Naren's eyes snapped open. He was inside a car, head resting against the window. Sweat clung to his forehead. The chase, the gunfire, the applause. It had all been a dream. He wasn't a heroic inspector. He was just a constable.
A voice called from outside: "We're here, Naren."
He straightened himself, stepped out of the car, and looked ahead. The house was surrounded by police. Flashing lights painted the walls, officers moved briskly, and the air was heavy with tension. It was a crime scene.
Naren walked toward the entrance. A cop stood nearby, questioning witnesses and scribbling notes. On the stretcher, the body lay covered, two medical staff guiding it toward the ambulance. The sheet covering the body fluttered in the wind, lifting just enough for Naren to glimpse the victim's face.
She was young, barely in her twenties. A faint mark circled her neck; bruises scattered across her skin. The sight froze him for a moment.
Inside the house, the air was heavy with grief. The officer was interrogating a middle-aged man, his answers clipped, his eyes hollow. From his posture, it was clear, he was the father.
Across the room, a woman sobbed uncontrollably, her voice breaking into murmurs: "My daughter… how could you do this to yourself? Why did you leave us?"
Her hands trembled as she clutched her cloth. Beside her, a boy barely in his teens tried to comfort her. He was the victim's brother. The house was filled with whispers, grief, and suspicion. Naren stood silently, absorbing every detail
The voice heard. "Naren, what are you doing here? You've been assigned to another inspector, haven't you?"
Naren turned. The middle-aged inspector stood there, his tone dripping with authority and disdain. In an instant, Naren recognized him, the same man he had humiliated in his dream, the one whose head he had pressed a gun against. Reality was far different.
Naren straightened, walked forward, and saluted. His voice was steady, though his chest tightened. "Sir, I prepared all the data you requested. I came to give it to you."
The inspector snatched the file without even looking at him. "Yeah, whatever. To complete this task you took this long." His words were sharp, dismissive. "Now go and join your new team already. I don't know what they'll do with a useless idiot like you. Get lost."
The inspector's words cut deep, but Naren didn't flinch. He had heard them before, countless times. He stood there for a moment, silent, then he handed over the file, turned to leave, and carried the weight of yet another insult.
This was reality—he was only a constable, always scolded, always overshadowed. Not because he failed, but because he worked too well. He cracked cases, saw details others ignored, but his superiors buried him under politics, afraid he might shine brighter than them.
Then the familiar voice called out, "Naren?"
He turned to see a fellow constable approaching, someone he had worked with on some small cases. The man gave him a half-smile, half-sigh. "What, again? You started getting scolded by him, huh?"
Naren exhaled slowly. "As usual."
The constable chuckled, shaking his head. "You're unbelievable. Always the one who works well and always the one who gets blamed."
Naren shrugged, his voice calm. "That's how it works here. If you do well, they say you're showing off. If you stay quiet, they say you're useless. Either way, you're wrong."
The constable leaned closer, lowering his voice. "They said you've been moved to support another case. What are you doing here then?"
Naren's smile lingered, faint but steady. "Just came to submit the report. Nothing more. So… what happened here?"
The constable walked beside Naren, his voice casual. "It's just a suicide case."
Naren's eyes drifted toward the bedroom. The rope dangled from the fan, the chair lay awkwardly across the bed, sheets twisted and messy. He tilted his head, studying the scene. "Suicide?" he asked softly.
The constable nodded. "Yeah. Her father said she was in love, but the parents didn't approve. She hanged herself out of frustration."
Naren's gaze sharpened. The image of the girl's face flashed in his mind—the circular rope mark, the bruises. Something gnawed at him. He stopped walking, his voice low but firm. "No. This isn't suicide. It's murder."
The constable froze, staring at him. "Murder? Don't start with your theories again, Naren. Everyone's already agreed it's suicide."
Naren's eyes stayed fixed on the room, his tone calm but unwavering. "No. I saw her body outside. If she hanged herself, the rope mark should rise in a V near the jaw. But the mark was circular, right in the middle. That's not suicide—it's someone tightening the rope around her neck."
The constable frowned, shifting his weight. "You're imagining things."
Naren continued, his voice steady, almost clinical. "There were scratches on her neck. Nail marks. She tried to pull the rope away, but the killer forced it tighter. That's why her own fingers left bruises."
