⚠️ Warning: This chapter contains dark descriptions of corpses and murder. Proceed with caution.

The air reeked of dampness and rot. Garbage piled in the gutters, fermenting in the humid weight of Calcutta’s morning heat. I wrinkled my nose as we waited for the officers to wave us through the cordon.

Every nerve in my body dragged with exhaustion. The panic that had seized me an hour ago still clung, bleeding the last of my strength. Fear had sunk into my chest ever since the words left Killian’s mouth: Emmet Rose is dead. Brutally murdered.

And now here we were, picking through the aftermath of it, marching straight into the shadows of another crime scene.

Killian had warned me before we left — his tone firm, clipped like he was bracing me for impact: We’re heading into the slums, Amala. You’ll want to change first.

So I had. But no fabric in the world could soften what waited for us up ahead.

I had changed into a deep blue and golden outfit, the kind that demanded dignity even in the most undignified of places. A netted cape flowed from the sleeves, brushing against my arms like armor. But the glamour couldn’t hold off the exhaustion pressing down on me.

Fear had burned itself out. Now I felt only anxiety, and bone-deep fatigue.

Me (thinking, bitterly): Deep down, I knew Amir wouldn’t be the last victim. But Rose…? Him? If he’d taken me seriously, been careful… maybe this wouldn’t have happened. His arrogance cost him his life. And now we’re the ones left to face it.

I clenched my jaw, pulling myself together. Whatever my feelings about him — we still had to see his body.

Killian (stepping up, firm and brisk like a captain addressing his troops): “All sorted. They’re letting us through. Miss Khan, Miss Berg — if you feel sick, tell me right away. It’s not a pretty sight.”

Lima (her voice trembling but laced with defiance): “Captain Lightwood, I appreciate you trying to protect us… but honestly? The worst has already happened.”

Her attempt at bravery trembled at the edges. Her eyes were glassy, her lips pressed together, but she was holding it in. My colleagues looked lost — sadness for Mr. Rose clashing with the raw fear of what his death meant.

Because one thing was clear. If he could be killed, none of us were safe.

Me (hesitating, pushing past the lump in my throat): “Captain Lightwood… have you… seen him yet?”

Killian (grim, his voice carrying the weight of a man who’s done this before): “Yes. I wanted to make sure it really was Emmet Rose.”

Me (grimacing): “But wasn’t he… decapitated? How could you be sure?”

We moved together, heading toward the alley, our footsteps crunching over broken glass and muddy stone.

Killian (calm, factual, but his jaw tight): “I’ve known him for years. He had a scar — right across his chest. Hard to miss. You’ll remember… the corpses are always left naked.”

That image alone sent a sharp chill through me.

Killian: “And besides… he never came back to the hotel last night.”

Me (quietly): “I see…”

Killian (nodding, still cold efficiency): “Local experts will have checked his fingerprints by now, but there’s no doubt.”

I inhaled deeply, bracing my heart against the hammering anxiety before stepping into the alley.

The first figure I spotted was Ratan Vaish. Tall and composed, standing sentinel at the mouth of the crime scene like a silent guardian. His face looked carved from stone: all smooth control, unreadable. But when his eyes found mine, the stone cracked just slightly. He softened, his gaze warming with an almost imperceptible hint of reassurance.

Ratan (bowing his head slightly): “Miss Khan. Miss Berg. Captain Lightwood. You’re here.”

He stepped aside. And the whole dreadful scene was laid bare.

The naked body slumped against the wall like a discarded doll. Skin gray and slack, smeared with mud, streaked with blood. The gaping wound where a head should have been.

And across the chest… a scar. Just as Killian had said.

I pressed my lips together, fighting back the bile creeping up my throat. The stench was suffocating — damp mud, blood already greying, rot clinging to the air. But I forced myself to focus. I was not going to let nausea get in the way of our work.

Me (steady, firm): “Well… let’s take a look at him.”

My expression stayed calm — outwardly professional. Inside? I wanted to gag. 🤢 But not here. Not in front of them.

Killian (frowning, soft but pointed): “Are you sure you’re fine?”

Me (tight, clipped): “Yes.”

He didn’t look convinced, but he let me be.

Meanwhile, Lima crouched closer to the body, her face pale but eyes sharp, determined to mask her horror with analysis.

Lima (quietly, voice trembling yet strong enough): “Everything’s exactly the same as the last cases… Look — the blood-painted symbol, the decapitation… the body stripped and mutilated.”

Killian (grim, frustrated): “I don’t understand. Are the victims tortured first? Why are they all so beaten up?”

Me (shaking my head, lips pursed): “Sacrifices, yes. But this much… this kind of beating? That isn’t normal.”

Lima (turning sharply, her words coming with urgency): “The killer isn’t just performing ritual. He’s mentally sick. You can’t measure his actions against scripture or tradition. He probably twists religion to justify his own want for cruelty. Makes himself believe that… maybe Kali wants this.”

Her voice cracked slightly, like she hated even saying it aloud.

