Vishal and I reached the scene with the rest of the team, Tanish trailing behind us in that same distracted haze he'd worn at the briefing. The studio's glass door was taped off; uniformed officers kept the perimeter tight while forensics moved like a well-rehearsed machine inside. Even from the corridor the smell hit me- a sharp, chemical tang with the copper taste of blood underneath. It made my stomach turn, but my face stayed neutral. You don't let the scene unsettle you. You let it inform you.
We stepped carefully over the threshold, following protocol: gloves, boot covers, masks. They looked overkill until the acid hit my nostrils in a fresh, wet wave. The lead tech pointed out the hazard signs and reminded us to avoid touching anything unnecessary. I nodded, tightened the strap on my mask, and scanned the room.
The first thing that struck me wasn't the victim, it was the floor. Blood smeared across the studio like a dark, jagged map. It led from the doorway to the chair in the center of the room- long, uneven streaks as if someone had been dragged, leaving a path of red behind them. The pattern told a rough story: the victim had not collapsed where he sat. He had been moved, drug through the space, and left tied to that chair while unconscious or already dead. That image tightened something in my chest.
The victim sat slumped on a heavy wooden chair in the middle of the studio. Ropes had been wound around his wrists and tied to the chair legs; the bindings bit into his skin. The chair itself was positioned under a cluster of studio lights, now dimmed by the practical lights for forensic photography. Cameras, light stands, and tripods were pushed aside and tagged with evidence ribbons. A rust-colored smear-like the shadow of a metal object- streaked the floor near the chair and mixed with the trail of blood at the far edge.
"Vishal, look" I said. My voice was low but clear.
He crouched, eyes narrowing. "Looks like something metal was dragged or placed there. A table maybe. Or a bench." He rubbed his jaw; his face had that same tight, focused look he wore when a thread of logic was starting to show itself.
A forensic tech in a latex apron approached and lifted the victim's head with careful, practiced hands. He worked slowly, as if the acid could still bite even through gloves. "This appears to be planned" he said plainly. "This isn't a robbery gone wrong. This is methodical. There are deliberate injuries that suggest intent beyond killing."
"Deliberate how?" I asked.
He turned a gloved hand to show us a precise incision at the base of the neck "Severed vocal cords" he said."Cut in a way that ensures the victim couldn't scream not to kill him."
And a small puncture wound on the neck, just below the hairline. "Looks like a syringe mark. Preliminary tests show traces of Nitazen in the tissue." He tapped the puncture with the pad of his finger. "And the acid is recent. The pattern indicates deliberate application to half the face."
My stomach dropped. Nitazen. The name kept echoing in my head like an unwanted chorus. We'd been told about it at the briefing- an emerging synthetic with lethal potential when abused or used maliciously. Seeing it here, in conjunction with surgically precise damage and acid as a cruel, symbolic finishing move, told me this killer worked with a plan, not panic.
"The vocal cords were cut so the victim wouldn't alert anyone or maybe deeper reason?" the tech added. "This was done by someone who understands anatomy or had time to practice. This isn't random. It's professional and sadistic."
"Possible signature" Vishal said. He spoke in that calm way that masks the quick, chaotic thinking underneath. "Kill, silence, disfigure, leave a mark. It's a message."
We let the tech continue with his work while we split up. Tanish hovered near the doorway, still twitchy from his earlier phone antics. Rhea moved around the perimeter with brisk efficiency, checking labels and note-taking. I walked the room slowly, eyes taking in the small details that most people missed when adrenaline made them chase the big things.
There was a pile of books stacked on a crate in one corner. Most were photo manuals-light, composition, technique-by Scott Kelby, manuals, and a couple of portfolio books. One title didn't belong: The tales of esowon. The spine was worn, the cover dog-eared. It sat odd among glossy camera books, like a foreign object in a neat pattern. I flipped it open and the pages smelled of old paper and dust. It was out of place, and out of place meant it deserved a mention.
The photo wall took the rest of my attention. Frames covered it end to end- portraits, candid shots, film stills, and commercial work. One image stood out: a man in a bright yellow shirt and black cargo pants, chest forward, grin wide, looking like he owned every shutter click in that room. He was too at-ease for a victim shot. He looked like someone who had spent the last years building a brand and was ready for prime time. I pointed.
"Find out who he is" I said to Vishal, pointing at the frame. "And who owns this studio."
Vishal's smile was automatic, half-annoyed and half-amused at my blunt order. "Okay, KayKay" he said, and grinned at his own pun. I almost rolled my eyes but kept my face straight. People liked to make jokes in tense places; humor was a thin shield. He tapped his phone and made a call.
Forensic finished cataloging the body, noted the rust smear, and the syringe mark, and took photographs from multiple angles. The decision was made to move the body to the postmortem lab; they wrapped it with the proper evidence markers. As they wheeled the gurney out, Rhea let out a tiny scream and pointed to the far corner.
"There's a cockroach" she said, voice high. She sounded as if the insect had personally insulted her. I stepped over and saw the dead thing on its back, legs curled. "It's dead, Rhea" I said, dryly, and Vishal chuckled away the tension while shepherding her to the side. Little human moments like that- some incongruous break- kept the room from feeling completely clinical.
Back at headquarters later, tired and covered in the faint smell of chemicals no amount of showering would erase quickly, Vishal came into my cabin and handed me a file. "Mahesh Yadav" he said. "Photographer. Owner of the studio. Not massive, but gaining traction. Was working with actor Yash Chauhan on a new project."
I opened the file, eyes skimming facts while the images in my head arranged themselves into patterns. "So whoever did this knew Mahesh" I said. "Either they wanted him silenced before he rose further, or they wanted the attention that would come from targeting someone on the verge of popularity."
"Possible" Vishal said. The way he said it made me think he'd already started rounding up suspects in his head. "There was another case like this last week, Kunal. Same method- vocal damage, Nitazen traces, and postmortem acid application. But that one was handed to Mr. Verma. He's in hospital now."
"Hospital?" I felt my heart lurch. "What happened?"
"Accident last Sunday. Car hit him on the bypass" Vishal said. His voice was tight. "Not sure of the details yet. But he was the lead on that case."
My mind pinged with connections, loose threads begging to be tied. Two cases, same signature. The lead on the previous one incapacitated by an accident. Coincidence, or someone cleaning house? "Get me everything on Verma's case" I said. "Files, witness statements, lab reports. And dig into Mahesh's recent contacts- who he worked with, who resented him, who knew his schedule. Also check rival studios, recent clients, and local social media chatter. If this is a pattern, we need to see it before the killer decides to escalate."
Vishal nodded and left with a purposeful stride. I sat back in my chair and let my hands curl into fists for a moment, not out of aggression but to feel the tension leave my shoulders. This was my job. This was what I signed up for. And yet, something else throbbed under my skin- an old, ugly knot of anger that had nothing to do with the case and everything to do with the man who now sat in the DIG's office upstairs. The man who had once walked away from my mother and me and now, by some twist of fate, seemed to be part of the same orbit as my work.
I punched the air once, release enough to feel ridiculous and oddly satisfied. "I'll kill him", I muttered into the quiet room- angry words meant for no one. Then I straightened, because threats don't get you evidence, and evidence was what would put the real culprit behind bars.
I picked up the phone and started ticking off calls and orders. There would be autopsy reports to fetch, neighbors to re-interview, security camera footage to pull, and a long list of small tasks that together would make a map of motive and movement. The case had teeth. Now it was time to bite back.