Outside, the city had not dropped its volume , and Bombay traffic was still loud.
Aaravi stepped out last.
She wore a black cotton kurta, sleeves rolled to her elbows. Grey palazzos brushed her ankles with each step. Her hair was pulled into a low ponytail, already loosening.
Her phone was pressed to her ear.
"Meera, main nikal rahi hoon," she said. ( Meera, I'm leaving from here.)
"Maggi ke packets nikaal dene, aaj maggi khayenge" ( Take out the maggi packets, we'll eat maggi)
Meera laughed. "Tu bas zinda ghar pahunch." ( Just reach home alive)
Aaravi said, stepping off the curb. "Main roz isi time aati hoon."
( I always come home at this time)
She took the shortcut behind the academy.
The road curved away from the main street, narrower. Closed coaching centres had their shutters pulled down with —AIR ranks and smiling faces.
Her sandals scraped softly against the asphalt.
A Mercedes passed behind her.
Headlights washed over the road ahead of her, then dimmed as the car slowed too. Aaravi glanced over her shoulder briefly.
A dark SUV rolled past her, then stopped a little ahead, angled slightly toward the curb.
She kept walking.
"Tu chup kyu ho gayi?" Meera asked on the phone. ( Why are you quiet?)
"Kuch nahi," Aaravi said. "Ek gaadi aayi." ( Nothing, a car just passed by)
The car idled.
She passed it, eyes forward, posture unchanged.
The engine cut.
Her phone buzzed faintly as the call shifted with network interference.
She took three more steps, hurrying her pace, looking back behind her.
Then the rear door opened.
A hand caught her dupatta from behind, yanking it hard. The fabric burned across her throat as she stumbled backwards, her phone slipping from her ear.
"Meera— aahhhhh what the hell!" she started, the word tearing off mid-syllable.
Her back slammed into metal.
Another hand clamped over her mouth.
"Mmmm.Mmph," she struggled to speak under his palm.
Her bag dropped, contents spilling—pens skittering across the road, notebook hitting the ground with a dull slap.
She kicked out blindly, heel connecting with shin. Someone hissed.
"Chup," a voice snapped, low and sharp. "Chilla mat."
She bit down.
The hand jerked back with a curse.
She screamed, " AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH"
As a DGP daughter, though, she did scratch the attacker's arm, as she knew that the DNA under her nails could help her in the future.
Her shoulder struck the doorframe. Hands grabbed her arms, dragged her in. The door slammed shut with bone-rattling force.
Darkness swallowed her.
The engine roared to life.
The SUV surged forward.
Her body rolled across the seat and slammed into the opposite door. Her head struck glass.
She clawed at the handle, which was unfortunately locked.
She kicked, hard, heel pounding metal. The car swerved slightly and corrected.
"Pagal hai kya?" someone barked from the front.
She lunged forward between the seats, fingers grazing the headrest.
A hand fisted in her hair and yanked her back.
"Haath mat laga!" she shouted, voice cracking. "Tum log pagal ho kya?!"
A sharp blow caught her across the face.
Her head snapped sideways, and the taste of blood flooded her mouth.
"Bas," the driver said calmly. "Zyada awaaz nahi."
She spat, red flecking the dark upholstery. "Tum jaante tak nahi main kaun hoon, kya chahiye mujhse!?"
Silence for half a second.
"That's the problem," the voice said. "Hum jaante hain."
One of the men threw a sack around her head, obscuring her vision.
Her chest heaved. Her wrists were seized, forced down against the seat. Plastic bit into her skin.
"Meera," she whispered, then louder, "Meera sun rahi hai tu?!"
Her phone lay somewhere near the door, its screen glowing faintly before a foot crushed it with a sharp crack.
The road noise changed.
Smooth asphalt gave way to rougher ground. The suspension complained. The city sounds faded further—no horns, no vendors, no traffic hum.
Her breathing grew loud in her own ears.
"Kidhar le ja rahe ho?" she demanded.
The SUV turned sharply, tyres crunching over gravel.