Me (cutting in, fierce): “But that’s nonsense. Kali doesn’t require suffering. Blood and death, yes — but not this kind of prolonged pain.”

Lima (staring down at the corpse, whispering, anger shading her voice): “That’s why I’m telling you — don’t rely on his ‘logic.’ He has none. Whatever Kaula Shaktism he follows, it isn’t the real thing. It’s a perverted version. More violent, obsessed with slaughter, with no ethics at all.”

Me (grim, nodding): “Then we’re not chasing a priest. Or a philosopher. We’re chasing a monster — one who hides his cruelty behind faith.” 🩸

The words hung in the air, heavier than the stench.

Killian stepped back, shoulders tense, pressing the bridge of his nose like the weight of the entire situation was crushing him. His voice held no softness now — just raw exhaustion.

Killian (flat, heavy): “Let’s just… get this inspection done as quickly as we can.”

Me (internally, glancing at Killian): He’s known Rose longer than any of us. Whatever Rose was like, they must’ve shared some bond… Friendly or not, this has to cut him deeper than he lets on.

I softened my tone, stepping closer.

Me (quiet, genuine): “I can see how hard this is for you. I… I’m sorry for your loss, Killian. I’m sorry it turned out this way.”

He didn’t meet my eyes. His jaw tightened, his nod was curt.

Killian (low, clipped): “Thank you.”

And with that, he crouched beside Rose’s slumped corpse, professional mask sliding back over raw grief, forcing himself into work mode.

I swallowed hard, pulling the net cape tighter around me like it could shield me from the stench.

Meanwhile, Lima’s voice broke softly through the heavy silence — reasoning aloud, as if clinging to logic was the only way not to snap.

Lima (pacing, her words trembling but deliberate): “The killer left Rose’s body in the Calcutta slums… I don’t think it was to attract attention. Compare it. The merchant’s body was dumped in a very visible spot — right by the embassy. But Rose… he was connected to the embassy. And this body? Hidden further from the public eye.”

Me (quiet, frowning): “So… intentional. Calculated.”

Lima (nodding firmly, though her voice wavered): “Yes. I’m sure of it.”

Killian (suddenly): “Take a look at this.”

We moved closer, crouching by his side. Killian’s gloved hand gestured to Rose’s half-curled fingers.

The dead hand was stained with dirt, frozen in the clawing spasm of his last agony. But on the skin, seared deep into the palm, was a mark.

A symbol, burned into the flesh.

I hissed softly, the sight tightening my chest.

Killian (flat, grim): “That’s… some kind of symbol.”

I leaned closer, my eyes narrowing as the half-familiar strokes etched themselves into my memory.

Me (murmuring, more to myself than the others): “Hmm… I may be wrong, but I think this is Brahmi script.”

Lima (snapping her gaze to me, eager for sense-making): “Could you… elaborate?”

Me (nodding, keeping my voice steady, though my stomach churned): “It’s one of India’s oldest writing systems. Ancient. Used long before our time. Pre-classical.”

Killian (grim): “So… the killer wanted to leave us a message.”

Me (narrowing my eyes, unsettled): “Maybe. I’m not sure what it means yet. But the question is — why mark Rose when none of the other victims had this?” 🤔

The thought clawed at me — the deliberate choice. The escalation.

My gaze lingered on Rose’s lifeless hand. And then, like some force beyond my control, I felt the strange, dangerous urge to touch it.

Me (internally, heart racing): Why do I feel like if I touched it, I’d understand something? That I could see…

The weight of the symbol seemed to hum against my chest.

When my fingers brushed against Rose’s gray skin, ice shot through my veins. A violent shiver racked me so suddenly that all three of my colleagues stared at me in shock.

At first, I thought it was just disgust. The corpse. The smell. The reality of it.

But then the world warped. My vision blurred like watercolors dissolving on wet parchment — despite the fact that my body hadn’t moved an inch. I was still crouched before him, but my mind was elsewhere.

Me (internally, resigned, tired): This feeling… God, it’s too familiar by now.

And then, a vision swallowed me whole.

The night was suffocatingly humid, the air sticky with Calcutta’s late-summer breath. Not the sweltering scorch of daylight — but cooler, damp… heavy.

Rose walked alone through the alley. His shoes splashed faintly in the muck.

Then — the quick, sharp rhythm of footsteps behind him.

Emmet Rose (jerking around, startled): “…?!”

Before he could speak, hands — many hands — grabbed him out of the shadows. A rough palm clamped his mouth shut. He struggled, muffled sounds strangled in his throat.

Emmet: “Mmmph! Mmm?!”

Fingers crushed around his throat like iron, dragging him into darkness. He lashed out, but there was no chance. No escape.

Unknown Voice (whispering, ritualistic, venomous): “Sinner… sinner. Your very existence is a catalyst for heresy.”

Those words — chilling, absolute — were the last thing Emmet Rose ever heard before the void consumed him.

I gasped as my vision snapped back. My eyes flew open. I was still there, still crouched in the same position with my hand hovering above his. My colleagues hadn’t moved but were watching me, unease written across all their faces.

