It’s raining in Mumbai, the kind of downpour that turns streets into rivers and silences the city. I stand over Raksha’s body, the rain washing away the blood but not the guilt. She was just twenty-four. A dancer in life, a martyr in death. And I sent her in.\n\nRoshan Lala didn’t just kill her—he made sure I’d find her. A message. A challenge.\n\nNow, the Saxenas sit across from me in the safe house, trembling. They saw it all. The gunshot. The cold smile on Lala’s face as he walked away. And their daughter—Meghna—is my fiancée.\n\n‘Inspector,’ Mr. Saxena whispers, ‘if we testify… will we die?’\n\nI don’t answer. Because I don’t know. But I do know this: if we don’t, Lala wins.\n\nMy radio crackles. ‘Sir, Meghna just left her office. Alone.’\n\nMy blood freezes. She wasn’t supposed to leave.\n\nI grab my coat. The game has changed. Now, it’s personal.