The rain didn't stop.
It softened.
That was worse.
Because when the storm raged, it drowned everything—sound, thought, fear. But now, as the downpour turned into a steady whisper, Kolkata began to breathe again… and in that breathing, details returned.
Details that shouldn't be there.
Inside the Choudhury house, the lights were back on.
Warm yellow. Familiar. Safe.
Or at least, pretending to be.
Abhi stood near the window, fingers resting lightly against the wooden frame, eyes fixed on the lane outside. Water still trickled along the broken edges of the road. A bicycle passed. Someone argued over change. A distant tram bell echoed faintly through the wet air.
Normal.
Too normal.
Behind him, Dida placed a cup of tea on the table with unnecessary force.
"Drink before it gets cold," she said, watching him closely.
Abhi didn't turn immediately. "Hmm."
That was enough for her to narrow her eyes.
"You said everything is okay," she continued, arms crossing. "And when you say 'everything is okay,' it means everything is definitely NOT okay."
Abhi smirked faintly, still looking outside. "Dida, you should work with the police. You'd solve crimes faster than me."
She clicked her tongue. "Don't change topic. What was that thing outside?"
He finally turned.
For a moment, the investigator disappeared—and just a grandson stood there.
"Toys," he said lightly. "Some idiot kid probably threw it."
Dida stared at him.
Long. Hard. Unblinking.
Then she walked closer, stopped right in front of him, and lifted her hand—
—not to hit him.
But to adjust his collar.
"You think I don't see?" she said quietly. "Your eyes change when something is wrong."
That hit deeper than any accusation.
Abhi looked away.
She sighed. "Fine. Don't tell me. But listen carefully—whoever it is, whatever it is… don't try to be a hero alone. Heroes die early. Smart people live longer."
Abhi gave a small nod.
"I'll try."
"Try?" she snapped. "TRY means you won't listen."
He chuckled. "Okay, okay. I'll listen."
"Good," she muttered, walking away. "Now drink tea before I pour it on your head."
But the tea went cold again.
Because Abhi wasn't tasting anything tonight.
His Room — 11:38 PM
The door clicked shut behind him.
Silence.
Different from outside silence.
This one had weight.
Abhi pulled the red metal ball out of his pocket and placed it on the table under the lamp.
The light reflected off its surface.
Perfect sphere.
No dents. No scratches. No manufacturing marks visible to the naked eye.
Too clean.
Too deliberate.
He leaned closer.
Didn't touch it directly.
Instead, he picked up a sanitized picker and rolled the ball gently.
Smooth motion.
Balanced.
Engineered.
"Not a toy," he murmured.
His eyes narrowed.
"Ball bearing."
That realization didn't come from guesswork.
It came from memory.
Machines. Tools. Internal components. Precision systems.
Ball bearings were used where friction needed to disappear.
Where motion needed to be perfect.
Where error was not allowed.
Which meant—
"This wasn't picked randomly."
He leaned back slightly, arms crossing.
"Either he uses machinery… or he wants me to think that."
That second possibility was more dangerous.
Because it meant intention.
Message.
Communication.
Abhi turned the ball again, focusing on the scratched words.
"Let's see how can you catch me. The 'Tom and Jerry' starts now."
He let out a soft breath through his nose.
"Bad grammar," he muttered.
Then his expression hardened.
"But not a bad mind."
He grabbed his phone. Took multiple photos from different angles.
Zoomed in.
Enhanced.
The scratches weren't random.
Uneven pressure.
Some letters deeper.
Some lighter.
His brain mapped it quickly.
"Written manually… with a sharp object. Not machine-engraved."
Meaning :
-Done in a hurry? ❌
-Done personally? ✅
-Done with control? ✅
He typed notes rapidly.
Not afraid of leaving trace
Wants message found
Wants challenge accepted
He stopped typing.
Stared at the last line.
Then slowly added:
Wants me involved
That was the real problem.
12:17 AM — Rooftop
The rain had almost stopped.
Drops fell occasionally from wires, from leaves, from the edges of roofs—like the city was slowly draining out the storm.
Abhi stood on the rooftop, barefoot, cold concrete beneath his feet.
From here, he could see the surrounding houses.
Balconies.
Windows.
Dark corners.
Possible vantage points.
He replayed the moment.
The sound.
The timing.
The placement of the ball.
