...Arian stared at the broken piece of mirror for a while. His own eyes reflected in the piece seemed to be asking him—what does it mean to have a real face? The light flickered on the sharp edge of the glass, making the silence of the room even heavier.
From behind, Rudra, a member of the forensic team, said carefully,
"Sir, there is no sign of resistance in the body. Skin under the nails, fibers—nothing."
...Arian stood up slowly. His experience tells him that such perfect silence is never normal. At the moment of death, people fight, fear, and struggle. There is nothing here. It is as if death itself has brought permission.
He moved towards the dressing table. The cosmetics arranged on the table were unusually orderly. Every brush, every bottle seemed to be neatly arranged within an invisible line. A kind of mechanical order. The lipstick placed in front of the mirror was open, its red color still fresh. The writing was not on the glass, but on the wall. Not with a trembling hand—written in steady, confident scribbles.
"Where is the real face?"
"Strange," Aryan whispered.
His gaze now turned to the victim. The cuts on the girl's face were so perfect that they couldn't have been the result of chaos. A kind of surgical precision. Painful, but coldly planned. Not hatred, not emotion—an attempt to convey something.
"Who was she?" Aryan asked.
Assistant Officer Rudra flipped through the file and said,
"Name—Naira Sen. Age twenty-five. Famous influencer. Beauty, lifestyle, motivational content. Millions of followers."
Aryan shook his head lightly.
"She sold beauty… and before she died, she searched for 'imperfect beauty quotes'."
The air in the room seemed to get colder.
He took the phone in his hand and looked at the screen. There was no more activity after the last search. No calls, no messages. The timestamp said just before death. As if someone had deliberately planted that thought in his head.
Aryan asked, "CCTV?"
"It's in the corridor of the building, Sir Rudra said. But no one came or went after ten o'clock at night."
"The door is locked from the inside…"
All the pieces seemed to be not fitting properly.
Aryan looked at the mirror again. The huge mirror was broken as if it had exploded with a concentric blow. But there were no heavy objects around. No obvious injury marks either. The glass shards were scattered, but not randomly. Strangely evenly spaced.
Suddenly his eyes were caught on a subtle object.
A small hand was a piece of mirror—held in the victim's hand. Holding it tightly. As if he had wanted to see something even before death. His own face? Or someone else's?
Aryan carefully examined the corner of the piece. There was a drop of blood, but it didn't match the cut. I mean, the piece was found later.
"The mirror was broken before the time of death," he said quietly.
"And he picked up the piece on purpose."
Rudra said, "Why?"
Aryan didn't answer. Other questions were running through his mind.
If it wasn't suicide, where was the murderer? How did he get in? How did he get out?
His experience told him that sometimes the secret of murder lies not in the door, but in the person's mind.
He looked at the pictures hanging on the wall next to the dressing table. Perfect smiles, perfect light, perfect lives. An artificial display of beauty in each frame. But in reality, the girl's eyes were now frozen, cold, questioning.
"Where is the real face…" Aryan repeated slowly.
The silence of the room seemed to ring in his ears.
This was murder—but not an ordinary murder.
This was someone's distorted vision. Someone's message.
And that message wasn't just for Naira.
Aryan felt as if someone was still watching from the other side of the mirror. Invisible, patient, calculating.