The next morning, Delhi felt heavier than usual. Pawan adjusted the strap of his messenger bag as he crossed the cracked pavement toward the district police station.
The sun hadn't climbed too high yet, but already the air pressed warm and thick against his skin. Rickshaws honked at the corner, vendors shouted over steaming chai pots, but Pawan's head was elsewhere, on Ritika, on the Ridge, on the faces of the parents who still called their office every week for updates.
The station smelled of dust and old files. Ceiling fans whirred lazily, doing little against the humidity. Behind the reception counter, a constable waved him toward the records section with barely a glance.
Pawan had expected resistance, red tape, the usual "Why do you want this?" Instead, he found ASI Jitender hunched over a folder at one of the long wooden desks. The man's reputation preceded him, sharp, relentless, but weighed down by the system he served.
"ASI," Pawan said, polite but cautious.
Jitender looked up, squinting briefly before recognition settled. "Ah. Pawan, isn't it? Rathod's people."
"That's right," Pawan replied, easing into the chair across from him. "Didn't expect you'd remember."
A faint smile ghosted Jitender's face. "Delhi's PI circle isn't exactly large. You all tend to poke around where you shouldn't. Leaves an impression." He closed the file in front of him. "So. What brings you here?"
Pawan set his bag on the desk and leaned forward. "I need access to the Ridge incident files. The gas leak case."
Jitender's expression darkened, just slightly. "That mess again."
"Families are still waiting, ASI," Pawan pressed. "One family in particular, the Kumars. Their daughter Ritika. She's missing. They think it's connected."
Jitender exhaled through his nose, leaning back in his chair. "Ritika Kumar… yes. Her parents came here. They weren't the only ones. Dozens desperate for answers." He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "But the bodies from that site, they're barely identifiable. Some beyond recognition. Our forensic team is still working. It'll take time."
Pawan tilted his head, not letting go. "And why are you so sure she's among the dead?"
That made Jitender pauses. His gaze sharpened. "What makes you so sure she isn't?"
The question hung between them like a blade.
Pawan leaned back, his tone steady. "Because the story doesn't fit. No chemical traces left behind, no contamination. Dozens of dead, all in one place, but nothing lingering. Doesn't that bother you?"
Jitender studied him for a long moment, silent. Then he asked quietly, "You think there's more to it?"
Pawan's lips curled faintly, not quite a smile. "Don't you?"
The ASI drummed his fingers against the folder. He didn't answer, but the crease deepening on his forehead spoke volumes.
Around them, the station buzzed with mundane life, phones ringing, constables shuffling papers, the clatter of a typewriter from a side office. But at their table, the weight of something larger pressed down.
At last, Jitender leaned forward again, lowering his voice. "Be careful, Pawan. You and Rathod's people… you're not bound by the same leash we are. But that doesn't mean you're untouchable. Whoever's behind this, they won't like you sniffing."
Pawan rose from his chair, slinging the bag over his shoulder. "We'll manage. We always do." He gave a respectful nod. "Thank you for the time, ASI."
Jitender watched him go, fingers still drumming on the closed folder. His jaw tightened. The words Pawan had thrown at him wouldn't leave his head: Doesn't that bother you?
For the first time, he considered taking this higher, asking his superiors for more than the perfunctory reports. The thought unsettled him almost as much as the case itself.
Pawan stepped out of the police station, the heavy door thudding shut behind him. The night air felt cooler than it should have, carrying the faint tang of dust and petrol fumes from the main road. He loosened his collar and exhaled slowly. ASI Jitender's words were still gnawing at him, Why do you think there's more to the incident? That single counter-question had hit harder than expected.
He pulled out his burner phone to check the time. The screen lit up, and his stomach dropped. A new message.
Unknown Number: Why are you looking into Kairav and SynerTech?
For a moment he thought his eyes were playing tricks. He glanced up instinctively, scanning the street. A few rickshaws waited near the curb, their drivers half-asleep. Two constables stood under a flickering streetlight, talking in low voices. No one looked out of place, yet the words on the screen pulsed like a siren.
His thumbs hesitated over the keypad before he typed back, blunt and cautious.Pawan: Who is this?
The reply came almost instantly, too fast for comfort.Unknown Number: Someone who has proof of SynerTech's real plan.
Pawan froze. His grip on the phone tightened until his knuckles whitened. Proof. Not rumors, not speculation. Proof.
He looked around again, this time slower, more deliberate. Every parked car felt like it held a shadowed figure. Every pedestrian, every shape moving in the dim light, could have been the one watching him. His chest tightened with the creeping edge of paranoia.
Why this number? Why him? They could have gone to the press, leaked it online, contacted anyone else. But they chose his burner, the one only Rathod's team and Shivam's circle knew. That meant either a breach… or someone closer than they imagined.
His thumb hovered over the keypad again, then retreated. If he replied too much, he risked exposing himself. If he ignored it, they might vanish, or worse, strike first.
He slipped the phone back into his pocket, his pulse hammering in his ears. The market lights ahead flickered, and for the first time in years, Pawan felt the weight of being hunted instead of hunting.
The street suddenly seemed narrower, darker.
He quickened his pace, telling himself to breathe, to think. But the question echoed in his skull, louder than the traffic, louder than his footsteps.
Whistleblower… or trap?