The Vanguard X-9 tore through Kolkata's bustling streets, a silent predator weaving past rickshaws and honking taxis. Inside, Q's eyes flicked between the holographic dashboard and the manila folder on the passenger seat. The grainy image of Dinesh Chakraborty's body—slumped in the bathtub, blood pooling, fingers severed—burned in his mind. The killer's precision was chilling, each crime scene a meticulously staged taunt. L, slouched in the passenger seat, muttered complaints about the Chief's warning, while W and D traded quiet theories in the back. Q tuned them out, his focus razor-sharp on the mission ahead.
As they approached Shovabazar, a labyrinth of colonial-era mansions and narrow alleys, the car slowed. Chakraborty's apartment building loomed ahead, its faded grandeur marred by flashing police lights and a swarm of reporters cordoned off by yellow tape. The Vanguard slipped through a side alley, its nano-coating shifting to mimic the grimy brickwork, rendering it invisible to prying eyes. Q parked in a concealed bay reserved for S.I.L.O., the car's doors hissing open with a soft pneumatic sigh.
"Showtime," Q said, stepping out. His black shirt and white tie cut a stark silhouette against the morning haze. W adjusted her tactical vest, D flicked away his cigarette, and L grumbled, adjusting his ill-fitting jacket. They moved as a unit, Q leading with quiet authority, toward the crime scene.
Inside Chakraborty's lavish apartment, the air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the hum of forensic equipment. Yellow tape crisscrossed the entrance, fluttering in the breeze from an open window. S.I.L.O.'s forensic team, a mix of seasoned operatives and low-level techs, swarmed the space like ants. Some dusted for prints, their brushes whispering over doorframes; others scanned surfaces with UV wands, hunting for trace evidence. A junior tech, barely out of training, fumbled with a DNA sequencer, earning a sharp reprimand from his supervisor. The chaos was disciplined, every movement part of S.I.L.O.'s relentless pursuit of answers.
In the bathroom, the epicentre of the horror, Dr. Sonia stood with her intern, Kriti. The room was a grotesque stage: blood streaked the white tiles, pooling in the grout, and the bathtub cradled Chakraborty's corpse. His head lolled against the tap at an unnatural angle, eyes wide in a frozen scream. The water, tinged pink, lapped at his chest, and his arms dangled over the tub's edge, fingerless stumps dripping onto the floor. Near the door, a polished wooden writing desk held the grisliest detail: ten severed fingers arranged in a neat arc around a vintage typewriter, their tips pointing inward like a macabre compass.
Pale and trembling, Kriti clutched a notepad, her first fieldwork assignment pushing her to the brink. She'd already vomited twice in the hallway, the sight of the fingers—nails still manicured, skin waxy—searing into her mind. Dr. Sonia, a forensic pathologist with decades of experience, spoke calmly, clinically, her gloved hands gesturing as she dissected the scene for Kriti's benefit.
"Observe the precision," Sonia said, pointing to the stumps. "The cuts are clean, likely made with a surgical-grade blade. No hesitation marks, no jagged edges. This wasn't a frenzied attack; it was deliberate, almost ritualistic." She knelt by the tub, her flashlight illuminating Chakraborty's pallid face. "The head's position is odd. The tap's edge has abraded the scalp, suggesting it was forced backwards post-mortem. Lividity indicates he's been dead approximately six hours, rigour mortis just setting in."
Kriti swallowed hard, scribbling notes. "Why… why the fingers? Why place them like that?"
Sonia's eyes narrowed. "Symbolism. The fingers were his tool—his art. Arranging them around the typewriter mocks his craft, turns his legacy into a grotesque display. This killer isn't just killing; they're communicating." She stood, gesturing to a tech swabbing the desk. "We've collected blood spatter and trace epithelial cells. The typewriter's keys are being analysed for latent prints, though I suspect our killer wore gloves. They're meticulous."
Kriti nodded, her stomach churning. A tech nearby bagged a stray hair, while another used a laser scanner to map the room in 3d. The low-level operatives worked with quiet efficiency: one catalogued the victim's medications, another photographed scuff marks on the floor. The scene was a puzzle, and S.I.L.O.'s team was piecing it together with ruthless precision.