In her head, she tried to mark the surroundings around her.
She counted the number of men and voices around her. Noises from the city, acknowledging the man's voices around her.
1...2.. 3...4.. She counted.
" 4 figures".
She intentionally rubbed the blood from her mouth on the car door.
"Waise," she added, voice louder now, pitched to carry, "tum log hamesha aise hi ladkiyon ko uthate ho?" (Do you guys always kidnap girls like this?)
"Matlab," she went on, warming to it, "main sundar toh hoon. Maan leti hoon. Lekin itni bhi nahi ki kidnapping-worthy ho jaaun."
"Chup!" a voice barked.
"Choice ka concept hota hai," she said. "Agar pooch lete na, toh shayad main khud hi mana kar deti. Itni mehnat kyun?"
" Pehle toh ladkiyaan, Swamyamvaar main khud pati chun leti thi"
" Dekho kya din aagaye" she sighed shaking her head.
She shifted closer to the door again, dragging her palm along the lower panel as if steadying herself. Her fingers brushed the earlier smear of blood. She pressed again, slower this time, leaving a wider mark.
"Baith seedhi," someone snapped.
"Relax karo," she said. "Main bhaag thodi rahi hoon. Tumhari gaadi hai, tumhara din."
" Aur aise kidnap hoke, it's giving. Main Character Energy" she remarked.
"Kya bol rahi hai yeh?" a voice muttered. "English bhi daal rahi hai."
She nodded seriously, " Haan padha hain maine, mere dark romance novels main aise hota hai"
A hand reached out, grabbed her arm roughly, yanking her a few inches forward. She let her body go loose with the pull, absorbing it, letting the motion look clumsier than it was.
"Zyada smart mat ban," the man said. "Samajh aaya?"
"Samajh toh aa raha hai," she replied. " Aise karne se toh meri shakal kharab hoyajegi.. Aur jaise aapne kaha... main itni sundar toh hoon,"
" MAINE KAB KAHA YEH" the man grunted.
He released her with a shove.
She slid back, catching herself with one palm against the floor. Her hair slipped further loose, strands falling across her face.
The van swerved again.
"Waise," she added, as if continuing an earlier thought, "tum log ko koi training nahi milti kya? Kidnapping mein coordination bohot important hota hai."
"Bas," someone snapped from the front. "Ek aur shabd boli na—" ( Enough, if you say one more word-)
"Toh?" she cut in smoothly. "Kya karoge? Aur kidnap?" (and? What will you do? More kidnap?)
"Isko chup karao," another voice said. "Dimag kha rahi hai."
" Haan toh aur kya khaati!!!
Mai ghar jaake ache se meri friend ke saath Maagi khane wali thi.. Masala extra, mood acha—"
she threw her head back against the car door with exaggerated frustration.
"—but nahi. Aapko toh mujhe hi uthana tha."
she continued lightly, "meri poori life plan bigaad di tumne. Kal mock test tha. Ab kya likhoongi—excuse for absence: forcibly kidnapped by men with zero professionalism?"
A hand shot out and grabbed her arm, fingers digging hard into muscle.
"Bakwas band kar."
She smiled.
"Grip thodi weak hai," she said helpfully. "Gym nahi jaate kya?"
The van kept going.
And she stayed awake, alert, counting every second as it mattered.
The door opened as cold, dusty air filled in.
Hands grabbed her again, dragging her out. Her feet scraped the ground, sandals catching, one slipping off and left behind.
She twisted, elbowing backwards.
"Abbey Aaaram se, kahi nahi jaa rahi hoon"
Shove sent her stumbling forward. The cloth was torn off her face. And floodlights snapped on.
She squinted, blinking rapidly.
The place resolved around her.
The warehouse's metal walls were streaked with rust. Large sliding doors were half-hanging on their tracks. Broken windows patched with plywood.
Her arms were shoved down. Zip ties tightened further. Her shoulder throbbed.
"Tum logon ka dimaag kharab hai," she said, voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "Galat ladki uthai hai."
