figure said. The voice was a wire pulled tight. Calm. Without hurry. It was Arnab!
Chhotu tried to spit words through the tape. They came out as wet, frustrated sounds. Arnab reached out, slapped him across the ear. The sound ricocheted between the concrete walls.
Again Chhotu lunged to speak. Arnab only watched, as if testing him, measuring the exact moment when defiance turned to pleading. He moved like a judge. He moved like a man who had practiced patience until it became a weapon.
"Who sent you that night?" Arnab asked.
Wuu wuu. Breathless noise. Nothing articulate. Panic. The sort of animal noise a cornered animal makes.
Arnab smiled, a small flash. It had no warmth. It had the geometry of a knife. "Oh," he said. "I almost forgot." He reached into his pocket, slow. He crouched and looked Chhotu in the face. He peeled the tape from his mouth in one motion, as if unwrapping a small, useful present.
The first sound that came out was a raw, human plea. "Help—"
Arnab moved like a man who had rehearsed violence in the mirror too often to believe in mercy. He brought his hand up and pressed something hard into Chhotu's hand, metal, cold. A screwdriver. It pierced through Chhotu's hand and got stuck on the chair handle. His scream filled the room when pain flared through the limb. He thrashed, for a moment, a wild, undirected animal, until he hit the chair back and exhausted himself into ragged sobs. Blood gushed out from the wound, painting his shirt with red.
"Listen," Arnab said, and his voice was paper-thin but steady. "You're going to tell me everything about Raghav Da's operations in the north docks. Who moves the shipments. Who collects the cash. Who sleeps where. Names. Times. Numbers. Or you can scream for ten hours and I'll be the one counting."
Chhotu's eyes were wide; tears cut tracks in the grime on his face. "I don't know," he managed. "I swear…I swear—"
Arnab's fist landed again, this time his other hand. It was a precise, economy strike. Both his hands were now pierced by the screwdriver. Chhotu slumped and breathed like a man whose legs had been cut from under him, screaming on the top of his lungs. Arnab waited for him to quite down while holding the screwdriver.
"You know," Arnab said, quieter now. "You danced close to their music. You sold small favors. You ran errands. Men like you have a ledger. Start singing, and the ledger opens."
Names were a map. Names were currency. He searched the thug's face. He watched for flickers, micro expressions that betrayed memory.Arnab leaned in.
"Who went with you that night?" Arnab asked, slow, almost conversational, as if they were discussing cricket scores and not a body.
Chhotu's eyes slid to the right, looking for escape in an empty wall. "Wh-Where?"
"Eastern bypass." said Arnab with a cold expression.
"I- I was alon–"
Before he could finish the sentence, the screwdriver came down again. This time it gushed into his right thigh. Pain flared through his leg again. He thrashed like a wild animal, screaming his lungs out.After Chhotu quieted down a bit, Arnab spoke,
"Now, now, why don't you be a good boy and tell me everything? The pain will go away, I promise."
"Santu," he spat, his chest heaved like a hammer on a stone, the name was pushed out like a curse. "And Tapu. They waited in the car."
"Which car?" Arnab pressed, voice level, precise.
"Blue Alto. Old. Number plate..." His mouth worked, trying to hold pieces together. He couldn't. He gave the number as if it were a cough.
"A driver?" Arnab's tone hadn't changed. He let the question hang.
Chhotu's breath hitched. "Driver's name was Munna. Big guy, with muscles."
"And the order?" Arnab asked. "Who sent it? Who asked you to go after Amal Ghosh?"
A long, ragged sound escaped Chhotu. "Raju da called. Said there's money. Said orders from..." He stopped. The words caught.
"From who?" Arnab's voice sharpened, just a fraction.
Chhotu swallowed. The room seemed to shrink. "Raghav Da," he managed. The name landed in the air like a stone.
'So the order came straight from the Top level?' Arnab thought, 'Why would a gang boss want a Scientist dead?' but he didn't show surprise. He had wanted it, needed it. "Raju da passed the order?"
