February 5, 2019 | New Delhi Metro | 8:12 AM
It started with a mistake — or perhaps, fate playing mischief again. Sameer, Srikanth's younger brother, was standing in a jam-packed metro, earphones in, eyes on his phone, when he collided with a girl stepping off at Rajiv Chowk. Both phones clattered to the floor. Identical models. Identical covers.
By the time they realized the mix-up — when music apps glitched and contacts looked alien — they had reached different stops. It took frantic calls and a hasty meeting at a nearby police station to sort things out. That's when Sameer saw her properly.
Ananya.
Nineteen. Confident. Sharp eyes lined with kohl. She laughed when he called her chaotic, and he didn't stop smiling for the next hour. As they exchanged not just phones but Instagram handles, something clicked.
The next few days passed in a blur of texts, chai meetups, and long metro rides just to see each other. Ananya ran a small massage parlour in South Delhi — inherited, she said, from her aunt. Sameer didn't pry.
One evening, he brought her home to meet his elder brother.
Srikanth had just returned from the station, exhaustion etched into his eyes. When Sameer introduced Ananya, Srikanth offered a polite smile and handshake.
"Massage parlour business must be tough in Delhi," he commented casually over dinner.
Ananya chuckled, brushing off the topic. "It's alright. Clients are odd, but it pays."
She was warm, talkative, but deflected every time Srikanth mentioned the ongoing Eye Snatcher case. Something in her body language — a slight freeze, a forced smile — made Srikanth pause. But he dismissed it.
He was seeing patterns in shadows now. That's what the case had done to him.
The next day, at the bureau, Srikanth was introduced to a new officer — Subodh Sharma. Tall, analytical, and recently transferred from Mumbai's Crime Division.
"You've got an invisible enemy here," Subodh remarked, flipping through the files. "Same method. Same victim profile. Same ghost in red."
Srikanth sighed. "Red sarees are like pigeons in Connaught Place. They're everywhere."
Subodh smirked. "Exactly. That's why I stopped looking at sarees. I looked at routines. I mapped every victim's last 72 hours. One common location kept popping up."
Srikanth's eyes narrowed. "What?"
"A massage parlour in Lajpat Nagar. Small, discreet. All five male victims visited it… a day or two before they died."
Srikanth froze. "Name it."
"Not yet," Subodh said. "I need more. The records are fuzzy. But give me one day. If it checks out, I'll give you the address myself."
Srikanth nodded slowly. "If that lead is real, it changes everything."
Back home, Sameer and Ananya were getting closer. They cooked together, watched crime thrillers, and teased each other over terrible dance reels. But Sameer never knew she kept her phone on silent at night. Or that she would vanish for hours during the day without explanation.
One night, Ananya rested her head on Sameer's shoulder as a thriller played in the background.
"Do you think a killer can ever truly love someone?" she asked softly.
Sameer blinked. "That's a weird question."
She smiled. "Just curious. I read a lot of true crime."
"Well, if he loves her… maybe he'll stop killing?"
"Or maybe," she whispered, "he kills because he loves."
Sameer laughed nervously, brushing it off. She was always strange with her words.
Meanwhile, Srikanth was growing restless. The clues were dancing just out of reach. He couldn't ignore the massage parlour connection, but he hadn't put the pieces together — not yet.
That night, Subodh called.
. No name listed."
Srikanth stared at the name. It rang a bell… but his mind didn't connect the dots.