Killian (concern etched in his voice): “Amala…?”

I blinked rapidly, forcing myself to swallow down the truth.

Me (shaking my head, feigning calm): “I’m fine. I was just… thinking.”

Me (internally, heart pounding): It’s getting harder to cover these up. Harder to brush them away with excuses. But I can’t tell them — not yet. Not until I understand it myself. ‘Sinner. Heresy.’ What did they mean by that…? 👁️🩸

Lima cleared her throat, her face pale but determined.

Lima (to the group): “Right now, we have enough to think about. The question is: what do we do next?”

Before any of us could answer, Ratan appeared quietly at our side, his calm as unnerving as always.

Ratan: “All we can do now… is wait, Miss Berg. But we’d best leave the slums before something else happens.”

Killian (grim nod): “Agreed. We’ll read the forensic and criminological reports once they’re prepared. For now, we return to the embassy. We’ll regroup there.”

And so we did.

The embassy’s hall felt colder than usual, its quiet almost accusatory.

Mr. Rose’s chair sat empty at the head of the table. Empty — and for the first time, truly final. My stomach twisted at the sight of it.

Lima sat stiff, Ratan composed, Killian pacing with restless strides.

Killian (breaking the silence, voice taut): “I don’t know what’s going to become of this task force now.”

Lima (voice cracking with anxiety): “Do you think… they’ll disband us? Send us home?” 😟

Killian shrugged briefly, keeping his movements tight like an officer trying not to feel.

Killian: “I don’t know. But our leader is dead, and it’s clear we’re all in danger. Maybe someone doesn’t want us here at all.”

Lima (snapping, almost desperate): “So we just… leave it? Like that?”

Killian (finally stopping his pacing, voice clipped with bitter pragmatism): “I’ve already contacted headquarters. Reported everything. Now we wait… for their instructions.”

Me (leaning in, voice calm but edged with logic): “If our goal was to find out what happened to the diplomat, then the answer is already clear. Mr. Rose was connected to the embassy. He came here from London on official orders. And so did the diplomat. They even stayed at the same hotel. It seems logical to assume Mr. Hayes — who was seen in the same places — met the same fate.”

Killian (tight, unwavering, stubborn): “I’ve told you already, Amala. We can’t leave until we know for sure. Even if all that’s left are his… remains, we need to see them with our own eyes.”

Lima (thoughtful, but visibly worried): “There’s something else… Each victim had a troubled past, some secret that hung over them. It’s a pattern. But what was Mr. Rose’s secret?” 🤔

I turned my head sharply toward Killian. His gaze flickered, then slid away, avoiding mine.

Me (internally, narrowing my eyes): Oh? Careful silence, Captain? He knew Rose longer than any of us… and yet he’s not saying a word. Is he hiding something? 👀

That was when Ratan Vaish finally spoke, his deep voice grounding the tension.

Ratan: “I think it’s time you appoint a new team leader. Who should I report to now?”

The words dropped like a stone into the room, ripples everywhere.

Killian (nodding slowly, firm): “You’re right. We have to make that decision now.”

Everyone’s eyes lifted — glances darting back and forth. The reality hung over us.

Me (shaking my head, incredulous): “Shouldn’t London make that decision? It’s an important position. It should come from above.”

Killian (clipped, confident): “Under normal circumstances, yes. They might even send someone to ‘replace’ Rose. But that could take weeks. Meanwhile, we are here. We need someone to lead us now — someone invested in solving this mystery, not someone just trying to get it over with.”

Me (internally, biting back a smirk): Funny — isn’t this the same Killian Lightwood who once said he wanted to be done with the Calcutta mystery as soon as possible? My, how the times change. ⚡

Killian exhaled, then looked straight at me.

Killian (deliberate, weight in every word): “I think we have two options. Either me… or Amala.”

I blinked at him, stunned.

Me (out loud, eyes wide): “What?! Me? Do you honestly think I’d be suited for this?” 😳

Killian (calm, resolute, no hesitation): “Yes. Certainly. You’re smart. Determined. You know how to press when needed and how to hold when it matters. We’ve seen you in action, Amala. You don’t crumble — you command. You’d make a good head for this task force.”

He turned to Lima.

Killian: “Lima… what do you think?”

Her lips curved slightly, a soft smile amid the storm.

Lima: “I’d be equally comfortable working under either of you. I respect you both.”

The edges of her smile carried sincerity, and the weight of her vote made my pulse hammer in my ears.

Me (internally, pulse racing): How is this even possible? They’re considering me. Me! I feel like I’m going to explode. Should I put myself forward? …Yes. Yes, I want this. I want to lead. 🔥👑

I straightened, heart in my throat but voice steady.

Me: “I’d like to put myself forward for this job. I know I’m inexperienced, and so much of this is new to me. But I’m ready to try my best and work hard to solve this case. I’m inquisitive, resourceful, and I care about getting us results. I also respect my colleagues and listen to them.

I don’t mind if you lead, Killian — but I want to express my interest in taking this position.”