"Not random throw," he whispered.
He walked to the edge and leaned slightly.
Distance from gate to surrounding rooftops…
Angle of throw…
Force required…
His brain calculated instinctively.
"Medium strength. Controlled arc. Not a child."
Then another thought clicked.
"If he threw it… he was nearby."
His gaze sharpened.
"Very nearby."
He scanned each rooftop carefully.
Water tanks. Satellite dishes. Clotheslines.
Hiding spots.
Escape routes.
And then—
He noticed something small.
Too small for most people.
A faint scuff mark on the edge of a neighboring roof.
Fresh.
Washed partially by rain.
But not gone.
Abhi's eyes locked onto it.
"Got you."
Not fully.
Not even close.
But enough to confirm one thing.
The guy was real.
1:02 AM — Back in Room
Abhi sat at his desk, laptop open.
Multiple tabs.
Maps of the area.
Crime reports.
Police group messages.
The crescent symbol cases.
Three disappearances.
Seven days.
North Kolkata.
No blood.
No struggle.
No witnesses.
Only symbol.
He overlaid the locations on the map.
Drew lines.
Patterns.
Distances.
Nothing obvious.
Which made it worse.
"Too clean," he muttered.
Then he added his own location.
Paused.
Stared.
Still nothing.
No direct connection.
No pattern linking him to victims.
Which meant—
"Either I'm missing something…"
He leaned forward.
"…or I'm not the connection."
His eyes darkened.
"I'm the target."
2:11 AM
Sleep didn't come.
It rarely did on nights like this.
Abhi leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, but mind wide awake.
Replaying everything.
The message.
The ball.
The rooftop mark.
The timing.
Then one question rose above all:
"Why me?"
Not ego.
Not fear.
Logic.
If this was a game—
Why choose him?
There were better investigators.
Official teams.
Special units.
People with more power.
More resources.
More authority.
So why—
Abhi's eyes snapped open.
"…because I'm not official."
That was it.
No protocol.
No restrictions.
No predictable pattern.
He was… flexible.
Uncontrolled.
Which made him dangerous.
And interesting.
A slow smile formed.
"Smart."
Then faded.
"But so am I."
Morning — 7:26 AM
"ABHIIII!"
The storm had returned.
In human form.
Dida.
"If you don't wake up NOW, I swear I will call a girl and fix your marriage today itself!"
Abhi groaned, pulling the pillow over his face. "Dida, let the criminal kill me first. Marriage is too much pressure."
She stormed in and yanked the pillow away. "Drama king! Get up!"
He sat up slowly, hair a mess, eyes tired but alert.
Dida paused.
Looked at him carefully.
"You didn't sleep."
"Detective work," he replied casually.
She didn't argue.
Just turned and walked out.
"Come eat."
Breakfast Table
Steam rose from hot luchis.
Aloo torkari.
Tea.
Home.
Safe.
Abhi ate silently.
Dida watched him again, but said nothing this time.
Which was rare.
Very rare.
Halfway through the meal, she spoke.
"Lock the gate properly today."
Abhi nodded.
"And don't come late."
Another nod.
"And… take care."
That one was softer.
He looked up.
Met her eyes.
"Always."
As he stepped out of the house…
The morning looked innocent.
Sunlight washed over the wet streets.
Children ran around.
Vendors shouted.
Life continued.
But Abhi paused at the gate.
Looked down.
Nothing there.
No ball.
No mark.
No message.
He exhaled slowly.
"Good."
Then—
His phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
A new message.
No image.
No symbol.
Just text.
"Did you sleep well?"
Abhi didn't react immediately.
Didn't reply.
Didn't even blink.
But inside—
Something shifted.
This wasn't just a challenge anymore.
This was surveillance.
Close.
Personal.
Continuous.
He typed slowly.
Carefully.
Then stopped.
Deleted it.
Locked his phone.
Slipped it into his pocket.
And whispered under his breath—
"Game on."
Somewhere in the city…
A man stood on a rooftop.
Watching.
Smiling.
A cigarette burned between his fingers.
Ash fell… unnoticed.
Beside him lay a small pouch.
Inside it—
Dozens of identical metal balls.
Perfect.
Cold.
Waiting.
And somewhere else…
A door closed.
A crescent mark painted fresh in red.
Another person… gone.
The game had officially begun.