A man stepped forward into the light.
He stood a few feet away, hands in his pockets, posture stiff, smirk plastered on his face. His jacket looked expensive, and his shoes were cleanly polished.
He stopped a few feet away.
Her mouth fell open with disappointment.
".Hawwwwww," she gasped loudly, genuinely stunned.
She leaned forward a little, craning her neck, inspecting him like a mohalle wali aunty.
"Yahi hai?" she asked the room at large. "Boss?"
One of the men shifted. "Chup—"
Her eyes traveled slowly to his hair, forehead, nose, mouth—then back up again, like she was double-checking.
"Bhai," she said to Kunal, voice dripping with disbelief, "main na kuch aur expect kar rahi thi."
Kunal's jaw tightened. "Watch your tone."
She burst out laughing.
"NAHI matlab—" she waved a hand helplessly, still staring at him, "—sorry haan, but tumhari shakal toh ekdum..."
She paused, searching.
"...jaise kisi chuhe ne billi ke saath bacha kar ke, khud ko acid main dubki leke.. khud ko dhoop me sukha diya ho, "
aur jaise blender mein daala hua gobhi aur sada hua tamataar ko mix karke nikaala ho.
"What the—" Kunal snapped.
"Arre rukho," she said quickly. "Abhi finish nahi hua."
"Tum kaun ho?" she asked. "Aur tumhe mujhse kya chahiye?"
"Funny," he said. "Bilkul apne baap jaisi tone."
Her breath caught.
"What?"
She laughed suddenly—sharp, incredulous. "ARE YOU A STAKER WTF??"
The smile didn't fade.
"Do you think this is personal??" he asked. "Nahi."
He stopped in front of her.
Close enough now that she could see the faint scar near his jaw.
"This is old," he said. "Tumhari wajah se nahi shuru hua."
Her pulse hammered.
"Rishikesh Patil," he said.
"Mera baap mar chuka hai," she said. "Agar tum kisi galatfahmi mein ho—"
"Uska hisaab baaki tha," he continued evenly.
"Main tumhe nahi jaanti yaar! Chodo mujhe!" she shrieked.
"Par main tumhe jaanta hoon," he said. "Bahut achhe se."
He shared eye contact with the other figures, signalling them out of the room.
The 4 figures stepped out of the room, respectively nodding.
" HAHAHAHAA.. BICHAARE," she laughed as they left.
" Bhej diya tumne tumhaare chamche ko bahaar"
"Has le. Shaadi ke baad waqt kam milega," he said calmly.
Her laughter stilled,
" Shaadi?? What the hell? Yeh kya ekta kapoor serial machaii hai"
"You think this is funny," he said.
"Funny nahi," she said. "Confusing hai. Matlab... tum mujhe uthaa ke laaye, warehouse mein bandh kiya, aur ab achanak shaadi?"
She looked around, "Pandit kahaan hai? Dhol? Mera lehanga? Mandap? mangalsutra?"
He took one step closer.
Her back touched cold metal. She felt the grit of the pillar against her back. Her fingers slid back instinctively, brushing the surface. She didn't pull away, pressing harder.
"You talk a lot," he said.
Kunal exhaled through his nose, a short breath. He reached up and loosened his collar, slow, precise.
"Tumhara naam Aaravi Patil hai," he said. "Tum Neptune IAS Academy mein padhti ho. College main padhti ho.
Phone pe tumhari friend hoti hai—Meera. Roz same route. Same jokes."
Her jaw tightened.
He continued, unhurried. "Monday ko tum navy kurta pehenti ho. Tuesday ko white. Wednesday ko woh green one"
Her eyes flicked left, then back to him.
"Okay," she said, voice lighter than her chest felt. "So you're a creep with a perfect schedule, jeez."
"You know what happens next," he said.
His eyes hardened.
"Tum meri biwi banogi," he said. "Legal. Proper. Paperwork ke saath."
She stared at him.
"Tum paagal ho gaye ho," she shrieked."
She pushed off the pillar, taking a step forward despite herself.
