Since the last month, a series of brutal murders had shaken the Nashik City.
Bodies were being discovered in different parts of the city—apartments, rented houses, abandoned flats. The victims had no apparent connection. Different professions. Different neighborhoods. Different lives.
Yet the killings shared a signature.
Extreme mutilation.Deliberate arrangement of remains.And one disturbing consistency—the head was always left untouched.
The media had begun calling it the work of a madman.Inside the police department, the name used was different.
The Artist.
Another call.Another tragedy.
The phone rang before dawn, its shrill cry slicing through the stale air of the police station. The kind of ring that didn't ask for attention—it demanded it.
A night-shift constable flinched and reached for the receiver.
"Hello, police station."
The voice on the other end was breathless, panicked—someone who had seen something they would never forget, no matter how hard they tried.
"Sir…what happened??"
the caller whispered...
The constable straightened.
"will you give us details confirmed."
"Victim's name—Mahesh Navale. Twenty-five years old. Profession… doctor."
The pen paused mid-scratch.
"Cause of death?" the constable asked quietly, already bracing himself.
There was silence. Not the empty kind—but the heavy kind. The kind that meant the caller was choosing words carefully, afraid they might fall apart if spoken too quickly.
"Sir…"A swallow."…the head was found hanging from the main door."
The constable's grip tightened around the receiver.
"And the body?" he asked.
Another pause.
"The body…"The caller's voice trembled."…fully butchered. Arranged around the house."
The line went dead.
For a moment, the constable simply stared at the wall opposite him.
Outside the station window, dawn struggled to break through the smog. Two constables leaned against the railing, sipping overly sweet tea, unaware their casual conversation carried inward.
"Oh god," one muttered. "Another one."
The other exhaled slowly. "Another murder by our artist."
The word artist sat uncomfortably in the air—too respectful for something so monstrous.
Inside the station, Inspector Tanish Dahije adjusted his cap and stepped forward.
"Good morning, sir," he said, voice steady. "Inspector Tanish Dahije, reporting. New joinee."
The senior officer didn't look up from the file in his hands. His desk was cluttered with photographs, reports, coffee cups gone cold. Dark circles clung beneath his eyes—proof that sleep had long abandoned him.
"You hear that, Inspector?" the senior officer said flatly. "That call?"
"Yes, sir."
"This is the condition of the serial murder case you're walking into."
Tanish nodded once. "Yes, sir. I'll do my best. I'll find the killer."
A humorless chuckle escaped the senior officer's throat. "Everyone says that."
Tanish didn't respond.
"If you'll excuse me, sir," he said after a moment, "I'll take my leave."
The crime scene smelled like iron and rot.
Tanish stood in the center of Mahesh Navale's apartment, forcing himself not to react. Years of training told him not to show emotion. Years of experience told him emotion would come anyway.
Blood painted the walls in chaotic streaks—some smeared by hands, others flung with force. Furniture lay overturned, drawers ripped open like they had been attacked by claws rather than fingers.
The head hung by its hair from the main door.
The eyes stared forward, unblinking.
"So," Tanish asked, breaking the silence, "what's the condition of the body?"
A forensic officer near the kitchen sink let out a slow, exhausted breath.
"What body, sir?" he replied bitterly. "Either this psycho is a professional… or a wild beast."
Tanish didn't look away.
"There's barely anything left for inspection," the officer continued. "Chest torn open. Organs removed and arranged. Bones snapped with precision. Only the head left unharmed."
Tanish swallowed. "Just like the others?"
"Yes, sir."
"So this confirms it," Tanish said quietly. "Same killer."
"Yes!! No doubt."
Tanish walked slowly through the apartment, stepping carefully around dried blood. His eyes scanned everything—the positioning, the angles, the deliberate symmetry hidden beneath the chaos.
"Any connecting link between the victims?" he asked.
"No, sir. Different professions. Different locations. No personal connections that we can trace."
"Any patterns at all?"
The forensic officer shook his head. "None that make sense."
For a moment, the only sound was the distant hum of traffic outside—a city waking up, unaware of the horror quietly nesting within it.
Tanish stared at the hanging head.
This wasn't rage.
This was intention.
He stepped out of the apartment as the forensics team sealed the door behind him.
The morning sun felt wrong—too warm, too normal. It did nothing to erase the image burned into his mind. The severed head. The deliberate arrangement. The silence that followed violence.
This killer wasn't chaotic.
He was precise.
The drive back to the station was quiet. Too quiet.
Each murder Tanish had reviewed shared the same restraint. No overkill. No panic. No mistakes.
Which meant planning.
Which meant patience.
Back at the police station, Tanish barely had time to remove his cap before he sat at his desk. Files lay open before him—photographs, reports, timelines.
Different professions.Different neighborhoods.Different lives.
Nothing.
Just as frustration began to creep in—
Footsteps thundered down the corridor.
"Sir—!"
A constable came running, breath ragged, papers clutched in his trembling hand.
Tanish looked up sharply. "What is it?"
The constable bent forward, hands on his knees, struggling to catch his breath.
"Sir… we found something."
Tanish stood immediately. "Say it."
The constable swallowed hard. "All the victims… they studied at the same boarding school."
The room went still.
"Same school?" Tanish asked.
"Yes, sir. Same batch."
Tanish stared at the wall for a long moment.
A school.A batch.A past.
Slowly—very slowly—his expression changed.
"So that's it," he murmured.
The constable nodded. "Records are old, sir… but the names match. Every one of them."
Tanish straightened, already issuing orders. "Get me the complete list of students from that batch. Addresses. Occupations. Current status."
"And, sir…?" the constable asked cautiously.
Tanish picked up his coat.
"We call them back," he said."To the place where it all started."
Outside, the station bell rang once.
And somewhere in the city, the killer was already choosing the next name.