The road back to the station was quiet, but my mind was a storm. The Deshmukh mansion murder scene, with blood splattered like Holi colors gone wrong, chaos, and a tangle of questions with no answers, kept replaying in my head. 

Who would do this? Why? The weight of it pressed on my chest, like the city itself was leaning on me, expecting me to keep it safe. This is my duty, my dharma. But damn, it's heavy sometimes.

When I pulled into the station yard, the constables on duty snapped to attention, their khaki uniforms crisp under the flickering streetlights. "Jai Hind, sir!" they greeted, saluting sharply, their voices cutting through the night.

I gave a brief nod, the kind that says, I see you, but I'm tired. "Jai Hind," I muttered, heading inside. The faint smell of chai, old paper, and that musty station air hit me like a familiar friend.

 My boots echoed down the corridor, each step a reminder of the long day. I reached my cabin and sank into my chair, the worn-out cushion creaking under me.

"Sharma Ji!" I called out, my voice rough from hours of shouting orders at the crime scene.

Constable Sharma, or Sharma Ji as we all called him, shuffled in, his khaki uniform slightly wrinkled, his cap tucked under his arm. He was pushing sixty, with a salt-and-pepper mustache and tired eyes that had seen too many late nights at the station. 

Retirement was a year away, and you could tell it weighed on him—he moved slower these days, but his salute was still sharp. 

"Jai Hind, sir," he said, standing at attention.

"Arre, Sharma Ji, relax," I said, waving him. "Get me a cup of chai, and tell Inspector Raj to report to my cabin, jaldi."

He nodded, a faint smile crinkling his weathered face. "Right away, sir." As he turned to leave, I caught the way his shoulders slumped, like the weight of years in this job was finally catching up. 

Poor Sharma Ji, I thought. Man's been here forever, always in the background, never complaining.

Sharma Ji was the kind of person who knew every corner of this station like the back of his hand—where the files were misplaced, which chaiwala made the best cutting chai, and even who was sneaking samosas in the break room. 

He'd been a constable for three decades, loyal as they come, but never climbed the ranks. Not for lack of skill, mind you—he was sharp, meticulous, and always the first to notice a detail others missed. But he was quiet, never pushed for promotions, and never made a fuss. 

Just did his duty, day in, day out.

I'd heard him talk once, after a few too many pegs of Old Monk at a station Diwali party, about his one dream. "Sir," he'd said, his voice thick with emotion, "before I retire, I want to lead a case. Just one. Not push papers, not fetch chai, but solve something big. Feel like I made a difference." 

His eyes had shone then, like a young recruit's, and it stuck with me. Sharma Ji deserves that chance. But this department... It chews up dreams like his.

As I waited for Raj, I flipped open the Deshmukh mansion case file, the bloody images staring back at me. This case is a beast. 

High profile, messy, and my seniors are already pressuring me. Could Sharma Ji handle something this big? I shook my head. Maybe not lead, but I could let him take a crack at it. Give him something to tell his grandkids about.

Raj strolled in, all smiles, snapping a casual "Jai Hind" salute. "Sir, you called?"

"Sit," I said, gesturing to the chair. "The watchman from the Deshmukh mansion—where is he?"

"City Hospital," Raj replied, leaning back. "Stable. Doctors say he can talk tomorrow."

"Good. Be here at 6 AM. We'll interrogate him together. And Raj," I added, lowering my voice, "bring Sharma Ji along. Let him sit in and ask a few questions. He's got one year left—let's give him a taste of the action."

Raj raised an eyebrow but nodded. "Sharma Ji? Arre, sir, he'll be over the moon. You know he's been dreaming of this forever."

"I know," I said, tapping the file. "He's earned it. Now go home. Tomorrow's going to be a long day."

Raj grinned like a child, saluted with a "Jai Hind," and left. I leaned back, my mind drifting to Sharma Ji again. 

He's got the heart for it. Maybe this case could be his shot. But God help us, this city never makes it easy. 

Suddenly, my phone buzzed—Ma. I sighed, knowing what was coming. "Yes, Ma?"

"Kabir, it's past midnight! Come home now. Your murderers can wait, but my aloo paratha can't!" Her voice was sharp, like a rolling pin was already in her hands to whack me.

"Ma, I've got work—"

"No bakwas. I'm waiting." She hung up.

I shook my head, a small smile tugging at my lips. Ma and her aloo paratha. She thinks food solves everything, which, to be honest, is true. 

Well, there's nothing special to tell about my mom. Sixty-two years old, barely five feet tall, but with a temper that could make Ahmedabad's monsoon look tame. She's been my rock since Baba passed ten years ago, and to be honest, I never felt his absence.

But do you know what her real weapon is? Those aloo parathas. Crispy, golden, and stuffed with just the right amount of spice. She'd make them every time I came home late, like she could bribe me into being a better son by feeding me. 

Worked every time, lol.

I glanced at the Deshmukh mansion case file, its edges already curling. The photos inside; bloodstains, broken glass, a life snuffed out—felt like a punch to the gut. I grabbed it, tucking it under my arm. 

Time to go before Ma called again, threatening to march down to the station with her rolling pin. As I stepped out of my cabin, the familiar scent of chai hit me. Sharma Ji was shuffling down the corridor, a steel tumbler of steaming tea in his hand, his face lit up like he'd won a lottery.

"Sir, your chai," he said, holding it out, his mustache twitching with a shy smile.

I shook my head, managing a tired grin. 

"Arre, Sharma Ji, you have it on my behalf. I'm heading home—Ma's orders. But listen," I paused, meeting his eyes, "tomorrow, 6 AM, you have to be with me and Raj at the hospital for the watchman's interrogation."

His eyes widened, the tumbler trembling slightly in his hand. "Sir... really?" His voice cracked, like a kid being handed his first cricket bat.

"Really," I said, tapping his shoulder. "Now drink that chai before it gets cold." I didn't wait for his response, just nodded and headed for the exit, the file heavy under my arm.

The streets of Ahmedabad were mostly empty, the glow of streetlights reflecting off the Sabarmati River in the distance. 

I drove, the hum of the engine steady, my mind still half on the case. The watchman better have something useful to say tomorrow. I can't let this case slip.

Still, somewhere deep down, my gut whispered that the night wasn't done with me yet. Like the quiet before a storm, something was shifting—something I couldn't name but knew would change the course of my life.

Then suddenly, my headlights caught a figure by the roadside. 

A woman, standing next to a car with its hood open, looking frustrated under the dim streetlight. I slowed down, squinting. Even in the faint glow, I knew that face. 

Saanvi Desai. 

Her long hair fell in waves, her kurti caught the light, and those sharp eyes were still the same, even after all these years. 

God, she looked like she stepped out of a memory. Beautiful, but trouble. Always trouble.

My heart did a small flip, but I pushed it down. Not now, Kabir. You've got a city to protect, a case to solve. But still I decide to pull over, thinking it is not right to leave a girl alone in the middle of the night, knowing my night just got a lot more complicated. 

Why does it always have to be her?

✨ Author's Note ✨
And that's how Kabir's long night took an unexpected turn 👀. What do you think is about to happen next?

If you enjoyed this chapter, don't forget to vote, comment, and share—your support keeps me motivated and helps more readers discover Kabir & Saanvi's story 💖.