"Meri shaadi ka proposal aise aata hai?" she went on. "Kidnapping? Warehouse? Four idiots with no coordination or training in kidnapping?"
She gestured toward the door. "Honestly, zero effort."
He grabbed her wrist mid-gesture.
"Haath chhodo," she spat in his face.
"You don't get to give orders here," he said.
Her other hand curled, nails biting into her palm. She felt one nail catch, bend, then snap with a small, sharp sting.
Blood welled slowly. She twisted her hand again, smearing it faintly across his knuckles before he noticed.
"Tumhe lagta hai shaadi se sab theek ho jaata hai?" she asked. "Crime erase ho jaata hai? Log chup ho jaate hain?"
He released her wrist abruptly, as if the contact itself had annoyed him. She let her arm drop, flexed her fingers once.
"Log chup ho jaate hain," he said. "System chup ho jaata hai."
She tilted her head. "Tum kaunse system ki baat kar rahe ho?"
"The one tumhare baap ne use kiya tha," he said.
"My father is dead," she said.
"Yes," he replied. "Aur phir bhi uska kaam zinda hai."
"So this is revenge?" she asked. "Bro, try therapy"
"This is closure," he said. "Tumhara aur mera."
She laughed once more, breathless this time.
"Tumhe lagta hai main shaadi kar lungi?" she said. "Aise?"
"You will," he said.
She shifted her weight, eyes sharp again. "Tabhi toh pooch rahi hoon. Shaadi kyun?"
He didn't answer immediately.
"I NEED YOU" he said. "Isliye."
She snorted. "Aww. Romantic."
"Legal zarurat," he corrected.
Her smile slipped.
"You know what your father did," he went on. "Tumhe bas details nahi pata."
"My father was a police officer," she said. "Tum jaise logon ko pakadna uska kaam tha."
"Yes," he said evenly. "Aur usne mujhe pakda."
"Case tha," he continued. "Media. FIR. Charges. Sexual Assault case. Attempt. Gang. Sab kuch."
His mouth tightened slightly. "Naam. Photo. Family."
"He knew who my father was," Kunal said. "He knew kaun kaun khada hai mere peeche. Phir bhi."
He took a step closer.
"He made sure I was arrested. scandalously"
Her voice came quieter now. "Aur phir?"
"Phir system ne kaam kiya," he said. "Jaise hamesha karta hai."
She exhaled once, slowly. "So you got out."
"I did," he said. "Bail. Delay. Witness hesitation. Statements 'reconsidered.'"
His eyes stayed on her face, watching the flickers there.
"But kuch cheezein reh jaati hain," he added. "Records. Files. Court mein pending cheezein."
"Wife," he continued, "is a compromise. Settlement. Private matter."
He looked at her like he was explaining arithmetic.
"Once you're mine, the case becomes history. Moral outrage loses weight. Courts soften. Media shuts up."
Her mouth went dry.
"And tumhare liye?" she asked.
"For me," he said, "it's insulation."
"You're my closure," he said. "Tumhara baap mujhe jo bana ke gaya—tum usko undo karogi."
Her chest rose, fell.
"You could've done this any other way," she said.
He nodded once. "Shaadi is the only way that lasts."
She stared at him.
Then, softly, "Aur agar main mana kar doon?"
His gaze hardened, the last trace of restraint draining out.
"Tumhara naam," he said, "court files mein rahega phir. Headlines mein. Tumhare career ke saath."
"Tumhare baap ka naam bhi. Dobara. Alag context mein."
Her jaw clenched.
"System ko use karna," he added, "tumhare ghar ka hi skill hai. Main bas seekh raha hoon."
She stepped back instinctively, heel scraping concrete.
"Yes," he said.
"Tumne galat ladki uthayi ," she said.
His expression didn't change.
"Lock her," he said, without raising his voice.
The door opened behind her.
As hands closed in, she leaned forward just enough to murmur, low and clear—
"Tumhe lagta hai shaadi mujhe bandh degi," she said. "Mujhe toh bas waqt chahiye."