"He came by the bar. Gave the envelope. Said: 'Do it. Quiet. Clean. No witnesses.' Said Raghav da wants him gone. Said payment upfront." Chhotu's hands fumbled against the rope. "I don't know why. I swear I don't know the reason."
"You didn't ask?" Arnab's tone suggested disbelief, but it was rhetorical.
Chhotu huffed. "You don't ask questions when Raghav da's right hand man opens his palm. You don't ask when Raju da smiles and says 'do it tonight'. You just do."
Arnab watched him. Chhotu's admission filled a gap and shifted the shape of the problem. Santu. Tapu. Munna. Raju da as the executor. Raghav Da, the gang boss himself moved shadows like chess pieces. Motive? Of course there's one. And he was about to get close to finding it.
"Where did Raju meet you after?" Arnab asked, softer now, baiting the last knot loose.
"At the tea stall by the old bridge.Told us to wait. Said Raghav da would call. Then after he called Raju da gave us the money. That's all."
Arnab leaned back, the facts stacking in his head like neat boxes: names, vehicles, meeting points. Each box had an address. Each address had a link. Names were coordinates. He had what he needed to start drawing lines.
Minutes crept like cold water. Afterwards Chhotu gave pieces, small, broken, like fragments of pottery. A driver. A code phrase.Raghav Da. A container packed with something coded as "white cloth." A safe house at the edge of the docks. One name, then another.
The room smelled of dust and the animal tang of fear. Outside, the city went on: a scooter cutting a corner, the distant wail of a TV seller's transistor, the patient rumble of a late-night bus. None of it touched the little dark room where a man bled answers.
When the rhythm of confessions ran thin, Arnab stopped. He stood against the single lamp that hummed overhead. He watched Chhotu shudder on the chair, his hands slick in the ropes.
"You'll call Raju da," Arnab said. "You'll tell him there's a man who knows too much. You'll tell him you were taken. You'll tell him to look to the north docks. Maybe he'll come. Maybe he'll bring men. Maybe he'll burn the wrong house. That's not my concern."
Chhotu's lips trembled. "I'll—I'll tell him—"
"You'll do nothing of the sort," a second voice cut in, close enough to be a cold blade. The black hoodie of Arnab moved aside for the first time to reveal a figure in the doorway, a smaller figure leaning, arms folded. Gaurav. He watched like a man who preferred the arithmetic of risk to its theater.
Chhotu's face registered the betrayal as if it were another blow. He groped for the phone in his pocket in a reflex, but the rope held.
Arnab smiled again. "You see," he said to the thug, "you imagine you're protected by numbers. Men. Loyalty. You think someone will come. Tonight you will learn who will and who won't."
He leaned forward and pressed close so the thug heard every syllable. "Raghav runs a kingdom built of fear. People bow because they must. But kingdoms leak. Names fall through the cracks. You were lucky tonight. You lived longer than you should have."
Chhotu sobbed. The sound was wet, small, a child's sound in the mouth of a man who had shown no mercy until now.
Arnab rose. He looked at Gaurav. Gaurav nodded once.
They left the kid in the chair. The tape back over his mouth. The ropes binding him still neat. In front of Chhotu, the door closed with a quiet click.
When Chhotu stilled, it was a small, human undoing: breath slowing, a body exhausted by shock and pain. He stopped fighting. He stopped making noise. The room hummed. The lamp ticked. Outside, a dog barked twice.
By morning, the alley would find its story. The rumor would travel in two directions, some would say the Chintu gang had disappeared him; others would whisper that Raghav meant to send a message.
Arnab walked away as if from a necessary thing. He had asked his questions. He had broken the silence that protected Raghav's logistics for the north docks. For him, the arithmetic was simple: a name gained, a network weakened.
Gaurav lit a cigarette and took the first draw. He hadn't shown surprise once. He never did.
Arnab had the ledger in his head now
A list, a map. Names and places.
The hunt had begun.