The rain didn't just fall on Kolkata that night—it attacked.
It slammed against tin roofs like a thousand angry fists, turned every alley into a black mirror, and made the streetlights bleed orange halos across the puddles. Horns blared. Rickshaws splashed through knee-deep water. A lone street dog howled somewhere in the distance, its cry swallowed instantly by the downpour.
Park Street at 10:47 p.m. was pure chaos in every direction. Yet in the middle of it all, one man moved like the storm had nothing to do with him—slow, deliberate, untouched by the panic swirling around.
Abhi Choudhury.
Twenty-four years old. Six-one. Shoulders carved from years of carrying responsibilities no one his age should have to shoulder. Black rain jacket glued to his body, hair plastered to his forehead, sharp jaw clenched against the cold. His eyes—dark, unreadable—scanned every rooftop, every shadow, every face that passed too close. Most people saw a handsome, quiet guy. Only a few knew he was the freelance investigator the Kolkata Police called when the cases got too weird for official records.
He stood under the leaking awning of "Chai & Chill," an old café that smelled of damp wood and yesterday's samosas. The coffee in his paper cup had gone stone cold twenty minutes ago, but he still held it like a shield. His phone buzzed once.
Police group.
"Crescent symbol found on three more doors. Same as last month. No blood. No ransom. Just gone."
Abhi's thumb hovered. He didn't reply. He never replied immediately. But his mind was already running the numbers—three disappearances in seven days, all in North Kolkata, all leaving behind that same crescent scar carved into wood or painted in red. No fingerprints. No CCTV. Nothing.
He exhaled, breath fogging in the cold.
"Enough self-pity, Abhi," he muttered to himself. "Dida will kill you if the rice gets cold again."
He stepped out into the rain.
Every step sent water exploding around his boots. A passing taxi honked; he didn't even flinch. His mind was elsewhere.
Responsibilities too heavy. Dreams pushed aside. People came and went. Trust broke more than it healed.
But Abhi wasn't broken.
He was just… tired.
And yet something in the air tonight felt different. The rain wasn't just rain. It was a warning.
He turned into the narrow lane that led to the old Choudhury house. Yellow walls, green shutters, a banyan tree older than the British Raj leaning over the compound wall like a protective grandfather. The gate creaked as he pushed it open.
Inside the house, the lights were on. Too bright. Too loud.
"ABHIIIIIII!"
The voice hit him like a pressure cooker whistle.
Dida—Nomita Choudhury—stormed out of the kitchen like a general entering the battlefield. Seventy-something (she refused to confirm the exact number), five-feet-nothing of pure chaos wrapped in a bright white saree and a orange shawl. Her silver hair was tied in a tight bun that somehow still managed to look furious. In one hand she held a steel spatula like a sword.
"You useless, good-for-nothing, handsome-for-no-reason boy! I told you five minutes! FIVE! The rice has turned into khichdi and the fish is crying in the bowl!"
Abhi couldn't help it. A tired grin cracked across his face.
"Dida, I was literally two lanes away—"
"Two lanes away is two lanes too far when your Dida is cooking! Look at you—drenched like a street puppy. Go change before you drip all over my clean floor!"
She whacked him on the arm with the spatula. Not hard. Just enough to remind him who ran this house.
Abhi laughed under his breath, the sound low and sarcastic. "If dripping water is a crime, arrest me. But please let me eat first. I'm starving."
Dida's eyes narrowed. She knew that tone. The one he used when something was eating him from inside.
"Arre, don't try that 'cool hero' smile on me, beta. I raised your father. I know when a boy is hiding something. Sit. Eat. And while you eat, you will tell me why your eyes look like you've seen a ghost."
She pushed him toward the dining table where a plate was already waiting—steaming rice, dal, fried fish, alu posto, and a side of green chilies. The smell hit him like a hug. For a second, the rain outside faded. The crescent symbols faded. The weight on his chest lightened.
This was home.
This was the only place the storm couldn't reach.
Or so he thought.
Abhi sat. Took one bite. Then another. Dida watched him like a hawk, arms crossed, foot tapping.
"Spill it," she ordered.
He sighed. "Nothing, Dida. Just… work stuff."
"Work stuff?" She snorted. "You and your 'freelance detective' nonsense. Helping police catch ghosts and shadows. One day they'll drag you into real trouble and I'll have to come rescue you with my rolling pin."
Abhi chuckled. "I'd pay to see that."
She whacked him again with her shawl. "Don't joke. Last week Mrs. Banerjee told me her son saw a man on the rooftop across the lane—painting something red on the parapet. At midnight. Who does that? Only crazy people or—"
Abhi's fork froze halfway to his mouth.
Red. Rooftop. Midnight.
His mind clicked like a loaded chamber.
He kept his face calm, sarcastic smile still in place. "Probably some kid doing graffiti, Dida. Kolkata is full of artists."
But inside, the pieces were sliding together too fast.
The same rooftops he had scanned on his way home.
The same red he had seen in the police messages.
The crescent mark wasn't just a symbol anymore.
It was a signature.
Dida kept talking, waving her hands dramatically. "And don't think I didn't notice you checking your phone every two seconds. If it's a girl, bring her home. If it's danger, tell your Dida. I may be old but I can still scream louder than any siren in this city."
Abhi stood up, ruffled her hair (which earned him another spatula threat), and walked to the window. Rain still hammered the glass. The banyan tree swayed like it was dancing with the storm.
Everything looked normal.
But normal was a lie tonight.
He was about to turn away when he heard it.
A soft clink.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just… metal on concrete. Somewhere outside the compound wall.
Abhi's entire body went still.
He moved like liquid—silent, fast, years of training kicking in. He killed the lights in the hall with one flick. Dida started to protest but he raised a finger to his lips. She went quiet instantly. She might shout at him all day, but when Abhi went into "that mode," even Dida listened.
He stepped onto the veranda, barefoot, rain soaking him again.
There.
On the wet stone just beyond the gate.
A small metal ball.
Stainless steel.
Freshly painted deep red.
Still sticky.
Exactly like the one the police had shown him in photos last week.
Abhi crouched. Picked it up with the edge of his jacket. The weight was perfect. Too perfect.
He turned it slowly.
On the bottom, scratched in tiny letters:
"Let's see how can you catch me. The 'Tom and Jerry' starts now."
His heart didn't race. It went cold.
Because this wasn't random.
This was delivered to his house.
To his Dida's house.
While he was inside eating rice.
The rain kept falling, louder now, like it was laughing.
Abhi stood up slowly, eyes lifting to the rooftops across the lane. Empty. Of course they were empty. Whoever left this was already gone.
But the message was clear.
The game had just walked up to his front door and knocked.
He slipped the red ball into his pocket.
Turned back toward the house.
Dida asked from inside :"what happened Abhi?"
Abhi replied immediately :"everything is okay , Dadi". And he put back the metal ball in his pocket and come back inside.
Outside, the rain intensified.
Somewhere in the city, a custom air launcher was being reloaded.
Somewhere in the city, a crescent mark was being painted on another door.
And the first real target had just been chosen.
Abhi closed the door and leaned his forehead against the wood for one second. The metal ball in his pocket felt heavier than it should.
Dida's voice floated from the kitchen, softer now. "Beta… tea is ready. Come. We'll talk."
He exhaled.
And now he had no idea how that psycho planned to play with him before he caught the master mind but can he really catch the master mind!