The room went still, their eyes weighing me. Killian’s expression thoughtful, Lima poised and silent, waiting.

And then —

Ratan (his deep voice calm, resolute): “I like you, Amala. I believe you would do well. I’d be glad to report to you.” 🙏

A flicker of pride bloomed in my chest.

Killian (leaning back slightly, words firm but almost… relieved): “I never wanted to lead anyone. All I care about is doing my job well. In the past I’ve often been ordered to lead teams, but this time? I get to choose. At least until London responds. And I’m choosing you, Amala. I know you will do well.”

My heart skipped.

Me (tentatively, almost whispering): “So from now on…”

Lima (smiling softly, nodding): “…you’re our team leader.” 🌟

Me (laughing under my breath, overwhelmed): “I can’t believe this is happening.”

Killian (grinning faintly, offering reassurance): “Don’t worry. I’ll help you. It’s always easier to work with someone else — and frankly, I’ll feel more at ease this way.”

Me (exhaling, a smile tugging through my nerves): “Good…”

Across the table, Ratan smiled warmly, that ever-steady presence grounding the moment.

Lima (lightly, but with a spark of relief): “So it’s decided?”

Killian (simply, firmly): “Yes, it’s sorted. I’ll handle communication with London myself.”

Ratan (practical, already shifting back to business): “In that case, we’re done here. The only thing left is to wait for the lab results.”

Lima hesitated, glancing between us, her voice softer, tinged with vulnerability.

Lima (quietly): “Um… everyone… what if we all went back to the hotel together? Maybe sat in someone’s room and just… talked everything through? I don’t… I don’t want to be alone right now.” 💔

I stepped back for a moment, absorbing her words.

Me (internally, a small smile): Spending time together, huh? Funny how a group of scattered strangers suddenly feels almost like… a team. 🌙

Ohhh 👌 this is the first real “team bonding” scene after all the chaos — relief mixed with exhaustion, sadness, and the beginnings of camaraderie. Needs to feel intimate, cinematic, with each personality shining through. Here’s the rewrite:

***

Me (softly, voice still heavy with grief): “Yes… I’ll be glad to keep you company, Lima. I’m scared and sad after what happened. Mr. Vaish… will you join us too?”

Me (internally, peeking at him): It wouldn’t hurt for us to get to know Ratan a little better. He’s always there, calm, collected… but who is* he, really?* 👀

Ratan (offering a polite nod, his deep voice steady): “Thank you for the invitation, Amala. I’ll be glad to join you.”

So the four of us walked together through the dark Calcutta streets, our silence saying more than words could. Before long, we were back in the hotel, finally shutting the door on the outside world.

We settled in Lima’s room. The hum of the fan greeted us, and the cool air of the space was such a stark relief from the suffocating slums that we all felt it.

Lima (stretching, rolling her neck with a sigh): “Ahh… it’s so good to be in a cool, fresh room again.” 😮‍💨

She flopped onto the bed like a girl escaping a storm.

Killian, true to form, claimed the sofa. He collapsed against it, stretched his long legs out, and leaned back. There was something in his face tonight — distant, haunted, like each thought was a stone he was carrying across his shoulders.

Ratan stood near the window, always the sentinel. His hands clasped neatly behind his back, his eyes scanning the city outside as if searching for shadows. His quiet presence filled the space with that strange weight he always carried.

Finally, Killian broke the silence.

Killian (running a hand over his face, sighing): “Not to seem rude, guys… but I’d like a drink. I actually really need one right now.” 😔🥃

Lima and I exchanged a glance. That shared look said it all — we both understood. Tonight demanded it.

Lima (pushing herself up, with a tired smile): “I need one too. Scotch?”

Killian (a faint grin, appreciating the choice): “Good choice.” 🥃🔥

Me (shaking my head firmly): “I’m not drinking. I don’t want to cloud my mind. Anything that dulls my thoughts… will only prevent me from working.”

Lima (rolling her shoulders, resigned): “Fine. I’ll grab the bottle of scotch.” 🥃

She got up, busying herself with the drinks like it was the only distraction keeping her sane.

I sank onto the couch beside Killian, his posture taut, shoulders heavy like the world was pressing too close. Ratan, composed as ever, lowered himself into a chair, his stillness contrasted sharply with the weight of the room.

Killian exhaled, a sharp, shaky sigh cutting the silence.

Killian (voice raw, low): “I can’t believe this happened. He was mutilated, humiliated… It’s terrifying. This is an insane level of inhuman cruelty.” 😔

The words landed heavy.

Lima (quietly, carrying her fear on her sleeve): “I don’t think they’re going to let us go home. We’ve still got unfinished business here.”

The thought made the air heavier.

Me (straightening, voice deliberate, trying to anchor us): “Then let’s try and be friends from now on. Not just colleagues. It’ll make working together easier.”

I braced for resistance. But no objections came. No cynicism. Just silence, carrying reluctant assent.