They dragged her toward the back room.
The warehouse fell quiet again.
Kunal stood where he was, staring at the mark she'd left behind.
Her phone flashed through her mind. Meera's voice. The unfinished sentence. The joke she hadn't delivered yet.
"Tumhe lagta hai koi dhundega nahi?" she said.
"Dhundhenge," he agreed. "Par tab tak kaafi kuch ho chuka hoga."
She wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand, leaving a faint red smear on her sleeve. Her eyes flicked again—pillar, door, bulb, floor. She counted breaths. Steps.
"You're making a big mistake," she said.
"Tumhare baap ne bhi yahi kaha tha," he replied.
Meanwhile, inside their apartment, Meera stared at the cut phone. She had heard parts of it, Aaravi screaming, the clanging of metal and the abrupt cut phone.
The clock read 12: 30 AM, and Aaravi's location was nowhere to be found.
The phone remained pressed to her ear long after the line had dissolved into that empty mechanical hum, long after the last vibration of Aaravi's voice had faded into nothing, long after that metallic sound.
She was standing by the kitchen counter.
The stove was still on low. The Maggi noodles were half-cooked in the saucepan, steam rising in thin ghostly spirals toward the exhaust fan. She could smell the masala, sharp and comforting, absurdly normal.
She pulled the phone away slowly, as if sudden movement might shatter something fragile in the air around her. The screen glowed up at her face.
Call ended.
For a moment, she simply stared at those two words.
Her thumb moved instantly to redial.
The phone rang.
Each ring struck her chest like a knock from the inside.
Then the ringing stopped and the automated voice replaced it.
"Apne jiss vyakti ko call kiya hai, woh abhi network kshetra se baahar hain""
(" The number you are trying to reach is currently unreachable.")
Her breath shortened.
She tried again.
Unreachable.
"Pick up," she whispered, though there was no one there to hear her. "Aaravi, don't be stupid yaar, pick up."
Meera's mind replayed it.
The laugh in Aaravi's voice just seconds before, her casual banter, the slight irritation about traffic.
The sharp screech, voices, metallic crash.
A muffled sound that could have been the phone falling.
Meera's gaze drifted to the microwave clock.
12:32 AM
Plenty of people were still out. Mumbai did not sleep. Roads did not empty.
The thought should have calmed her.
Because Aaravi was not just anyone.
Aaravi was the former DGP's daughter.
Even after retirement, that surname did not fade into anonymity. It carried weight, enemies, history, and political rivals. Criminal grudges. Old resentments that did not die just because someone stepped down from office.
Her thumb moved to the app almost on its own.
Live location, as the 2 had always forced each to have.
The screen loaded, the small circular icon spinning.
Then the map opened.
A small blue dot pulsed near Neptune IAS Academy.
Meera exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
See? She's probably just stuck—network glitch.
The dot flickered.
Then it began to move.
Toward the industrial area.
The old mills.
Meera stared. This was not even remotely the way home.
Her fingers zoomed into the map. The streets became clearer. Dim. Poorly lit. Sparse.
Why would she turn there?
Traffic diversion? A shortcut?
Aaravi did not take shortcuts through industrial backroads at night.
"Okay," Meera said to herself, forcing her voice to steady. "Okay. Think."
The phone might have fallen.
The blue dot moved again faster this time. Then jerked sideways.
Meera's heart began to pound in a way that made it difficult to hear her own thoughts.
Her ears began ringing, and her breathing grew shallower.
Her palms had grown damp. She wiped them against her kurti without realizing she was doing it.
Her gaze drifted toward the front door.
Keys hung on the hook beside it.
Just go.
Go there.
See for yourself.
Her feet moved before her brain fully caught up. She walked to the door, fingers trembling as she grabbed the keys.
If she called the police, what would she even say?
"My friend's live location looks strange."
They would ask questions.
If anything turned out to be serious and her name got linked to the former DGP's daughter reporting something late at night—
It would not stay small.