The constable opened his mouth to argue, but Naren pressed on. "And the room… it doesn't fit. The door wasn't broken, which means she let someone in. The bed was messy, like a struggle happened there. And the chair—lying on the bed instead of the floor. If she kicked it away, it should've fallen in the opposite direction. This scene was staged."
Silence followed. The constable looked uneasy and shook his head, frustrated. "Don't cook your own story, Naren. Everyone's analysing the situation and most of the reports say it's suicide."
Before Naren could reply, the medical team rushed in. One of them leaned close to the inspector, whispered something, and the inspector's face drained of colour. He hurried outside without a word.
The constable grabbed the medical staffer by the arm. "What happened?"
The reply was short, heavy. "She was murdered. Someone strangled her." Then he left.
The constable froze, his mouth half open. He turned slowly toward Naren, who stood with a faint smile. "Bingo."
The constable blinked, still stunned. "How did you figure it out?"
Naren shrugged lightly. "Basic observation. And instinct."
The constable pressed further, his voice uneasy. "If you can see this much, then you must have some idea how it happened. What does your instinct say?"
Naren paused, his eyes drifting back to the messy bed. His tone was calm, deliberate. "She was lying on the bed. Someone climbed above her and strangled her with the rope. That's why the bed is messy—she struggled. She tried to pull the rope away, her own nails left marks on her neck."
The constable frowned, confused. "But if someone climbed above her, she could have defended herself easily, right?"
Naren's reply was calm, almost chilling. "Yes if it was a stranger. But what if the killer was someone she knew well? Someone she trusted?"
The constable blinked, confused. "What do you mean?"
Naren pointed toward the door. "The lock wasn't broken. That means she let the person in willingly. Someone familiar. They staged it as suicide, but they were amateurs."
The constable leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Then who do you think it was?"
Naren turned his head slowly, his eyes narrowing. "You said there was an argument about her love, that her parents didn't approve?"
The constable followed his gaze. Their eyes landed on the victim's father, standing apart from the crowd. His face was composed, his posture steady, too steady for a grieving parent.
Naren's silence was heavier than words, his suspicion hanging in the air like a shadow neither of them could ignore.
The constable's jaw dropped. "Man… this is a breakthrough. You're a genius! Go tell the inspector before he finds out. You'll get promoted for sure."
Naren shook his head, disbelief in his tone. "Promotion? I don't want to play politics with them. And I don't need recognition for solving a small case like this."
The constable smirked. "Then can I use this for my own good?"
Naren's reply was cold, almost bitter. "Do whatever you want. But you'll never be recognized. The higher officers will claim the credit, and we'll always remain their sidekicks."
The constable chuckled, trying to lighten the mood. "Man, don't think too much. Your brain will get success one day. Just do your job everything else will happen automatically."
Naren's eyes flared with frustration. "Do the job, huh? Don't make me angry. Is this what you call police work? I should be investigating murders, chasing criminals, following clues, running action. Instead, I'm buried in paperwork—complaints, passport verifications, cycle thefts. This isn't the thrill I dreamed of."
The constable raised his brows. "Why so much frustration? Anyway, you're moving out from here, right? You'll have your chance to prove yourself."
Naren's voice dropped, heavy with doubt. "Yeah, I'm moving under another inspector. But what's the use? Whoever it is, I'll end up doing the same."
The constable leaned closer, a grin tugging at his lips. "Do you even know whom you're going to assist?"
Naren shrugged bitterly. "Who cares? Whoever it is, I'll still be stuck in the same routine."
The constable's grin widened. "You don't know? You're moving under Inspector Ashok."
Naren froze, his eyes widening in shock. "Ashok? Which Ashok?"
The constable's tone carried weight now. "The one handling the serial killing case right now. The same Ashok who solved the serial murders four years ago. Your inspiration."
Naren's disbelief turned into a rush of excitement. He snatched the transfer order, scanning it quickly. His eyes locked on the name, Inspector Ashok.
His lips parted, a rare smile breaking through. "Really… Inspector Ashok."
The constable chuckled. "See? I told you. Your time will come. Maybe this is it."
Naren lips curved into a rare smile with excitement. "I'm going to work under him. On a serial murder case."
For the first time in years, Naren felt the thrill he had been craving. His frustration melted into anticipation. He wasn't just moving under another inspector—he was stepping into the world of serial murder investigations; under the man he admired most.