The shrill cry of the alarm yanked me out of sleep.
With irritation simmering inside me, I glared at the ringing clock.
It read 7:30 a.m.
Normally, I wake up around nine because I always sleep late at night.
My room was built separately from the main house, almost like a small studio unit near the entrance. Inside, there was a table, a chair, and a lamp resting on one side.
On the chair lay a notebook — the one in which I had been writing a story for several days.
A pen rested beside it; one had already run dry, and I had bought a new one to continue the rest of the story.
On my table, there were plates and a few scraps of leftover food from last night.
After stretching a little, I walked straight toward the kitchen, which was on the left side of the room. A small door at the back connected my room to the kitchen.
A kettle sat on the counter, along with the unwashed utensils piled on the top shelf — untouched since last night because I had been too absorbed in writing.
Honestly, I rarely cook, so I'm not accustomed to washing dishes immediately after eating. Hahaha.
I poured myself a glass of water, drank it, and began making tea.
The kettle, tea leaves, and sugar were all stored neatly in the kitchen.
When the tea was ready, I poured it into my favourite cup — a beautifully crafted stone cup with golden lines encircling it, capable of holding around 200–300 milliliters.
I had barely taken the first sip when my door suddenly swung open.
The key lay right beside it, and I froze — who had entered?
Because my distance vision is weak, I couldn't identify the figure standing at the doorway.
The sunlight behind him hid his face entirely.
But when he stepped forward — then another step — his face became clear.
It was my brother, Jagpreet Malhotra.
I was startled to see him.
He asked, "Everything fine?"
I replied, "Yes, all good… I just woke up too early today, so I'm still half-asleep." 😭
I was about to offer him water or tea and ask about his sudden arrival when he casually lifted my notebook, glanced inside, and said,
"You've been unemployed for five days now… and it seems you won't have any work in the near future either."
Then he sat in the chair, crossing his right leg over his knee, both arms resting confidently on the armrests, leaning back like he owned the place.
Feeling embarrassed, I hesitantly asked,
"It might sound foolish… but how do you know?" 😔🧐
He smirked and said,
"First of all, it's all reasoning and observation.
When I entered your room, I scanned everything in a second.
That cheap meal you cooked — probably noodles — shows you made it yourself. I can see the back door open and unwashed dishes in the kitchen.
You only cook when your account is empty. When you have money, you always rely on restaurants. You're not stingy — you don't like saving.
Second, your room looks much cleaner than usual. And I don't see your construction clothes anywhere. When you have work the next day, you always leave your work pants on the bed or table.
So you must have cleaned everything — which means no maid, which means no money.
Third, when I picked up your notebook, I saw almost fifty pages filled. You're not exactly a fast writer. A normal person can write 5,000 words per hour — two hours a day means ten thousand words, which fit into roughly ten pages.
And the proof is right here — the ink shading changes every ten pages. The sun hits your table directly in the mornings, drying the ink faster on the older pages.
Another proof: one of your ball pens is empty. A ball pen lasts 90,000 to 110,000 words. And you've already bought a new one.
So you won't have work for at least the next five days as well."
I stared at him, amazed by how effortlessly he pieced everything together.
"I never knew you could actually use your brain," I laughed. "Must be that one-in-a-million IQ — above 200, right?"
I quickly prepared a cup of tea for him too.
He took one sip — and then his phone rang.
The moment he picked up the call, his expression changed entirely.
His face turned pale yellow.
Before I could even ask what happened, I heard police sirens approaching.
My heart tightened — nobody likes police showing up at their house.
When I opened the door, four or five police cars were parked outside.
I thought a major incident must have happened nearby.
But to my shock, all of them started walking toward my house.
Leading them was the Deputy Commissioner of Somar City — a place with the aesthetics of 1300s England but with fully modern technology.
Fear gripped me.
I shut the door instantly and sat on my chair, trying to look calm.
Before I could gather my thoughts, my brother opened the door and stepped out.
I whispered, "Did you do something?"
He smiled faintly but gave no answer.