Sonia continued, her voice steady. "The blood spatter suggests he was alive when the fingers were removed. High-velocity spray on the wall indicates arterial flow—likely the radial artery. He bled out quickly, but not instantly. The killer wanted him to suffer." She pointed to a faint bruise on Chakraborty's neck. "This contusion suggests restraint, possibly a chokehold to subdue him before the mutilation began."
Kriti's pen shook. "How do you… Stay so calm?"
Sonia's lips twitched, a ghost of a smile. "You don't. You learn to compartmentalise. Focus on the science, not the horror. The body is evidence, Kriti. It's telling us a story. Our job is to listen."
A low rumble interrupted them—the distinct purr of a high-performance engine. Sonia glanced toward the veranda. "That'll be Q's team. Let's meet them."
Outside, the Vanguard X-9 gleamed under the morning sun, its doors sliding upward like the wings of a raptor. Four pairs of legs emerged, boots hitting the pavement with purpose. Q led the way, his stride confident, eyes scanning the perimeter. W followed, her posture alert, while D moved with a languid grace, lighting another cigarette. L, trailing behind, tripped over a loose cobblestone, cursing under his breath as he caught himself. The reporters, penned behind barricades, craned their necks, cameras flashing, but S.I.L.O.'s presence was a shadow—unseen, untouchable.
The team ascended the stone stairs to the veranda. The building's facade, weathered by decades of monsoon rains, seemed to sag under the weight of the tragedy within. Yellow tape fluttered at the entrance, a tech brushing past with a biohazard bag. Q's gaze flicked to the windows, noting their locks, then to the doorframe, where a faint scratch caught his eye—a potential clue.
Sonia and Kriti stepped onto the veranda, the pathologist's expression unreadable. Kriti, still green, clutched her notepad like a lifeline. "Q," Sonia greeted, her voice crisp. "You're just in time. The scene's fresh, but it's a mess. I hope you're ready for what's inside."
Q nodded, his face a mask of calm. "Let's see what this bastard left us."
L snorted, muttering, "Hope you don't faint, princess." W shot him a glare, but Q ignored the jab, his focus locked on the task. D exhaled a plume of smoke, smirking faintly, while W adjusted her comms earpiece, ready to coordinate with the techs.
The team crossed the threshold, the air shifting from humid warmth to the cold sterility of death. The bathroom loomed ahead, its doorway framed by yellow tape like a portal to hell. Chakraborty's body waited, a silent challenge to Q's resolve. But Q and his team were one of S.I.L.O.'s sharpest blades, and they were ready to carve the truth from this carnage, one clue at a time.
The air inside the bathroom, where the novelist's body lay in its grotesque tableau. Q led his team across the threshold, his polished shoes silent on the blood-streaked tiles. W's eyes flicked to the forensic techs, D moved with predatory precision, and L shuffled lazily, his half-hearted glance at the scene betraying his disinterest. Dr. Sonia and her intern, Kriti, stood near the bathtub, their silhouettes stark against the flickering UV lights of the forensic scanners.
"Q ", Sonia began, her voice cutting through the hum of forensic equipment. "I was just briefing Kriti. The cuts on the fingers are surgical—likely a microtome blade, no hesitation. The victim was alive during the mutilation, based on arterial spray. The head's position against the tap suggests post-mortem manipulation, and there's a contusion on the neck indicating restraint. The fingers by the typewriter are a deliberate statement, mocking his craft."
Q nodded, his gaze sweeping the scene. "Good work, Doc." He turned to Kriti, offering a warm smile that softened his sharp edges. "You must be Kriti. First time at a scene like this?"
Kriti blushed, her eyes widening at his charm. "Y-yes, Sir. It's… a lot." Her voice wavered, but she met his gaze, emboldened by his attention.
"I heard you've been holding up despite the shock," Q said, his tone gentle but teasing. "Not everyone can stomach this. You're doing better than most." He stepped closer, noticing her flushed cheeks. "You okay now?"
Kriti tucked a stray hair behind her ear, flustered. "I… I threw up earlier," she admitted, then cringed. "God, that sounds pathetic."
