⚠️ Content Warning: This chapter contains detailed descriptions of corpses and violence. Reader discretion is advised.

We reached the crime scene swiftly. The taxi wove through Calcutta’s bustling roads like a needle through silk, miraculously avoiding traffic jams that usually strangled the city. Lima sat next to me, silent and grim. Her brows were knitted in concern, her jaw tight. I didn’t prod. Instead, I sat quietly, my forehead resting lightly against the car window, watching the world blur past.

Me (thinking): ‘If Killian went so far as to request reports on every unusual murder, he must suspect foul play in the diplomat’s disappearance. But this new body isn’t his… still, another ritual killing? Are we really dealing with something bigger? Something darker?’

‘And more importantly — why am I always the last to know? Why does someone else always get to decide where I should be? Enough. Deep breath, Amala. You have to look like you belong here — even if you feel like you’re crumbling inside.’

Lima: “Are you ready?”

Me: “Yes.”

Lima: “Good. Just know… it’s not going to be a pretty sight. If you think you can stomach it — let’s go.”

Me: “Let’s go.”

We stepped out into the alley. A wall of tension greeted us — and just beyond that, a wall of yellow do-not-cross tape fluttered like a warning. Uniformed officers milled around, their postures stiff, eyes darting. The air was thick with tension and something far worse — the unmistakable stench of death.

The moment we ducked under the tape, the smell hit me like a slap.

Rotting flesh. Damp earth. Iron.

I instinctively winced, but clenched my jaw, refusing to show weakness.

Lima (quietly): “The smell is strong… but not strong enough.”

Me: “Not strong enough?”

Lima: “This one hasn’t been dead too long. If they had, you’d be retching by now.”

Me: “Very encouraging. Thank you.” 😷

Police officers eyed us warily, as if unsure whether we were supposed to be there. Some whispered to each other, others looked at the body, then quickly turned away.

Lima marched forward, focused. I trailed close behind her.

Just ahead, I spotted our team.

Killian and Mr. Rose stood with their backs to us, their silhouettes rigid. Ratan Vaish stood nearby, speaking calmly to a local officer. He was the only one who didn’t seem ruffled. When his eyes met mine, he offered a polite nod — composed, almost detached, as though murder scenes were part of his morning routine.

Lima: “Let’s go.”

We approached our colleagues. Lima cleared her throat.

Lima (pointedly): “We’re here. Despite everything.”

Mr. Rose turned first — and immediately averted his gaze, guilt flickering in the tight set of his jaw.

Mr. Rose: “Miss Khan. Miss Berg. You’re here.”

Lima (coldly): “Yes. Against your decision.”

Then… Killian turned.

His eyes — sharp, stormy gray — locked onto mine. A current ran between us. ⚡
A silent exchange.
He knew I was angry.
I knew he regretted it.

Killian: “Amala…”

Me: “Captain Lightwood.”

The air between us cracked with things unsaid.

His expression softened just enough. He knew what I was about to say.

Killian (low, firm): “Not now. Not here. We’ll talk later.”

And just like that, the professional mask slipped back over his face — all steel and focus. But the way his eyes lingered on mine said everything I needed to know:
He did regret leaving me behind.
And he wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

The moment was heavy. I straightened up, masking the tangle of feelings with a calm, neutral expression.

Me: Alright. As you say. This isn’t the place for arguments. Let’s stay focused.

Killian’s gaze softened just a little — a rare glimpse of silent respect.

Killian: That’s exactly what I needed to hear. Let’s begin.

🎬 The air shifted. The scene ahead was like something from a fevered dream—unreal, yet heartbreakingly tangible. A local investigator, face pale as parchment, backed away with his camera slung over his shoulder. Only then did the full picture reveal itself.

What lay there was not just a tragedy, but a puzzle soaked in shadows.
A man — once alive, breathing, laughing — now slumped against a wall, stripped of dignity and identity.
His limbs limp, his skin the color of storm clouds, fingers curled as though grasping for one last thread of life. The sight was unsettling enough… but there was something worse.
A vital part of him was missing — the very symbol of identity, thought, voice.

Me (thinking): “This wasn’t just a killing… it was a message carved in cruelty.”

The air was dense, fetid. I fought back a wave of nausea that rose like a tide.

