Fade in.
Mumbai breathes before sunrise. Trains drag their steel lungs across the city, pulling the night apart. Neon signs blink off one by one, surrendering to the first light that crawls through smog. The camera glides over high-rises and sleeping chawls, over tarps still wet from last night's rain. A thousand windows blink open at once, and the city exhales.
Cut to a local train—doors open, air thick with metal and sweat.
Aarav Sharma stands by the doorway, uniform still stiff, badge catching the thin orange of morning. He grips a worn file against his chest, lips moving silently—badge number, rank, posting. A schoolboy mantra in a man's voice.
Beside him, an old man reads a crumpled newspaper. The headline screams: "ANOTHER BODY FOUND IN DHARAVI—POLICE SILENT."
The old man clicks his tongue. "Not safe anymore, beta. Every day someone vanishes."
Aarav answers with a polite half-smile. "That's why we're here, uncle. To make it safe again."
The man chuckles, eyes still on print. "Hmm. Try to make the sea quiet while you're at it."
Cut to wide shot: train rushing past graffiti, cables, half-built towers. The noise swells until it becomes one long metallic hum that bleeds into—
Division 13 Headquarters.
Fluorescent lights buzz like trapped insects. The building looks tired; even the paint flakes in uniformity. The camera pans down the corridor—constables with paper cups of chai, the smell of ink and sweat.
Aarav walks through, shoulders straight. Someone calls, "New recruit alert!"
Laughter.
At a desk buried under files sits Inspector Rajeev Mehta, mid-forties, shirt unbuttoned at the throat, cigarette trembling between fingers.
"Congratulations, Sharma," he says without looking up. "You've joined the country's least photogenic department. Sit before the chair resigns."
Aarav sits. "Sir, I was told Division 13 handles special-case homicides?"
Mehta snorts. "Special, cursed, whatever word helps us sleep. Coffee?"
Before Aarav can answer, Dr. Nira Joshi enters, hair tied back, white coat smudged with pen ink instead of blood.
"If you survive the paperwork, rookie," she says, "we might let you see an actual case file."
Their eyes meet—hers sharp, testing.
Aarav nods. "Looking forward to it, ma'am."
"Don't call me ma'am. Makes me sound employed."
They share the briefest smile before the overhead lights flicker once, twice, then hold steady. Everyone pretends not to notice, but silence lingers for a heartbeat too long.
Camera push-in on the doorway as ACP Rathore strides in—pressed uniform, storm in his voice.
"Two bodies in Dharavi. Missing eyes. Press already foaming at the mouth."
He drops a folder on the desk. Photographs spill out—faces blurred for us, unseen details implied by the actors' reactions.
Mehta: "Copycat organ job?"
Joshi: "The stitching looks… deliberate."
Rathore cuts her off. "Don't start that myth again. I don't want that name in my reports."
The word remains unsaid, but everyone in the room feels it, like a draft from an open grave.
He slams the folder shut. "Find something real before the media writes another ghost story."
He leaves. Door shuts. The sound lingers like thunder in a jar.
Cut to: the team disperses. Only Aarav stays back, gathering loose papers. One file, misfiled and dust-stained, catches his eye: CASE 1003.
He opens it. Inside: old photocopies, news clippings from cities he's never been to—Nagpur, Delhi, Lucknow—each marked with a red circle.
At the bottom, a sticky note in unfamiliar handwriting: He rebuilds himself.
Aarav frowns. The hum of the lights deepens into a low pulse. He glances toward the glass cabinet beside him—his reflection stares back, slightly delayed, eyes not quite aligned with his own.
He blinks. The reflection corrects itself.
Outside, thunder rumbles again though the sky is clear.
Cut to black.