Q chuckled, a low, warm sound that seemed to lighten the grim room. He reached out, tapping her forehead lightly with two fingers, his touch playful yet reassuring. "Not pathetic. You're here, taking notes, standing your ground. That's what counts." He twirled a lock of her hair briefly before stepping back, his smile lingering. "Keep it up, Kriti. We need sharp minds like yours."
Kriti's face lit up, her earlier nausea forgotten. She clutched her notepad tighter, Q's charisma etching him into her memory—a blend of steel and charm she'd never forget.
W, standing near a tech operating a 3d laser scanner, glanced at Kriti and smirked. "Don't let Q's smooth talk distract you," she said, her tone playful. "He's got a knack for making everyone feel special." She leaned closer, lowering her voice. "So, you're the new forensic prodigy, huh? Heard you've got a gift for reading people."
Kriti nodded, gaining confidence. "In forensic school, I was good at profiling—describing traits, behaviours, even from minimal evidence. It's why S.I.L.O. scouted me. Like, Q's presence dominated the room. At 6'1", he was lean yet muscular, with sharp cheekbones and piercing hazel eyes that seemed to dissect everything they touched. His jet-black hair was swept back, a single rogue strand falling over his forehead, and his tailored black shirt and white tie gave him an air of effortless elegance. His movements were precise, almost feline, exuding a quiet intensity that made him unforgettable—a man who could charm a room or dismantle a conspiracy with equal ease."
"Hmm... But you can be aware of such facts before, by just asking Sonia. So, now you have to note my characteristics." W scoffed, crossing her arms.
"Fine, I understand," said Kriti, nodding her head, "W, you are compact and athletic at 5'5", with a restless energy. Your auburn hair is cropped short, and your green eyes flick constantly, taking in the techs' equipment with a technician's hunger. Your tactical vest bristled with gadgets, and your fingers twitched as if itching to recalibrate a scanner."
W whistled softly. "Damn, girl. You're gonna fit right in." Her eyes drifted back to the scanner, her tech obsession kicking in. "This thing's misaligned. Bet I could boost its resolution by 20%." She waved the tech over, diving into a discussion about calibration.
D, meanwhile, crouched near the typewriter, his cigarette dangling as he studied the fingers with unnerving focus. His sharp eyes caught a faint smudge on the desk—a partial print, missed by the initial sweep. "Sonia," he called, his voice low and smooth, a flirtatious edge creeping in. "You missed something. Care to take a look, or are you too busy playing professor?"
Sonia shot him a dry look, but a faint smile betrayed her amusement. "Keep your eyes on the evidence, D, not on me." She joined him, their banter crackling as she examined the smudge. "Good catch. It could be transferred from the killer's glove. We'll run it through the mass spec."
D grinned, leaning closer. "Always happy to impress you, Doc."
L, slouched against a wall, halfheartedly dusted a doorknob, his brushwork sloppy. "This is a waste of time," he muttered. The place is clean. Killer's too smart for us." His laziness drew a glare from W, who shook her head but said nothing.
Q knelt by the bathtub, his hazel eyes tracing every detail of Chakraborty's body. The blood had congealed into a viscous pool, the stumps raw and precise. The head, pressed against the tap, nagged at him—a detail from the folder that felt off. He leaned closer, noting the scalp's abrasion, the unnatural angle. "Sonia," he called, his voice sharp. "Help me turn him."
Sonia joined him, and together they gently shifted the body, the water sloshing. As the head lifted, Q's breath caught. The tap wasn't just pressing into the scalp—it was engraved into it, the metal embedded as if the head had been deliberately positioned, like a skull trophy mounted on a stand. "What the hell…" Sonia muttered, her clinical mask slipping.
Q's fingers probed the tap, detaching it with a soft click. The head lolled forward, revealing a gaping wound at the base of the skull. His eyes narrowed as he peered inside, a glint of something unnatural catching the light—something embedded deep within the cranium. His heart raced, but he kept his voice steady. "Sonia, get me a scope. Now."
The room stilled, all eyes on Q. What had he seen inside the head? The answer hung in the air, a chilling promise of secrets yet to be uncovered.