Killian's eyes flicked toward me, quietly checking if I was about to falter.

Me: It’s… grim.
Killian: You’re handling it better than expected.
Me: Don’t worry about me. I can manage.
Killian: Clearly, I underestimated you.

I stepped closer on legs that didn’t feel like mine. My stomach churned. I had no choice but to keep it together — for the team, for myself.

Me (thinking): “No time for weakness. Just observe. Just think.”

Lima: Sure you’re up for this?
Me: Yes. I need to see.
Lima: Even pros flinch at sights like this, Amala.

I took a breath and looked.

Me: There’s more to this than just… the obvious. Look at the details.

Killian: Indeed. The absence speaks louder than presence.

Mr. Rose: Agreed. Not a common method. Not spontaneous.

Killian: This took time. A cold, deliberate act. And for what? A message? A ritual?

Lima: The rest of the body is intact. That tells us the purpose wasn’t concealment.

Me: If this was ceremonial, then the... omission must hold meaning.

Mr. Rose: Almost certainly.

A quiet voice drifted into the conversation — Ratan, our guide, had stepped near without a sound.

Ratan: In certain traditions, removal signifies transformation — or sacrifice. It can represent the release of ego, or… darker forces at play.

I found it hard to focus. So many words, so many theories… yet the reality was lying right in front of me. Unseen. Silent. Cold.

Ratan (softly): Are you okay, Miss Khan?

Me: Yes. I’m not the only woman here, after all.

Lima: True, but I’ve dealt with many more… encounters like this.

I pressed my lips together.

Me: What kind of monster would do something like this? This person had a life. Someone must have loved him.

My thoughts spun — empathy clashing with logic, sorrow smudging out objectivity.

Me (thinking): “Focus, Amala. Focus. You’re not just a bystander. You're here to uncover the truth.”

Killian: What disturbs me most? There’s no blood. Almost none left.

Lima (frowning): That can happen when there's... well, separation. But there’s more. Look at the wall.

She pointed. My eyes followed.

There it was.
🌓☀️ A strange symbol drawn in what looked like a brownish smear — a circle with a dot, enclosing a crescent moon.

Mr. Rose: Do you recognize it, Miss Khan?

Me: Yes. The sun is the circle with the dot — it symbolizes energy, clarity, power. The crescent represents the moon — intuition, immortality. Especially revered in Shiva traditions. But this pairing… it’s rare. Symbolically intense.

Mr. Rose: Enough meaning to warrant attention, then.

Me: I’ll dig into it. Something feels off…

Mr. Rose (tight): Regardless, no known connection to the diplomat. For now, we treat it separately.

He stepped away, clearly overwhelmed. The space felt heavier with every minute — as if the very walls were breathing dread.

Me (turning to Ratan): Do we know anything about the victim?

Ratan: Yes. He was Vaishya — a merchant. Well-respected. A gentle man. From a family of traders.

Me (shocked): That’s… unexpected.

Ratan (hands me ID): Police identified him quickly. You may want to see this.

I took the ID and stopped cold.

Me: I know him.

Memory (echoes):
Amir (cheerfully): “Any stone would shine brighter on such a beautiful lady!”

Killian (glancing at photo): Yes… the vendor from the bazaar.

Lima (softly): That’s terrible.

Me: This wasn’t just a random act. It’s targeted. You don’t just attack someone from a respected merchant family and expect no consequences.

Mr. Rose: Let’s leave. There’s nothing more to see here.

As we started to move, hushed voices reached my ears from around the corner. Low, anxious tones.

Officer (hushed): …I’m taking my family away. I won’t let what happened last time repeat. If we survive, that is…

Me (thinking): “Last time…? What is he talking about?”

I edged closer.

Another voice (sharply): Lakshman, don’t speak of it. Don’t stir fear.
Lakshman: This isn’t the first. We all know it.

Me (internally): “Not the first? There have been more?”

One officer walked off in haste. The one called Lakshman remained — still, tense, visibly shaken.

Me (quietly): Excuse me… Lakshman, right?

He turned, clearly surprised.

Lakshman: Yes…?

Me (internally): ‘How do I get him to talk?’

I took out the temporary clearance I had flashed at the police barrier earlier. The officer looked down at it — eyes briefly pausing on my photo.