When Lima returned with the scotch, she set it down like it was holy relief. Glasses were poured. The three of them clinked their drinks quietly, each sip more ritual than indulgence. 🍷

But there wasn’t a shred of joy in it. Not even a flicker of camaraderie. The liquor wasn’t a celebration. It was an escape. The air in the room remained thick — anxiety, grief, and unspoken thoughts draped over us like the night outside. 🌑

I watched them drink. Watched the slight loosening in their shoulders, the way fatigue melted just an inch. And yet, I felt no desire to join them. My nerves screamed for clarity.

Me (internally, guarded): The situation in Calcutta keeps getting worse, darker, messier. I need my wits sharp. Killian didn’t argue earlier when Lima suggested Rose might’ve been hiding a secret of his own. But the way he held his tongue… the way he avoided my eyes… Should I press him now? 👀

Me (internally, steel in my thoughts): Why beat around the bush anymore? We literally just agreed we’re past caring about formalities. If we’re going to work as a team, then no secrets. Not now.

I leaned forward slightly, pinning Killian with my gaze.

Me (calm, but deliberate): “Killian… one question has been bothering me since the moment we saw Rose’s body.”

He set his glass down with a soft clink, his fingers tightening briefly around it before letting go.

Killian (voice level, but cautious): “What is it?” 🥃

I didn’t hesitate.

Me (measured, pressing forward): “Lima mentioned earlier that each victim carried some kind of trauma or shadow from their past. You knew Rose better than any of us — maybe you have some idea… what his secret might have been?”

Killian leaned back into the sofa, a weary motion, like a man trying to distance himself from a conversation he didn’t want to have. His jaw tightened. His silence was louder than words.

Killian (low, reluctant): “Yes, I knew him well… too well. But I don’t think we should dig into the past right now.”

Me (leaning in, firm but not unkind): “It might help us, Killian. It might complete the picture.” 🧩

His lips pressed thin, eyes flicking away before dragging back to mine. For the first time all evening, his composure cracked, ever so slightly.

Killian (quietly, with visible unease): “I’m worried your opinion of me might change… if I tell you. Emmet and I—” he paused, swallowing what tasted bitter in his mouth, “—we bonded during… disgraceful times.”

The words hung heavy in the air. A confession, but not yet the full story. Lima looked between us, tense, while Ratan’s calm presence lingered like a shadow in the corner.

Me (internally, pulse quickening with determination): We have to convince him to speak. This matters. Whatever he’s hiding… it might be the missing piece. I can’t let him shut himself away now. 👁️🔥

Me (leaning forward, voice firm, no space for evasion):

“This is important to the investigation, Killian. Now is not the time to get upset over pride or reputation. Our leader has been murdered. Before him, three others. We must act — so every shred of information is essential.” ⚡

Killian froze, listening in silence. His eyes locked on me, unreadable — but I wasn’t shrinking back.

Me (pressing, unwavering): “If you know something about Emmet Rose, please share it with us.”

For a moment, I thought he’d retreat again. But then Killian nodded slowly, shoulders tight, and let out a long, heavy sigh.

Killian (quiet, raw): “You’re right, Amala. I’ll tell you. I just…” he paused, the glass trembling faintly in his hand, “I just wish this particular memory had stayed buried.

You see… I wasn’t always the man I am now. Once, I was driven by greed. Selfishness. Cruelty. And I did terrible things guided by those feelings.”

He tipped his glass back and drained it in one deep swallow, as if swallowing the burn could help quell the ghosts pressing on his chest. 🥃🔥

Silence pooled in the room once more. His fingers tightened around the glass, knuckles pale. For a long moment, no words, just the haunted weight of his presence.

Finally, with his eyes shadowed, he lifted his gaze to mine.

Killian (hoarse, bitter): “Do you really want to know every disgusting detail? Every vile moment? Or do you just want the summary?”

The question cut sharp, daring me to choose.

Me (internally, pulse hammering, gaze unwavering): It’s crucial. Every detail could matter. But the look on his face… this is agony for him. The kind of agony that reshapes a man. Do I push for the truth, or do I show mercy? 👁️💔

Me (leaning in, voice gentle but uncompromising):

“I want to hear the whole story. I’m very sorry, Killian — I know it’s painful to recall. But every detail could be a clue.”

He looked at me for a long moment. Then, he exhaled, slow and jagged, like a man peeling open an old wound.

Killian (quiet, resigned): “It’s fine, Amala. Thank you for your concern. It was… seven years ago. 1973. In Derry.”

Lima (eyes widening): “Ireland?” 🇮🇪

Killian (nodding grimly): “Yes. I went there for work. Work I wouldn’t wish on a soul. I’m sure you all remember Bloody Sunday in Bogside — peaceful protesters, gunned down by British soldiers. Fourteen dead in the streets. At that time, the conflict in Northern Ireland was at its peak… and I was right in the heart of it.

Closely involved. Too closely.”

Killian’s POV (his voice carrying us there)

Killian:

“I was only 23. Young, reckless, and stupid. I had no job, no family ties worth clinging to. But I had something dangerous — a good body, stubborn will, and… shady connections. That was enough.