Worried, I peeked outside.
The Deputy Commissioner walked straight up to my brother —
and saluted him.
My fear evaporated, replaced by pride.
"We need your help," he said. "You must come with us."
For the first time in my life, I felt overwhelmingly proud of my brother.
I had always known he was gifted — one of those rare geniuses.
My brother followed him toward a massive government luxury car.
Before they could enter, I quickly slipped into the front seat — because I absolutely love sitting in the front.
My brother simply smiled and sat in the back with the Deputy Commissioner.
They were discussing something important, but I wasn't paying attention.
I was just enjoying the ride in that luxurious car.
After about fifteen minutes, we arrived at the main police station.
And when I got a clear look at the Deputy Commissioner, I recognized him —
Arivanda, the renowned officer I had read about in the newspaper, famous for solving impossible cases with incredible speed.
But why would someone like him need my brother's help?
He was tall, around six feet, dressed in a green uniform with white cross-belts, silver stars on his shoulders and sleeves, light brown skin, short hair, a golden nose, and brown eyes.
The police station was enormous — nearly a hundred cells.
We followed him through the cell block to a tunnel entrance.
He placed his finger on a scanner, and the metal door opened automatically.
Inside, heavily armed policemen saluted both of them.
At first, I assumed the salutes were for the Deputy Commissioner — but when the Prime Minister himself saluted my brother, I realized the truth.
Every salute…
was for my brother.
The Prime Minister said,
"There is no need for introductions. I know you — Gurpreet Malhotra, the Mad Detective."
I was stunned.
My brother asked,
"What has happened that you needed me immediately?"
The Prime Minister replied gravely,
"The honor and safety of our nation — and millions of lives — rest in your hands.
If this case remains unsolved, a war may break out with our neighboring nation."
My brother nodded calmly.
"Tell me everything, sir."
The Prime Minister signaled to the Deputy Commissioner to explain.
But the Deputy hesitated, uncertain whether to speak in my presence.
My brother said confidently,
"You can speak openly. He is my brother — his presence is almost equal to mine."
The Prime Minister nodded, shook my brother's hand, and left.
The Deputy Commissioner then led us to a newly built prison about fifteen minutes away.
The facility looked brand new — perhaps only a few weeks old.
Five cells.
Two on each side, one at the end.
A narrow hallway.
The Deputy played a recording showing two criminals sitting quietly in their cell.
My brother asked, "Where are they now?"
The Deputy replied,
"That's the problem — they vanished last night.
The cameras show them sitting inside, but they are no longer there.
The guards say they never left."
They had searched ten kilometers around, found nothing.
Twenty hours remained before their official release.
If they were not found, disaster could follow.
My brother reassured him, "Don't worry. We'll find them."
He questioned the constable — a tall, brown-skinned man in a white uniform with red straps, named Honor Duck.
Surprisingly, no one in this facility saluted my brother — they clearly didn't know him.
The constable explained anxiously,
"Sir, the lights went out for two minutes. It was pitch dark. I heard nothing — no movement, no sound. If anything unusual happened, the guard would have triggered the alarm.
When the lights returned, the prisoners were gone.
Why would they flee? They were getting released tomorrow at 10 a.m.
I arrive at noon every day for duty rotation. Everything appeared normal when I came."
The Deputy was deeply troubled.
My brother reassured him, and then jogged lightly, examining the area on his toes.
He asked about the jail's security.
The Deputy said,
"Let's return to the station. I'll show you their earlier jail map."
Back at the station, he unfolded a large map of a 59-cell facility with cameras in every chamber.
Each chamber had its own security feed, making it impossible to manipulate the entire system at once.
He explained the complexities of the structure.
I understood nothing… and simply nodded.
Mr. Malhotra — my brother — gave me a knowing smile.
We returned home around 11 a.m.
We drank tea and ate together.
After resting for two hours, I began wondering:
"How will he find the criminals when the entire police force couldn't?"
Before I could ask, he said,
"You're coming with me."
I burst out, excited,
"Where?"