The room was a tomb of shadows, the air thick with the metallic tang of blood and the faint hum of a flickering bulb overhead.
Inspector Arjun Sethi sat chained to a rusted metal chair, his wrists raw from struggling against the cuffs.
His face was a map of violence—swollen eyes, split lips, and a nose crooked from a recent blow. Blood dripped from his chin, pooling on the cracked concrete floor.
His police uniform, once crisp with pride, was torn and soaked in crimson.
Arjun's breaths were shallow, each one a battle against the pain radiating from his battered body.
He whispered to himself, barely audible,
"I won't tell… I won't."
The words were a mantra, a shield against the men who loomed in the darkness, their faces blurred by malice and fear.
The door creaked open, and the room seemed to shrink under the weight of a new presence.
A man stepped inside, his polished black suit a stark contrast to the grime around him. His face was hidden behind a lion mask, its golden mane glinting faintly in the dim light.
The mask's eyes were hollow, but Arjun felt the predator's gaze boring into him. The man moved with a calm that was almost unnatural, his polished shoes clicking against the floor.
Without a word, the Lion raised a sleek pistol and fired a single shot into Arjun's foot. The crack of the gunshot echoed like thunder, and Arjun's scream tore through the silence, raw and guttural. Pain seared up his leg, but he clamped his jaw shut, refusing to give them more.
The Lion crouched, his masked face inches from Arjun's. His voice was low, steady, a blade wrapped in silk.
"What did you find, Inspector? Where are the case files? Who else knows?"
Arjun's vision swam, but he forced himself to meet the Lion's gaze.
Blood trickled from his mouth as he rasped,
"Even if you kill me… I won't say a word."
His voice cracked, but there was steel beneath the pain, a defiance that burned brighter than his wounds.
The Lion tilted his head, studying Arjun like a specimen. Then he turned to the two men in the corner—thugs in cheap jackets, their faces slick with sweat.
"Is he telling the same to you?"
the Lion asked, his tone deceptively calm.One of the men, a wiry figure with a scar across his cheek, stammered,
"Boss, he's the only one who knows. We checked—nobody else has the details. But… the investigation files are gone. Missing."
The Lion's posture stiffened, the first crack in his composure.
He turned back to Arjun, his masked face unreadable.
"You've caused me a lot of trouble, Inspector," he said, almost softly.
"Take your truths to hell."
The pistol flashed, and a second shot rang out.
The bullet punched through Arjun's chest, dead center. He gasped, his body jerking against the chains. Blood bubbled at his lips as he locked eyes with the Lion.
A faint, bloody smile curled his lips. "I'll be waiting… for you… in hell," he whispered.
His head slumped forward, and the light in his eyes faded. Inspector Arjun Sethi was gone.
The Lion stood, holstering his weapon with mechanical precision. "Throw him out," he ordered, his voice cold as the grave.
"Make it look like a suicide. Let the world remember him as a failed cop."
The two thugs hesitated, unnerved by the dead man's final words.
Then they unshackled Arjun's body, dragging it across the floor like a broken doll. They hauled him through a back exit, up a rickety staircase, and onto the roof of an abandoned construction site.
The city sprawled below, its lights indifferent to the violence above. With a grunt, they heaved Arjun's body over the edge. It plummeted five stories, landing with a sickening thud on the jagged concrete below.
Scarface pulled out a burner phone and dialed.
"It's done," he muttered. "The cop's dead.
Nobody else knows about the case, except… you know who. Boss wants to see you. I'll send the location. Come collect the body."
The Staged Fall by 11 p.m., the construction site was a hive of flashing blue lights and murmuring voices. Police officers cordoned off the area, their faces grim under the weight of the scene.
Arjun's body lay sprawled in a halo of blood, his limbs twisted at unnatural angles. The officers whispered among themselves, some calling it a tragedy, others a disgrace.
Director General of Police (DGP) Vikram Rao stood over the body, his weathered face unreadable. He'd known Arjun—respected him, even if the younger officer's stubbornness had often grated on him.
"Take the body for postmortem," Rao ordered, his voice clipped.
"It looks like a suicide, but we need answers."
A young constable, Anil Sharma, lingered at the edge of the scene, his stomach churning. He'd worked under Arjun, seen the fire in his eyes when he spoke of the case—a sprawling network of corruption that reached into the city's highest echelons.
Sharma's gaze fell on a scrap of paper half-buried in the rubble. He knelt, heart pounding, and retrieved it.
In Arjun's scrawled handwriting were the words:
The Lion hunts. Trust no one.
Sharma stuffed the note into his pocket, glancing around to ensure no one had seen. He didn't know what it meant, but he knew one thing: Arjun hadn't jumped.
At the hospital, Dr. Sameer Khan, a veteran forensic pathologist, prepared for the postmortem. The morgue was silent, save for the faint hum of the refrigeration units.
Arjun's body lay on the steel table, a testament to brutality. Khan's hands were steady as he began his work, but his mind raced.
The DGP's insistence on a suicide ruling didn't sit right.
