The city is drowning—literally and figuratively. Rain hammers the streets of Mumbai as I stand over another body, another woman violated and discarded like trash. Her eyes are open, frozen in terror. I know her name. I know the bastard who did this. Laxmichand. He left his mark again—a red handprint on the wall. A taunt.

My radio crackles. 'Inspector, return to station. No more rogue operations.'

I ignore it. My hands tremble, not from cold, but from rage. I swore an oath—to protect, to serve. But the system lets him slip through, again and again. Tonight, he’ll strike again. I can feel it.

My brother Munna calls: 'Bhaiya, come home. Anita is worried. You can’t keep doing this alone.'

I look at the dead woman one last time. 'I’m not doing it alone,' I whisper. 'I’m doing it for all of you.'

The rain washes nothing clean. Only blood will.