The desert night was silent, but for Neel, the chamber was filled with the roaring ghost of the past. The silver locket on the dusty floor was a thunderclap in the quiet of his soul. Maya. Her name echoed in his mind, a name he hadn't allowed himself to think for a decade. She had been his trusted informant, a brilliant researcher who had helped him dig into the lives of the powerful men he suspected. And she had vanished without a trace, dismissed by his superiors as an unreliable source who had simply fled. He knew then that they had taken her. Now, he had proof.
His first instinct was a hot, blinding rage that tightened his grip on his pistol. He wanted to empty the magazine into the darkness, to scream at the ghost who was playing with the pieces of his life. But just as quickly, the cold discipline of his training washed over him, encasing the fire in ice. Rage was a luxury. It was a mistake. And this killer did not forgive mistakes.
Kneeling, he pulled a pair of latex gloves from his coat pocket. He would not disturb the scene. The Jodhpur police would eventually find this, and he couldn't afford to leave a trace of his presence. But the locket was not for them. It was for him.
He carefully picked it up. It was cold to the touch. He opened the small clasp. Inside were the two tiny, faded photographs it was supposed to hold: one of Maya's parents. But there was something else tucked behind them, a tiny, folded piece of paper. His heart hammered against his ribs. Using the tip of a small knife from his pocket, he carefully extracted and unfolded it.
On it were three things written in neat, precise lettering:
A name:Abhijit Singh.A place:The Umaid Bhawan Palace, Jodhpur.A date:September 1, 2025.
Abhijit Singh. The name hit Neel like a physical blow. He was the powerful, untouchable industrialist Neel had suspected of being the Jigsaw Killer ten years ago. A man so influential, so far above reproach, that the mere act of investigating him had been enough to end Neel's career. Umaid Bhawan Palace, the opulent royal residence, was where Singh was currently staying for a high-profile business summit. And the date was two days from now.
This wasn't just a clue. It was an invitation to a confrontation. The killer was telling him the who, the where, and the when. He was daring Neel to stop him.
A cold, terrifying clarity settled over Neel. He couldn't go to the police. A disgraced ex-cop appearing with a wild story about a decade-old serial killer, pointing the finger at one of the most powerful men in the country? They would either laugh him out of the station or arrest him as the primary suspect. He was utterly alone.
He carefully folded the note and placed it and the locket into an evidence bag from his kit. He took one last look at the macabre scene, a perfect, bloody echo of his own failure. He had been a ghost for ten years, haunted by this case. Now, the killer had given him a chance to hunt back.
He slipped out of the fort as silently as he had arrived, the weight of the locket in his pocket heavier than any stone. His mind was already racing, formulating a plan. Abhijit Singh was surrounded by a fortress of security and influence. Neel couldn't get to him alone.
He needed help. He needed someone from his old life. Someone who knew the official channels, who had access to resources he no longer possessed, and who, just maybe, still had a sliver of faith in the disgraced prodigy of the CBI.
He started his motorcycle, the engine a low growl of defiance in the vast desert. He already had a name in mind. It was a desperate gamble, a call to a number he hadn't dialed in a decade. But it was the only move he had left to play.