I was placed in a small squad — the kind that acted in the interests of a very narrow circle of people. Wealthy men who influenced Ireland from the shadows, pulling strings for their own profit.

And me? I was their mercenary. Their errand boy with a gun.

There were so many squads like mine back then. Shadow groups, each chewing pieces out of the conflict.

And, gods forgive me, I relished it.”

I could almost see it through his words: Killian younger, swagger heavier, eyes sharper but emptier.

Young Killian (voice cold, sneering to his men):

“The target arrives in forty minutes. Plenty of time to get rid of him quietly. Shame we can’t show our faces. I’d love to see the terror when he screams.” 🔪

Emmet Rose (walking beside him, smirking like a twin flame to his arrogance):

“Fine. But once we’re done here, I expect two damn weeks of rest. I’m done running missions back-to-back.”

They were young, wild, arrogant… drunk on danger. Two sides of the same poisoned coin.

Killian (voice heavy, now back in the room):

“Emmet led one of the other squads. We clicked immediately. We were ambitious. Crazy. Careless. In those days… we thought we were untouchable.

But we weren’t. Neither of us.

Our enemies weren’t idle. They struck back — hard, deadly. One by one, squads were being wiped out. Hunting dogs became hunted prey.

And just like that, it was all coming apart.”

His eyes flickered, shadowed.

Killian:

“There was endless noise about Northern Ireland in those days. Reports, investigations — the spotlight burned hot. Emmet began to contact me less. Less and less. Avoided me.

And then, suddenly… he disappeared altogether.

Until one day — he came back.”

Emmet Rose (in Killian’s memory, voice sharp, warning):

“Killian… this won’t end well for you. You need to get out. Now.”

Young Killian (snapping back, desperate, furious):

“And where the fuck am I supposed to go?! I have nowhere! If I even try, they’ll track me down and tear me apart. How did you* manage it?!”*

Emmet (calm, almost smug, but there was an edge to his words):

“I’m under the protection of the British government now. I work for them. They’ll protect me. And if you’re smart — you’ll join, too. You’re talented, Killian. Useful. To them.”

Me (younger Killian, snarling, half-crazed with paranoia):

“Go to hell! How do I know they didn’t send you to fucking kill me? You’re just like me — no honor, no loyalty. You could be lying to my face right now.” 😡

Emmet (calm, dangerous smirk):

“I could be. And if I wanted to, Killian… you’d already be dead.”

That shut me up.

Because the truth was… I was desperate. I was exhausted. Sick of being a pawn — sick of spilling blood for people too rich and too cowardly to wield the knife themselves. 💔

No amount of money was enough to drown the self-loathing clawing at me every night. But quitting wasn’t an option. Men like me didn’t “resign.” We were hunted down. Executed. Disappeared.

And yet—there was Rose. Standing right in front of me. Alive. Clean. His suit crisp, his smile intact. Safe under another banner entirely.

The bastard gave me something I had long forgotten I could have: hope.

He told me I could get out. That the British government could wipe me clean. Classify my dirty file, hide my trail, shield me before the debt collectors of blood came for me.

And I believed him. I had no choice but to believe him.

The Present

Killian’s fingers drummed once against the empty glass before setting it aside. His eyes stayed down, his voice thick, rolling with gravel and regret.

Killian (low, rueful): “I had fallen so far into that pit, Amala… so deep I doubt anyone could have sunk lower without trying. But they really did pull me out. Covered the filth. Cleaned up after me.

They found a place to put my skills… gave me a job. That’s where my ‘career’ truly began. I owe… a lot. To Rose. And to the government. That’s why the work comes first, above anything else.”

His words hung, harsh and final.

Lima (staring, aghast, almost whispering): “You… and Rose. You were mercenaries?” 😳

Her voice wavered.

“Is that his dark secret? That he was a man without principles, doing despicable work… for money?”

Killian (jaw tight, bitter smirk): “Yes. That’s who he was. Who we were. But he clawed his way out. Reinvented himself, like some… bloody modern-day Münchhausen. Dragged himself up by the hair, out of the mud, and wore a new face.”

He laughed once, sharp, humorless.

I sat there, stunned. Watching the fragments of Killian’s mask fall in real time was… surreal.

Me (internally, struck): I don’t know what loosened his tongue tonight. Was it fear, after Rose’s death? Or the scotch, burning down his throat until the walls cracked? 🥃

Whatever it was… he told us the truth. Finally. And for all its ugliness, I was impressed.

Because it took more courage to lay bare shame than to polish glory.

Me (softening, looking at Killian): “Thank you for sharing this with us. I can’t imagine what you went through. And I understand how much Rose’s death must have shaken you.”

His lips curved into a sad, almost boyish smile — the ghost of years weighing behind it.

Killian (quietly): “Thank you.” 🙏🏽💔

Lima (sitting up a little straighter, brow furrowed): “If this… if this was the reason why Rose was killed, then a new question arises. He was under government protection. His past was classified. So… who had access to that information?”

Her words fell like stones into water.