The bullet wound to the heart was too clean, too deliberate. The fall had shattered bones, but it hadn't caused the fatal injury.
As Khan probed deeper, he found traces of gunpowder on Arjun's hands—likely planted. The angle of the chest wound suggested a shooter standing above him, not a self-inflicted shot.
"You didn't do this to yourself," Khan muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.
He glanced at the door, half-expecting someone to be watching.
The Lion's Den Miles away,
in a penthouse overlooking the city's glittering skyline, the man known as the Lion sat behind a mahogany desk.
The lion mask rested on a stand beside him, its hollow eyes staring into nothingness. Without it, his face was unremarkable—sharp features, graying hair, the kind of face you'd pass on the street without a second glance. But his eyes burned with a quiet, ruthless intensity.
He sipped whiskey, the ice clinking softly in the glass.
His phone buzzed, and a voice on the other end reported,
"The body's at the hospital. Our guy's handling the postmortem. It'll be ruled a suicide by morning."
"And the files?" the Lion asked, his voice a low growl.
"The cop's partner?"
"Files are still missing. The partner—Inspector Vikram Malhotra—he's gone underground. Doesn't know enough to be a threat, but we're tracking him."
"Find him," the Lion snapped, slamming the glass down.
"No loose ends. That cop took too much to his grave, but I won't let his shadow ruin me."
The city was a graveyard at 10:30 p.m., its streets choked with shadows and secrets. One week had passed since Inspector Arjun Sethi's death—a brutal end that left his five-member team, tasked with solving the missing women case, fractured and paranoid. The air stank of betrayal, and every corner whispered death.
Young constable Anil Sharma walked the deserted streets,
his phone buzzing in his pocket. The screen's glow caught his pale, drawn face as he read a message from Vikram Malhotra,
Arjun's second-in-command: Take a right turn up ahead. Fifth building, second floor, room 207. Come fast. Watch your steps.
Anil's pulse quickened.
The streetlights flickered—on, off, on—like a bad omen. His hand hovered over his service pistol, eyes scanning for movement.
Since Arjun's body was found, torn apart in that alley, Anil felt death stalking him. Was someone following? The shadows didn't answer, but they pressed closer.
He slipped into the rundown building, the air thick with mold and fear.
Each step on the grimy stairs echoed like a gunshot. A presence—real or imagined—pricked at his nerves. Anil's hand tightened around his gun, his breath shallow. Stay sharp, Sharma, he told himself, but panic clawed at his chest.
The second floor was a void of silence, the kind that swallowed sound and hope. Room 207 waited at the end of the hall. Footsteps—faint, deliberate—trailed him.
Anil's heart slammed against his ribs. He pounded on the door, voice cracking.
"Sir, open the door! It's me!"
The door swung open, and Anil stumbled into pitch-black darkness. His eyes strained, catching nothing but vague shapes.
"Vikram sir, is that you?"
"Are you alone?"
"This place—it's not safe. I felt someone following me." His words trembled, but he forced them out.
"We need to move, now."Vikram's voice cut through the dark, low and strained, barely hiding his own fear.
"Calm down, Anil. We're safe here."
"I've contacted the higher-ups about Arjun's death. They want the case files. You know where they are, don't you? We need to get them before someone else does."
Anil's stomach churned.
"Sir, I thought you had the files. I tried reaching Prakash and Kiran, but they're gone—off the grid. Are they safe?"
"They're safe," Vikram said, too fast, his voice a whisper.
"We'll be safe too, once we get those files."The fear in Vikram's tone was sharp, unmistakable.
Something was wrong. Anil fumbled for the light switch and flicked it on.
The room snapped into focus: two men, faces hidden behind black masks, stood behind Vikram, guns trained on him.
Vikram's eyes flickered with defiance as he stepped closer to Anil, slipping a cold, metallic key into his hand—unseen by the gunmen.
"The station's always safe for us," Vikram said, his voice steady, heavy with meaning.
Anil met his gaze, understanding.
"Yes, sir. It's my duty."A gunshot shattered the silence. Vikram collapsed, blood pooling from his back.
One masked man stepped forward, his voice a low snarl.
"Your team's gone, kid. You're the last one. Tell us where the files are, or meet your partners in hell."
Anil's heart thundered.
Before he could move, Vikram, gasping on the floor, grabbed the masked man's legs and yanked him down.
"Run, Anil!"
he choked. "Justice… for the team!"Anil bolted, gunfire erupting behind him. Bullets tore into the walls as he flew down the stairs.
Another shot rang out from the room—Vikram's final stand. Anil didn't look back. He ran for his life, for justice, for the sacrifices of Arjun, Vikram, and the others. The key burned in his palm, a lifeline to the truth.He burst into the night, the city's shadows swallowing him.
The masked men spilled out, chasing, but Anil vanished into the maze of alleys. His footsteps faded, but the fight wasn't over. Somewhere, the case files held the answers—about the missing women, about Arjun's death, about the blood on the city's hands. Anil clutched the key and kept running.