Me: My name is Amala Khan. I’m with the special task force from the British Embassy. You've been asked to cooperate with us, right? I’d like to talk about this case.

I wasn’t planning to use any tricks. Just calm, direct words. After all, this was someone I’d probably never see again.

Lakshman: Ah… you’re one of them. I see. Looking for your missing colleague, then?

Me: Yes. And I think something strange is happening here. But no one else seems to want to talk about it.

Lakshman: Because no one wants to. It’s easier that way. And safer.
He hesitated.
I don’t know if I should even be speaking to you. I can honestly say — I don’t know much. Only bits. Guesses.

Me: If something awful is brewing, it’s better to face it head-on than bury our heads in the sand.

Lakshman rubbed the back of his neck and looked away for a moment, as if weighing his soul.

Lakshman: There are… theories. And some of them are worse than others.

Me (internally): “He’s dodging again. Maybe if I push just a little—”

Me: But this isn’t the first body… is it?

His eyes flicked up, a glimmer of interest behind the veil of weariness.

Lakshman: So, you have heard… That explains the questions. But I don’t remember seeing you at the earlier scenes.

Me (internally): “So it’s true. Amir… was not the only one.”

Lakshman: The count isn’t clear. Some say five, some say seven. Others deny it all — claim this is the first.

Me: Why the confusion?

Lakshman: Because we’re not used to this kind of horror. Most murders here are personal — petty, tragic, but explainable. Debt. Betrayal. Greed. This…? This feels ancient.

He glanced toward the alley, where the desecrated body still lay — like a warning carved in flesh. People walked around it, as if proximity might curse them.

Lakshman (quietly): We’ve never dealt with multiple… ritual killings.

Me (internally): “Multiple.” That word echoed like thunder in a silent church.

A voice shouted his name. He waved vaguely and turned back to me.

Lakshman: Be careful, Miss. Better yet… stay away from all this.

And with that, he vanished into the crowd of uniforms and whispers.

I watched him leave, the heat prickling at my skin, confusion swirling in my mind like a rising dust storm.

Me (internally): “Every answer births more questions. It’s like running through a fog.”

Just then, a familiar voice cut through the haze.

Lima: Amala? Why are you still here?

She’d come back for me.

Me: Yes, I’m coming…

We left the suffocating alley and stepped out into the blazing sunlight. 🌞
It was lunchtime. The air shimmered with heat, but it was still better than the stale rot that clung to our clothes back there.

Mr. Rose: You’re dismissed for now. We’ll return to investigate the diplomat’s last known locations later. Hopefully the locals will share more than the hotel staff did.

He didn’t even say goodbye — just jumped into the nearest rickshaw 🚲 and rode off into the chaos of the streets.

Me (thinking): “I can’t believe he didn’t tell us about the previous murders. This changes everything.”

Lima (flatly): Rose is being Rose.

Killian (grim): It’s hard to be in good spirits when you start your day with decapitation. He wanted this done fast — so did I. But fate clearly had other plans.

Me: This case is going to be far longer and more complex than we thought. Something dark is at play here in Calcutta. And I’m starting to think the diplomat is tangled right at its centre.

Killian: That’s… an interesting theory. And optimistic, even.

Me: I’m learning from you, Captain Lightwood. 😏

Me (internally): “I’ll share what I found with the others… later. Right now, I need to organize my thoughts. They’ve seen enough horror for one day.”

Ratan (stepping in gently): If I may… perhaps it’s time to take a breather. You’ve all seen too much. India can wait a moment. You need to rest, clear your minds. There’s much to explore in Kolkata. Walk. Breathe. Live a little.

Lima (sighing): After that, it’s hard to think about relaxing.

Ratan: Which is exactly why you should.

Killian stretched his arms, rolling his shoulders like a lion shrugging off tension.

Killian: I agree.

Ratan (smiling): Then visit the Victoria Memorial. It’s breathtaking. And nearby, there’s a sari shop the ladies might enjoy.

Me: Sounds lovely. Apart from the market and a few narrow streets, I haven’t seen much of Calcutta. And the Victoria Memorial is on every postcard for a reason.

Me (internally): “Maybe I should ask someone to join me for a walk? …No. Not today. I need solitude like the earth needs rain.”