The room went still. The only sounds were the clinking of ice melting in glasses, the distant hum of the ceiling fan.

Killian’s and Lima’s cheeks were faintly flushed, loosened by the scotch. Ratan, by contrast, sat pale and rigid — he hadn’t touched a drop, his still sobriety standing out against their hazy grief.

I rubbed my temple, feeling the weight of the day finally crush into bone.

Me (firm but gentle): “Guys, I can see you’re not feeling well. It’s been… a terrible day. Let’s just call it a night.” 🕯️

We parted one by one — Lima deciding to stay curled up in her room, Killian muttering a brief goodnight and disappearing toward his door.

I stepped into the hotel corridor, body heavy but my mind still buzzing.

Me (to Killian and Lima as we left): “It was… nice to spend some time together. Good to just… breathe, even after all this.”

Their smiles were faint, tired.

Down in the lobby, the atmosphere was different — not quiet like our room, but buzzing, voices spilling in from the crowded lounge. I slowed slightly, catching stray snippets of gossip that flitted like knives toward my ear.

Woman’s voice (whispering, horrified): “…found in the slums… decapitated… Can you imagine?!” 😱

Me (internally, pulse jolting): Of course. It’s everywhere. Everyone in Calcutta is talking about it.

I shifted uneasily, weaving through the crowd, until a light touch landed on my shoulder.

I spun — ready for anything.

It was Ratan.

Ratan (calm, almost too calm): “Amala… it would be better if I walked you home.”

Me (shaking my head with a tired smile): “No worries. I’ll take a taxi.” 🚕

Ratan (firm, a glint in his eye): “At least let me walk you to the taxi. I’d like to talk with you.”

I blinked, startled. This man of few words — suddenly wanting to talk.

Me (internally, curious, guarded): Strange… I see no reason to refuse. But what does Ratan really want?

So we walked. Together. Step for step in the heavy Kolkata night.

Ratan (voice low, controlled): “I know it sounds obvious, but things are indeed getting more dangerous out here. You need to stay close to your colleagues. Be vigilant. The shadows are gathering in Kolkata. Your main focus should be on not… finding yourself in the epicenter of it.”

A chill lifted over my skin at the way he said it — like a prophecy.

Me (confused, frowning): “What are you talking about?”

Ratan (simply, eyes forward, face calm as a mask): “A warning. Be alert.”

The streetlamp’s glow lit his features — handsome, elegant, but unreadable. His dark eyes gave away nothing — like a mask carved from stone hiding whatever storm brewed within.

Me (internally, unsettled): Gods, he’s so strange… mysterious even. Beautiful, but strange. 👁️

Me (nodding reluctantly): “I’ll try not to be alone… thank you.”

Ratan (softly, but more intense than before): “That’s not all I ask of you. Don’t ignore your feelings. Or your intuition. Trust them. They’ll help you more than anything else.”

Me (bewildered, tilting my head): “I… don’t understand.”

Ratan (a ghost of a smile, unreadable): “You will. When the time comes.”

Me (snapping, voice tight, nerves on edge): “Stop confusing me and scaring me, Ratan. I’m already tense after this morning — and all you’re doing is making me feel worse.” 😣

He tilted his head slightly, his expression as unreadable as ever.

Ratan (calm, like a teacher revealing a lesson): “I’ve been watching you closely. And I can guess what weighs on you. Don’t neglect the abilities bestowed upon you. You know what I mean.

If you want to flee, flee. If you’re ready to stay, then stay — and accept the consequences. Kolkata will quickly teach you that the world is far more complicated than you imagine.”

Me (internally, stunned, pulse quickening): Damn… he’s talking about my visions. He sees right through me. 👁️💀

Ratan bowed slightly, in that graceful, old-world way of his.

Ratan: “Take care.”

And then he turned, walking off into the shadows, leaving me rattled and overheated with thoughts.

I sighed, hugging myself as I hailed a taxi. My head buzzed with his words all the way home.

By the time I reached my street, hunger and exhaustion were dragging at me. All I wanted was food, a wash, and to collapse into bed.

But before I even reached the gate, life caught me sideways.

Two children barreled past me, nearly knocking me over. Their voices rose in a swirl of squabbling and laughter.

Girl (whining dramatically): “…we’ve already played everywhere! Boring!” 😩

Boy (annoyed, bossy): “You’re so annoying! Where else can we go? Mom said we can only play on our street.”

Girl (stamping her foot): “But I want to go to another street! I want, want, want!” 😤

Boy: “Stop yelling, Padma! I’m older, so I decide. And Mom’ll get mad. She’s already worried today!”

I slowed, lingering by the fence, slipping quietly into their world.

Padma (lowering her voice, mischievous): “We won’t go to the murder street. Let’s just go to another one, Raj!”

I froze mid-step.

Me (internally, unsettled): Even the children are talking about it. 🩸👶🏽

Raj (snapping, defiant): “Are you stupid? They can kill you wherever they want! You think evil people only exist on one street?”

Padma (innocent, almost dreamy): “That’s not true! Papa told me there were evil people in Mom’s old village, so she moved to this place. This is a good place.”

