The night refused to end.
The clock on the wall of Bhopal Central Police Station blinked 3:42 AM. Outside, the city slept—shuttered shops, rain-streaked roads, a stray dog limping through puddles that still smelled faintly of diesel. Inside, the fluorescent tubes buzzed like trapped insects, turning the walls a sickly shade of white.
Rahul sat in the interrogation room, wrists cuffed to the steel table. His body ached. His mind felt hollow, as if scraped clean.
Inspector Anuj Kumar paced in front of him, hands clasped behind his back, voice steady and sharp.
"Ek baar phir bata," he said in Hindi. ("Tell me one more time.")
Rahul swallowed. His throat was dry as sand. "I… I don't know where she is."
"You broke up with Ananya, yes?"
"Yes. But—"
"And you threatened her. 'Main tumhe maar dunga.' Correct?" ("I'll kill you.")
Rahul shut his eyes. "I said that in anger. I didn't mean it."
"Anger," the inspector repeated, leaning in. His breath smelled of chai and cigarettes. "Do you know what anger makes people do?"
Rahul said nothing.
Anuj Kumar straightened, checked his watch. "Fine. I'm stepping outside. Keep thinking." He started toward the door, then paused. "Remember—lies have bad endings."
The door slammed shut.
Rahul sat there, alone in the buzzing silence. His heartbeat thudded dully in his chest. His wrists hurt. His thoughts circled like flies.
This can't be real. This can't be happening.
A colder voice whispered inside him, calm and precise: They've already decided. You're guilty. Niraj made sure of that.
Outside, Inspector Kumar rubbed his eyes and reached for his Gold Flake pack. The night had stretched too long. He needed tea—or a new job.
Then the landline rang.
The old rotary phone on the front desk rattled against the wood. Constable Bhanu, a sleepy man with ink stains on his fingers, picked it up.
"Haan, Bhopal Central." ("Yes, Bhopal Central.")
A crackling voice came through. Bhanu frowned, confusion giving way to alarm.
"Sir!" he called out. "It's from Kolar Road patrol. Urgent."
Kumar grabbed the receiver. "Anuj Kumar speaking."
The voice on the line was breathless. "Sir… we found something. Something very strange."
"What did you find?"
"A garbage picker called us—said something looked creepy. We went there and—" The officer hesitated. "Sir, we found a doll. A big puppet doll. At first we thought someone threw it away, but when we shone the torch…"
"What?"
"A heart, sir. A human heart. Tied inside the doll."
Kumar's cigarette slipped from his fingers.
"What?"
"Yes, sir. And not just the heart. There's more. Please come fast—behind the old godown on Kolar Road."
Kumar slammed the phone down. "Bhanu! Get the jeep ready. Now!"
Within minutes, the station erupted. Constables grabbed torches, batons, evidence kits. The jeep roared to life outside, headlights slicing through the wet dark.
Inside, Rahul heard the commotion—boots pounding, doors slamming, engines starting. He looked up.
What's happening?
No one answered.
A constable opened the door and jerked his head. "Come out. Sit on the bench."
Rahul was led out, still cuffed. The station felt hollow now—echoes and paperwork. Only a few officers remained, sipping chai, too tired to notice him.
He sat on a cracked wooden bench near the front desk. The ceiling fan clattered overhead.
What did they find?
The inner voice murmured: Something bad. Something that changes everything.
Time bled away.
Rahul sat there, staring at the floor tiles, thoughts looping endlessly—Ananya's voice, Niraj's sneer, the rain that night when she'd left him standing alone.
Why would Niraj accuse me? What does he gain?
The answer surfaced slowly, like oil through water. Revenge.
Outside, dawn crept over Bhopal. Milk vendors rattled down the lanes. Newspaper boys shouted headlines no one cared about. The day smelled of wet earth and exhaust.
Hours blurred into exhaustion. Morning became afternoon. Afternoon wilted toward evening.
At the tea stall across the street, the owner switched on his battered Philips radio. Static filled the air before a reporter's voice broke through.
The clock read 5:00 PM.
Rahul blinked. Had he been sitting here all day?
The radio crackled again:
"A shocking and terrifying discovery has come to light in Bhopal today. A puppet doll was found near Kolar Road containing what appears to be human organs…"
Rahul froze.
"The police are investigating. Citizens are advised to remain cautious."
Puppet doll. Human organs.
His hands trembled in his lap.
The door burst open. Inspector Kumar strode in, face gray, uniform dusty. Behind him, constables carried sealed evidence bags.
Rahul stood instinctively. "Inspector saab—"
"Quiet."
Kumar ignored him, heading straight for his desk. He dialed a number.
"Yes, forensic lab? Anuj Kumar here. We've sent the samples. DNA and organ identification—how long?"
A pause.
"By seven? Good. Make it fast."
He hung up, pressed his palms to his temples. Around him, officers moved quietly, their energy taut and grim.
Rahul sat again, pulse roaring in his ears.
A doll with organs.
The voice whispered: Ananya.
The clock ticked toward 7:00 PM. The station emptied. The tea stall closed. The radio outside drifted to cricket commentary.
Then the landline rang again.
Kumar snatched it up. "Yes?"
He listened. His expression turned to stone.
"Confirm it," he said. "Check again."
A long pause.
"Fine."
He hung up slowly, staring into space.
Rahul felt his stomach twist.
Kumar approached, his steps heavy. "The DNA report came."
Rahul's voice cracked. "And?"
Kumar's tone was flat. "That heart… those organs… belong to a young woman."
Rahul's lungs locked. "Who?"
Kumar's eyes met his. "Ananya Sharma."
The world tilted sideways.
Rahul's knees gave out, but the cuffs caught him. His breath came in jagged bursts.
"No… no… Ananya is dead?"
His words shattered the silence.