She remembered being sixteen, sitting at their dining table while her father had spoken in that calm, firm voice he used only when he meant every syllable.
If something feels wrong, you don't wait to confirm it.
You act.
You do not sit and debate with your fear.
Her fingers tightened around the keys.
"I'm not overreacting," she whispered.
She turned off the stove with a sharp twist of the knob.
"You are not panicking," she told herself firmly. "You are assessing."
She walked to the window and pushed the curtain aside. The city lights blinked back at her, indifferent.
How was everything still normal?
How was the world not aware that something had tilted?
Her gaze returned to the phone.
She imagined Aaravi's stubborn face.
The way she would roll her eyes and say, "Relax, Meera. I can handle myself."
Aaravi had grown up around security detail, political meetings, and police briefings. She knew protocols. She knew how to assess danger and she was street smart.
She shoved her feet into the nearest pair of sandals without sitting down, almost losing balance in her rush. She didn't bother turning off the kitchen light. She didn't look back at the half-cooked Maggi.
Her heart was hammering so violently now that her vision felt slightly blurred at the edges.
She would never forgive herself for sitting in a kitchen at 12:37 AM, debating logic while something irreversible unfolded miles away.
Her hand hovered on the doorknob for half a second, and she opened the door.
By the time her car swerved into the compound of the Mumbai Crime Branch headquarters, the city had shifted into that strange late-night rhythm where traffic thinned yet urgency seemed to concentrate in the air itself.
The sentry at the outer gate stepped forward immediately, palm raised, posture rigid beneath the floodlights that bleached the concrete façade of the building into something severe and official.
"Madam, rukhiye. Entry?"
She lowered the window, breath uneven.
"Emergency hai. Crime Branch se milna hai. Abhi. It's urgent."
"Complaint hai toh local police station—"
"It's about Aaravi Patil," she said, the name landing between them like a credential and a warning.
"Kaunsi Aaravi Patil?"
" Former DGP, Rishikesh Patil ki beti."
The constable's stance adjusted.
"Gaadi side mein park kijiye. Entry register mein sign kijiye."
She parked crookedly, door already half-open before the engine fully died.
Inside, the building held the layered scent of paper, ink, stale air-conditioning, and old files tied with red tape. Two constables worked at metal desks under fluorescent lights that flattened faces and sharpened fatigue.
She approached the duty counter.
"I need to report a possible abduction," she said, voice controlled only by force. "She was walking from Neptune IAS Academy. We were on call. The line cut mid-scream."
The duty officer looked up, pen already in hand. "Name?"
"Meera Shergill."
"Victim?"
"Aaravi Patil."
He wrote.
"Age?"
"Twenty-one."
"Relation?"
"Best friend."
"Last contact time?"
"Approximately 11:48 PM."
"Location?"
"Behind Neptune IAS Academy, shortcut road toward the rickshaw stand."
"She was walking," Meera snapped, catching herself a second later. "She was going to catch a rickshaw."
"Live location?"
"Yes." She thrust her phone forward, fingers shaking as she opened the map. "It moved. It stopped near the old mill warehouses."
The blue dot rested in the industrial belt that skirted the abandoned mills.
He straightened slightly. "Inspector Kulkarni ko bulao."
Within minutes Inspector Kulkarni entered the reception hall, sleeves rolled, expression alert despite the hour. His eyes went first to Meera's face, then to the name on the complaint sheet.
"Aaravi Patil," he repeated carefully. "Former DGP Rishikesh Patil ki daughter?"
"Yes."
Procedure shifted in that instant.
"Madam, calmly batayein. Exact kya suna aapne."
Meera forced air into her lungs. "She said she was leaving. She was laughing. Then I heard footsteps change pace. She said 'ek gaadi aayi'... then fabric sound, like something being pulled. Then she screamed my name. Then... struggle sounds. Metallic thud. After that, the line stayed open for a few seconds. I heard male voices. Then it disconnected."
Kulkarni's expression sharpened.
"Background engine sound?"
"Yes."
"Multiple voices?"
"At least three. Maybe more."