Me: That’s a great idea. I’ve been craving a walk to clear my head. 🌬️

Killian (concerned): You’re going by yourself?

Me: Yes. I just need some time alone, that’s all.

Killian: It’s not safe. May I escort you?

Me (shaking my head gently): No, thank you. It’s all right.

Killian (stern): Then at least let someone else go with you. Don’t go alone, Amala.

Me (gently but firmly): Captain Lightwood, I’ll be in a crowded, public area. I’m taking a taxi. Nothing’s going to happen.

Killian exhaled, clearly not convinced. He looked like he was biting down on ten different worries.

Killian: I don’t like this.

Me (reassuringly, with a tiny smile): I’ll call you as soon as I’m back. So you don’t have to worry. Deal?

Killian replied, albeit reluctantly.

Killian: Deal.

I said my goodbyes to the others and waved down a yellow taxi. The ride toward the Victoria Memorial was quick, the streets pulsing with the buzz of mid-day Calcutta. 🛺

Ratan’s earlier mention of the nearby sari shop had caught my interest. Lately, I’d found myself gravitating toward saris, as though each fold of fabric whispered something forgotten. Today, I wanted to indulge that voice.

Me (thinking): “The call of my roots cannot be silenced.”
What would Mom say if she saw me now? Draped in silk, walking the streets she swore I’d never set foot on…
Not that I care. She left us. And Grandma—she’s lost in her own world now. There’s nothing stopping me anymore.
So yes, I will buy a sari. I will walk this land as if I belong to it. Because maybe, deep down, I do. 🌸

As I stepped out of the taxi, the city enveloped me. The street buzzed with colour and noise — lively chatter, clinking teacups, the hypnotic aroma of cardamom and street food spices curling through the air like invisible garlands. 🌶️🍵

I walked slowly, drinking it all in — the chaos, the poetry. It was both foreign and deeply familiar, like a song I’d once known by heart.

That’s when it happened.

Bump.

Someone collided with me, jarring me from my thoughts. I stumbled back, startled.

Stranger (in Bengali): I’m so sorry.

I looked up, blinking, and replied instinctively in Hindi.

Me: No, I’m sorry. I was lost in thought.

Stranger (shifting to Hindi): It’s all right…

He looked at me — not just looked, but saw me. His gaze lingered, openly curious.

Stranger (smiling): Meeting a beautiful stranger could never ruin my day. 😌

I gave a polite, cautious smile. The stranger held my gaze for a second longer than necessary, then gave a soft nod.

Stranger: Have a nice day.

He walked away, disappearing into the crowd, but his presence clung to me like a faint perfume.

Me (internally): “What… was that? That strange feeling again. Just like when I first met Ratan. A ripple in time? Déjà vu? It’s like… I’ve been here before.”

I shook it off and continued walking.

Soon, I reached the sari shop Ratan had recommended. It had an inviting, old-world charm — embroidered fabric draped like water over wooden rods, shimmering in gold and jewel tones.

A kind shop assistant welcomed me with a bow and a smile, offering a tray of folded saris.

Me (smiling): I won’t have time for a custom sari, but I’d love to see what’s available in my size.

Shop Assistant: Of course, madam. Let me show you something special…

As he lifted the silks one by one — teal, rose-gold, deep violet — I couldn’t help but smile. Each one was a whisper from the past, a memory I never knew I had. 💫

I picked out a pink sari with stunning golden embroidery and a matching blouse. The pink shimmered like the first flush of dawn, while the gold threads danced under the shop lights like whispered secrets. I paired it with a pink-beaded waist chain that added the perfect finishing touch.

Me (internally): “I don’t wear pink very often… but this one? It’s bright, beautiful — and it feels like me, somehow. I’ll take it.” 💖✨

After paying, I stepped out of the store, the sari carefully packed, and my heart surprisingly light. I had come to love wearing saris — they made me feel graceful, grounded, and unmistakably feminine. Comfortable too. Who said elegance had to come at a price?

That’s when I spotted a lemonade vendor under a large banyan tree. The cart stood like an oasis in the heat.

