I’ve spent twenty-three years chasing shadows through Mumbai’s underbelly. Not for justice. Not for glory. Because the mind must have a purpose, or it turns on itself.

Now, another body lies in the monsoon-drenched alley behind the Chor Bazaar. Same signature: a single drop of ink on the tongue, the eyes closed with copper coins, and that card—Ace of Spades—placed between the fingers.

My assistant, Roshni, hesitates at the crime scene tape. 'Sir… the note. It’s addressed to you.'

I take the plastic sleeve. The handwriting is precise, elegant. 'You taught me well, Guruji. Let’s finish the lesson.'

My pulse doesn’t rise. My breath doesn’t catch. But something deep inside—something I thought buried—wakes.

Roshni watches me. 'Do you know who this is?'

I fold the note slowly, tuck it into my coat. 'I know what he wants. A game. One mind against another. No rules. No mercy.'

She steps closer. 'Then what’s our next move?'

I look toward the dark mouth of the alley. 'We stop pretending I’m the hunter. Now… I become the bait.'