He turned immediately. "Control room ko inform karo. Nearest beat mobile dispatch karo to given coordinates. Industrial mill stretch. Possible abduction in progress."
The constable relayed it over wireless.
Kulkarni continued, voice crisp. "Since victim is high-profile, escalation level badhega. Missing complaint register karo immediately. FIR subject to preliminary verification, but treat as cognizable offence."
He looked back at Meera. "Koi prior threat? Political angle? Koi recent incident?"
She shook her head. "Nothing she told me."
Footsteps sounded down the corridor.
ACP Akshay Malhotra stepped into the operations hall, having been alerted that the Patil surname had triggered escalation protocol. He had been upstairs reviewing charge-sheet drafts.
He stopped when he saw her.
"Meera?"
She turned.
Shock registered a split-second after recognition.
"You?" The word fractured under pressure.
His eyes moved quickly — her face, the phone in her hand, Inspector Kulkarni beside her, the complaint sheet on the desk.
"What happened?"
Kulkarni answered. "Sir, Aaravi Patil. Possible abduction. Walking near Neptune IAS Academy. Live location last ping near old mill warehouses. Patrol unit en route."
Akshay's jaw tightened.
"Coordinates," he said.
Meera moved toward him and held out her phone. "She wouldn't take that industrial stretch voluntarily. She was going to catch a rickshaw. She always does."
He zoomed in on the map.
The dot had stopped moving.
"Control room," he called out, voice shifting into command register, "immediate CCTV retrieval. Traffic cameras Neptune junction, rear academy road, and mill entry points. Last forty-five minutes footage secure karo. Kisi ko overwrite karne mat dena."
"Yes, sir."
"Mobile tower dump initiate karo. Victim number and last ten-minute cluster analysis. Cyber cell ko wake-up call do."
"Unit 23 to Control. Location reached. One abandoned mobile phone found broken on road approximately seventy meters from warehouse entrance. No victim in vicinity. Area dark."
Meera's breath left her chest in a sharp, involuntary exhale.
Akshay's voice sharpened. "Phone secure karo. Touch mat karo until forensic arrives. Perimeter seal karo. Backup team dispatch."
"Copy."
He turned back to Kulkarni. "Dog squad alert. Forensic van immediately. Nearby private CCTV seizure authority prepare karo. Local police station coordinate karega outer cordon. Inner cordon Crime Branch handle karega."
"Yes, sir."
Meera's composure began to crack in visible fractures.
"She screamed," she whispered. "She screamed my name."
Akshay's gaze settled on her fully for the first time since entering.
"You came straight here?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Good."
Her eyes flooded without warning.
"I should've done something— I should've—"
"You did the correct thing," he said with the authority of someone who meant it
. "Direct Crime Branch approach saved time. ."
Another wireless burst cut through the room.
"Unit 23 reporting fresh tire marks near warehouse rear gate. Possible SUV tracks. Requesting additional lighting."
Akshay was already moving.
"Kulkarni, I'm going to site."
"Sir, ACP Sharma ko inform kar diya gaya hai. He's on call."
"Inform him I'm taking operational charge until he arrives."
He looked at Meera again.
She stood under fluorescent glare, tears falling openly now, shoulders shaking as the reality of an empty road and a broken phone crystallized.
"She's Rishikesh Patil's daughter," Akshay said quietly.
"This will not stay quiet for long."
Officers moved with escalating speed.
"Meera," he said, lowering his voice. "Statement complete karo. Exact timeline likhwao. Every detail matters. Koi bhi chhoti baat ignore mat karo."
Her fingers clutched her phone like a lifeline.
"Find her," she said, voice raw.
"We will."
He turned sharply toward the exit as another police vehicle roared out of the compound, siren splitting the thickened night air, and inside the headquarters the machinery of a high-priority abduction response had fully engaged — tower triangulation requests transmitted, forensic teams mobilized, patrol grids tightened — all set into motion because a 21-year-old woman named Aaravi Patil had screamed into a phone and the line had gone dead.
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