January 15, 2019 | New Delhi | 9:20 AM*
The cold hadn't gone, but Srikanth's sleeves were rolled. He stood at the edge of a construction site, looking like a misplaced detective among a sea of hard hats. Dust swirled as machines groaned in the distance.
He had come chasing a whisper — a vague lead suggesting that someone saw suspicious activity here a few nights ago. The ground was cracked, walls half-born, nothing out of place… until he slipped on a piece of wire mesh and fell.
Strong arms caught him mid-fall. "Careful," a voice said, firm and amused. He looked up into the eyes of a woman, her yellow helmet slightly tilted, her smile not at all surprised. It wasn't how cases usually started.
She introduced herself as Yukti Ahuja — civil engineer, mid-twenties, Delhi-born, and apparently unafraid of sarcastic detectives. Srikanth straightened, awkward, brushing dust off his coat, hiding how quickly his pulse had jumped.
Yukti shrugged and pointed toward a portable cabin. "We've got water, coffee, and probably no clues. Want to check?" He declined with a small smile, but her laugh followed him all the way back to the car.
That evening, Ramesh insisted Srikanth join them for dinner. "My wife thinks you're forgetting food exists," he said. "Also, Neel is coming — your old buddy from college."
Srikanth agreed reluctantly. It had been a long week of eye-less corpses and empty leads. Maybe food and laughter could undo a little of it. Maybe.
The dinner table was loud, full of spicy food, warm rotis, and people who remembered better days. And then, there she was again — Yukti — invited by Neel, who apparently worked with her on an architecture project last year.
Fate, it seemed, had its own twisted sense of humor. Yukti slid into the seat beside Srikanth with the ease of someone used to owning space. "You again," she smirked. "Either you're following me, or I'm really unlucky."
Conversation flowed. Srikanth, against his instincts, found himself opening up. She didn't shy away when he mentioned his line of work. Instead, her eyes lit up. "Psychopaths fascinate me," she said, eyes gleaming. "Ever read about Cyanide Mohan?"
"Yukti…" Neel groaned.
"No, really," she grinned. "Or Christopher Wilder? Monsters with motives. It's dark, I know, but… understanding them is like solving a human riddle."
Srikanth leaned back, half intrigued, half cautious. "It's not always glamorous. Sometimes it's just… horrific. Blood and grief."
Yukti nodded slowly. "Still. Every killer thinks they're right. That's terrifying. And… kind of genius."
Later, as he dropped her to the cab stand, the air between them had shifted. The silence wasn't awkward. It was weighty — full of questions neither wanted to ask. She smiled at him once more before stepping into the cab.
"You're more interesting than you look," she said.
"I get that a lot," he replied, closing the door.
He turned back toward his car — only to be stopped by a small boy, barely eight, dressed in torn slippers and a ragged hoodie. The child held out a brown envelope, said nothing, and ran like the wind.
Srikanth opened it, expecting garbage. But it wasn't. Inside were photos. Dozens. Of him and Yukti — talking at the site, sitting at dinner, walking beside each other. Candid, high-resolution, taken from a distance.
His heart lurched. His fingers trembled. Who was watching? How long had they been watched?
He jumped into his car and sped through Delhi's traffic like a madman. His mind screamed worst-case scenarios. Was Yukti in danger? Was he?
He reached her apartment, breathless, banged on the door like a lunatic. Yukti opened it, startled. Before she could speak, he pulled her into a desperate hug.
"Someone's following us," he whispered. "Photos. Of us. Tonight. Yesterday."
Her body stiffened in his arms, just for a second. Then softened.
"I'm… I'm fine, Srikanth. But this—this is serious."
His phone buzzed before he could respond. It was Ramesh. The tone in his voice said everything: panic, exhaustion, another crime.
"Sir… another body. Male. Railway tracks near Patel Nagar. Same M.O. But this time—we found something."
Srikanth's voice dropped. "What?"
"A knife. No blood on it. But clear fingerprints. Fresh ones."
Srikanth didn't wait. He turned to Yukti.
"I have to go."
She nodded. "Be careful."
10:43 PM | Patel Nagar Railway Yard
The scene was chaotic. Srikanth ducked under the tape, eyes scanning the tracks. The body lay curled near a signal post, eyes gouged, neck bruised — signs of strangulation again.
Absolutely, here's a suspenseful paragraph you can insert toward the end of Chapter 3, right after Srikanth gets the call about the new murder near the railway line:
As Srikanth reached the scene, the familiar chill returned — not from the cold wind brushing over the tracks, but from what he saw carved on the chest of the lifeless body. Not with ink, not with blood — but with punctured skin, letter by letter, cruelly plucked in by a tweezer. It read:
"The Eye Snatcher."
A new name. A declaration. The killer wasn't hiding anymore — they were evolving.
Ramesh met him with the knife in hand, sealed in a plastic bag. "Wiped clean. Except… the handle. One fingerprint."
"And?"
"We're running it. But the victim's phone was smashed. No ID on him yet."
Srikanth looked down at the lifeless face, young, probably no more than 26. Just like the others. Same age group. Same method. Same silence.
The killer was screaming through silence now.
"Why leave the knife?" Srikanth muttered. "She's never left a trace."
"Maybe she wants us to find it," Ramesh said grimly.
Srikanth stared at the horizon. The wind howled over the tracks, and the smell of iron mixed with death.
Or maybe, Srikanth thought, she wants us to think we've found something.