The guest house room was small, stuffy, and blessedly anonymous. It was 1:15 AM on Monday morning. Neel locked the door, wedged a chair under the knob, and pulled the thin curtains shut. Only then did he allow himself to breathe. He had been inside the lion's den and had walked away with its heart.
He laid the two items on the rickety table under the dim yellow light: the folded piece of paper and the small, black USB drive. The spoils of war.
He unfolded the paper first. It was the same watermarked CBI stationery as the original note. On it was a single, cryptic sentence written in the same neat, precise hand:
"The greatest illusion is that mankind has progressed."
It was a quote, a piece of the killer's philosophy. A direct message from Singh's mind to his. But the real prize was the USB drive. In his bag, Neel had a small, battery-powered device with multiple ports—a tool for accessing digital media in the field. He plugged the USB drive into it.
There was no password. The killer wanted his work to be seen.
The drive contained a single folder labeled "Metamorphosis." Inside were a dozen short video files, each named with only a date. The oldest was from over ten years ago. The most recent was from last week.
With a deep, steadying breath, Neel played the first file.
The face of Abhijit Singh filled the small screen. He looked younger, his eyes burning with a fanatical fire. He was not in a palace suite, but a sterile, basement-like room. He was speaking to the camera as if it were a confidant, a disciple.
"Diary entry one," Singh began, his voice the same smooth, charismatic baritone he used in boardrooms. "They call it progress. They build cities, invent technologies, preach laws and morality. But they are merely apes in suits, governed by the same primal fears and desires that have driven them since they first crawled from the mud. I have been chosen to remind them. To strip away the illusion. My work is not murder. It is a form of art. A corrective."
Neel's blood ran cold. He clicked on another file, a more recent one. Singh looked older, more powerful, the same man from the poker game. The background was now opulent, a study lined with books.
"...the subjects are chosen for their symbolism," Singh's voice explained calmly. "The corrupt politician who preaches honesty, the socialite who feigns charity. I don't kill them. I simply help them complete their transformation, revealing the hollow truth they hide. The objects I leave are a lesson for those who can see. A broken clock for their stolen time. A dead bird for their flightless ambition."
He was a philosopher of murder, a monster hiding behind a wall of logic and immense wealth.
Neel played the last file. It was dated just two days ago. It was a video of the man from the fort, the latest victim, tied to the stone throne but still alive, terror in his eyes.
"This one," Singh said with a detached, academic interest, "is a message for an old ghost. The one who almost saw me. The detective. It is time for his lesson to be completed. It is time for him to see that no one is untouchable. Not even the kings of this modern age." Singh smiled, a chilling, joyless expression. "The stage is set at Umaid Bhawan. On September 1st, I will demonstrate my philosophy to the world by taking its most prized symbol of progress and power. A final masterpiece."
Neel switched off the device, the killer's calm, insane voice echoing in the silent room. He finally understood. The note in Maya's locket wasn't just a dare. The new victim wasn't just a message.
It was all a prelude. Abhijit Singh wasn't just planning to confront Neel. He was planning to commit a murder, his "masterpiece," at the Umaid Bhawan Palace during the summit. And the target was likely one of the powerful industrialists or politicians at the poker game.
The race was no longer about exposing a decade-old killer. It was about stopping a brand-new murder, set to happen in less than thirty-six hours.