Me (thinking): “I’m parched… A glass of cold lemonade sounds perfect.” 🥤🌳

I bought a glass and leaned against a low wall, sipping it slowly. The cool drink soothed my throat, and I let my thoughts drift.

Kiran.

I thought of my younger brother, probably at school right now. Or at basketball practice, chasing dreams I used to help him shape. I missed him.

Me (internally): “I wish I could call him and share all this… But finding a landline here? Ha. And with the time difference, he’s probably busy anyway.”

I continued walking, trying to shake off the melancholy. I didn’t want to think about work. Not now. My head was already a pressure cooker of clues, bodies, symbols, and suspicions. For now, I allowed my thoughts to linger in memories of our family shop — the cozy clutter, the smell of old books and sandalwood, and Kiran’s laugh echoing between the shelves.

Eventually, I decided it was time to return.

Back at the house, I found something strange.

It was… empty.

No sign of Sana. No Mrs. Chauhan. The door had been courteously left open — maybe for fresh air or maybe for me. But the silence inside was thick and unusual.

Me (calling out): “Sana? Mrs. Chauhan?”

No answer.

Me (internally): “Oh well… Looks like I’ve got the house to myself.”

I went to the telephone and dialed the hotel to reach Killian Lightwood. I needed to let him know I was back. But truthfully? I also wanted to pick up the conversation we didn’t finish this morning.

He answered after a few rings.

Killian: Miss Khan?

Me: Good evening, Killian. Just letting you know I’m back safe.

Killian: Thanks for letting me know.

Me: Is there anything else you’d like to talk about?

Killian (sighing): I knew you weren’t going to let it go. All right, let’s get this over with.

Me (firmly): You’re being disrespectful. Why do you think you get to decide what’s too much for me to handle? I’m part of the team. I thought we agreed on that.

Killian: Look, I respect you. I just wanted to protect you. You don’t see mutilated bodies every day, Amala.

Me (coldly): No, I don’t. But that doesn’t mean I’ll faint at the sight of one.

Killian: I get why you’re upset. I just hate the idea of you walking into something that’ll haunt you.

Me: I’m free to make my own decisions, Captain.

There was a pause — then, Killian exhaled.

Killian: You’re right. I won’t try to shield you again. You handled yourself well this morning. I shouldn’t have doubted you.

Me: Thank you.

Killian: Let’s not fight over this anymore.

Me (softly): Yes. Getting along is better, isn’t it?

Killian: Much better. And… I’m sorry.

Me: It’s fine. Forget it. Good night.

Killian: Good night, Amala.

I hung up and let out a long sigh. That tension? Finally gone.

Me (internally): “All right. That’s settled. Time to move on to more pressing matters.”

I needed to find a library. Something about this ritual murder disturbed me beyond words. Ritual killings are rarely random — they’re soaked in symbolism, faith, and shadowy intentions. India was a land where the spiritual and the terrifying often walked hand-in-hand. I needed more context.

Me: “Ratan said decapitation is a powerful symbol. There has to be a connection.”

Suddenly — click.

The light in the corridor flickered out. I froze.

Me (internally): “Seriously? Now?”

The shadows thickened instantly.

I remembered what Priyanka once said — that power outages in Calcutta were like unexpected guests. Frequent and never polite. You just had to be prepared.

I stumbled toward the dresser, my hands feeling through the drawers like a blindfolded explorer.

Me (muttering): “Come on, come on…”

The gloom was heavy, like it carried memories of darker places.

Me (triumphant): Yes! Got it! 🕯️

I found a candle, a holder, and a box of matches. I lit it, the little flame flickering to life like a firefly in a cave. The glow spread across the room, bringing a strange calm.

Now armed with light, I went in search of the home library.

Books in India were precious, and a personal library wasn’t just about reading — it was a statement of status. The Chauhans, clearly wealthy and educated, must have one tucked away.

I walked deeper into the quiet house, candle in hand, shadows stretching across the walls like ghosts of old knowledge.

My search didn’t take long. I found the library tucked behind a set of tall wooden doors. Pushing them open, I stepped into a cozy room filled with towering shelves, their shadows dancing in the candlelight like silent sentinels. I placed the candle gently on the floor, its flame casting a golden circle that barely touched the edges of the room.