Raj (blushing, hushed): “Shut up, Padma! Mom will cry if she hears that!”

I stood watching as the girl crouched, stick in hand, dragging lines into the dusty ground. She sang softly to herself, a sing-song melody that felt both playful and strangely eerie. 🎵✨

Me (internally, intrigued): I’ve got nothing to lose here… children speak freer than adults. They might tell me something.

Raj (frowning, arms crossed, scolding): “What are you drawing now?”

Padma (eyes sparkling, ignoring him): “Mountains! Big, big mountains! Remember Papa’s story? You’ll grow old before you can climb them, that’s how high they are!” 🏔️

She jabbed the stick further.

Padma: “And here — see? The sea. If you swim across, you’ll drown right away!” 🌊

Raj (snapping, panicked): “Erase it! If Mom sees, she’ll get mad. You’ll only get roti for dinner!” 🍞

Padma (teasing, sticking out her tongue): “Then I’ll take your candies! I know where you hide them!”

She squealed with laughter and bolted off, Raj chasing after her in a half-furious, half-embarrassed rage.

Their shrieks echoed in the night air, leaving the dusty drawing exposed at my feet.

Curious, I knelt closer to see it. But before my eyes could drink in the details—

Raj appeared again, his small face twisted with suspicion. He stomped his foot down, erasing the sketch in a swirl of dust. His black eyes stayed locked on me as he stepped in front of his sister and grabbed her hand tightly.

Padma squealed in protest.

Padma (furious at her brother): “Why did you do that?!”

But Raj didn’t answer her. Instead, he kept staring at me. Silently. Dark eyes sharp, protective, far older than a child’s should ever look. 👁️

Me (internally, nervously): How do I even talk to them…?

I crouched a little, softening my voice.

Me: “What a pity you erased it. It looked like a beautiful drawing.”

Padma’s eyes lit up, wide and sparkling, her innocence unfiltered.

Padma: “Did you really like it?” 🌸

Before I could answer, her older brother yanked her arm tighter, his glare sharp for a boy his age.

Raj (snapping, protective): “Shut up, you idiot. Don’t talk to strangers!” ⚡

He tugged her along, dragging her small feet across the dirt. Padma stumbled behind, but even whining, she managed a final parting shot.

Padma (pouting, twisting to look back at me): “Raj is bo-o-o-ring! I’ll ask the gods to send you to that evil village!” 🙏🏽👁️

Raj (groaning, red with frustration): “You’re so annoying!”

Their squabbling faded down the lane.

I stood frozen, staring at the smudged dirt where Padma’s little mountains and seas had been drawn — and erased.

Me (internally, wary): An evil village… I’ve reached the point where I’m clinging to scraps now. Rumors, children’s chatter. Somewhere near the mountains? Or near the sea? …Fine. Later. I’ll think about this later.

By the time I sat at the dinner table that night, exhaustion was draped over my shoulders like lead.

My hosts were animated, voices swirling around me in cheerful chatter. The topic was all about Sana’s wedding — guest lists, decorations, food. The future of joy.

But me? I wasn’t there. I pushed food around my plate absently, barely tasting it. My thoughts were elsewhere.

Me (internally, overwhelmed): Ratan’s warning lingers in my bones. “Shadows are gathering.” He sees more than he says — and Sana too, long before him, had whispered warnings of danger. One of us is already gone, massacred brutally. And the rest of us? We’re here… trapped. The killer breathing down our necks with every single day we stay.

I gripped my fork tighter, lost in the spiral.

What village were those children talking about? Why did Padma say it so easily? And what does Ratan really have to do with any of this?

The questions became a tide. Endless. Pulling me under.

And then another thorn jabbed my chest.

Me (thinking, uneasy): That dream… about Rose. I dreamed it before his death was confirmed. It wasn’t just a nightmare. It can’t be. 🌑👁️

The air in the room dimmed around me. Voices faded, even laughter blurred.

A wave of cold settled on me, like a premonition twisting into my gut.

At some point during that meal, an overwhelming, suffocating feeling pressed down — unmistakable in its weight.

Me (internally, shuddering): Impending doom. It’s coming. And I have no idea how to escape it. 💀⚡

P.S. Oh, sugarplums of shadow and scandal—tell me, did your hearts thump and skid when that alley unfolded its rotten curtain? 🩸 Because mine certainly did—and darling, the drama didn’t stop there. A decapitated Rose, an ancient symbol carved into his palm, visions snapping like whiplash, and now whispers from children’s chalk-and-dust games? Looks like even the little ones know more than they should. 👀✨

So what do you think, my midnight confidants—was Rose punished by fate, by faith, or by something much darker hunting this team from the shadows? And those mountains and seas Padma scrawled… clue or coincidence? Drop your theories (or your goosebumps 🪶) below—I’ll be sipping them up like scandalous coffee. ☕🔥

—Ever your keeper of secrets and stirrer of storms,

Your Mistress of Midnight Masala 💋🕯️✨