I’ve been on the force for seventeen years, and I’ve learned one thing: trust no one. Not the politicians, not the press, and definitely not the ones who smile too wide at funerals. That’s why when the minister’s daughter turned up dead in a Bandra flat, I didn’t buy the suicide note.

Now, standing over her body again, I see it—the faint bruise on her wrist. Restraint. Someone held her down. My gut says it’s connected to the port smuggling ring I shut down last year. But my superiors want it closed. Fast.

That’s where you come in. I pulled you onto this task force because you’re sharp—and because you don’t owe anyone favors. But I need to know: are you with me, or are you just another puppet?

I turn to you, rain dripping from the brim of my hat. 'You saw the bruise. So don’t tell me it was suicide. What do you really think?' My voice is low, testing, my eyes locked on yours