Me (thinking): “Sun symbol… moon symbol… decapitation… blood drained…” 🌞🌙🩸

I moved slowly, my fingers brushing over dusty spines, the titles barely visible in the low light. I wasn’t even sure what I was searching for — only that I had to keep searching. Symbolism, religion, ritual… Something had to connect the dots.

After skimming through a few irrelevant volumes, I finally found a book that seemed promising. Its leather cover crackled as I opened it, the pages old but sturdy. I began reading, unconsciously aloud, as if speaking the words would help me understand them better.

Me (reading): “The sun is the symbol of power and creation, absolute strength and the beginning of everything. The crescent moon is a symbol of immortality, wisdom, and mind control…”

I paused.

Me (thinking): “I already knew that… but the symbol at the crime scene was different. It wasn’t just sun and moon side by side — the crescent was swallowing the sun.”

I closed the book and sat still, deep in thought. The candle flickered as if reacting to my pulse.

Me (murmuring): “The sun stands for strength. The moon — for wisdom. If the crescent is overtaking the sun… then someone wants to dominate physical power through mental or spiritual supremacy. A total takeover. A new order.”

My breath hitched slightly.

Me (thinking): “Ritual murders are rarely random. They’re acts of devotion — worship of someone… or something. These killings must be offerings. But to whom?”

I got up and began searching again, this time for books on Hinduism. My hands pulled out a worn volume of classical Indian mythology. It had stories of gods and demons, great wars and sacred animals, but nothing remotely close to what I had seen.

Me (thinking): “The Chauhans must believe in something. Everyone here does. But there’s no clue in this library about what denomination they follow. That’s strange.”

My thoughts raced.

Me: “In Bengal, Vaishnavism, Shaivism, and Shaktism are the most prominent… but this doesn’t seem to fit clearly into any of those.”

Just then — a gust of wind, sudden and sharp, blew through the room.

Poof. 🕯️

The candle went out.

Darkness swallowed everything in an instant. The familiar silence of the house was now replaced by a stillness so deep, it almost hummed.

And then — creak…

The floorboards behind me shifted with the unmistakable sound of weight. Not the house settling. Not the wind.

Someone… or something… was behind me. 🕳️👣

My heart leapt to my throat.

Me (thinking): “I’m not alone.” 💥

P.S.

Oh my forbidden firecrackers, my Midnight Masala Muses 🌙✨—

If you made it through this chapter without flinging your book across the room, clutching your imaginary pearls, and texting your secret WhatsApp group a string of wide-eyed emojis… darling, are you even reading? We’re drowning in blood-soaked clues, chased by symbols sassier than a Bollywood villain, and our girl’s got more nerves than a cat at a fireworks factory. Can we talk about the haunted library moment? Because if anxiety burned calories, I’d have an eight-pack by now and Amala would be doing yoga with Durga.

Let’s break it down:

• Closet ghosts? Please, haunt me harder.

• Sari shops and surprise flirts in broad daylight? 🩷 Give me danger and a dazzling waist-chain any day.

• Power failure at the witching hour? That’s not a problem, it’s a plot device, honey.

• That shadow behind you? Don’t walk faster—sashay, hips first.

Honestly, I’m over here fanning myself with a police report and sipping imaginary lemonade just to keep from combusting. If drama were a sari, I’d be wrapped tighter than Priyanka’s judgmental scowl. If murder mysteries were a dating app, I’d super-like every plot twist and swipe left on subtlety.

So, my dazzling troublemakers, hit me with:

• Your most unhinged theory (bonus points if moon cults, cursed jewelry, or a possessed pigeon are involved).

• A witty one-liner you’d drop if someone tried to ritual-sacrifice YOU in a haunted closet.

• Survival hacks: waterproof mascara? Killer comeback lines? Snack that scares away ghosts (besides garlic toast—we’re not savages).

And be honest: are you here for the plot, the supernatural sizzle, or just waiting for our girl to faint into the arms of a shirtless, brooding suspect? (Same, babe. Same. I see you.)

Keep those scandalous riffs coming. Forget plot armor—give me a plot tiara, give me fan theories so wild even Amala would blush, and above all, don’t let the dark win. Not when there’s still so much chaos left to stir.

Drenched in drama, doused in sass, deliciously yours,

The Mistress of Midnight Masala 💃🕯️