Chapter 1: The Return

The city of Mumbai, a chaotic blend of old-world charm and relentless modernity, stretched out beneath the hazy morning sun. The skyline, a jagged silhouette of high-rises, was partially shrouded by the monsoon mist that clung to the humid air. Traffic honked and screeched along the bustling streets, where vendors haggled, and the scent of street food mingled with the exhaust fumes. The city never slept; it only paused momentarily, like a predator waiting to strike.

In the heart of this urban jungle, a man sat at his desk, the dim light of his office flickering overhead. Daksya Rao, a senior officer in the Mumbai Police Force, had been relegated to a desk job for nearly a year. His once-vibrant presence was now confined to the shadows of paperwork and administrative duties, far removed from the action and adrenaline that had once defined his career.

Daksya’s office was modest, with walls adorned with plaques and commendations that told stories of his glory days. Photos of him shaking hands with dignitaries, standing next to drug busts, and receiving medals lined the walls, collecting dust. The man himself was a stark contrast to those images. His hair, now more salt than pepper, was cropped short. His face was rugged, lined with the experiences of a lifetime spent on the front lines of the law, and his eyes, once sharp and piercing, now carried the weight of years of service and a hidden burden.

He leaned back in his chair, a cup of lukewarm tea forgotten on his desk, and stared at the ceiling. The fan above rotated lazily, its rhythm steady and monotonous. The sounds of the city barely penetrated the thick walls of the police headquarters, leaving him in a cocoon of uneasy silence. The quiet, once a comfort, had grown stifling.

His phone buzzed, breaking the stillness. Daksya glanced at the screen—a message from his superior, Commissioner Arvind Deshmukh. He knew what this meant; his peace was about to be shattered.

The conference room was a stark contrast to Daksya’s dimly lit office. It buzzed with activity as officers shuffled papers, adjusted microphones, and set up projectors. The air was thick with anticipation, tinged with the scent of freshly brewed coffee. Commissioner Deshmukh, a tall, imposing figure with a stern expression, stood at the head of the room, his presence commanding respect.

As Daksya entered, conversations hushed, and all eyes turned toward him. He could feel the weight of their gazes—some curious, others sceptical. The whispers of his past had never truly left him; they lingered in the air like a persistent shadow.

“Rao, take a seat,” Deshmukh said, his voice devoid of warmth. The Commissioner was not one for pleasantries, especially when there was work to be done.

Daksya nodded and took a seat at the table. He could see the tension etched on the faces of his colleagues—some he knew well, others were newer to the force, but all of them respected the man who had once been their hero.

Deshmukh wasted no time. He gestured to a file in front of him, which was thick with documents. “We’ve got a high-profile case on our hands. Ashwin Thakur, the businessman, was found dead this morning in his penthouse in South Mumbai.”

The room fell silent. Thakur was a name that commanded attention—a tycoon with deep ties to the city’s underworld, a man who had evaded the law for years despite his known involvement in numerous illicit activities.

“Thakur’s death is a big deal,” Deshmukh continued. “He was connected to some of the most powerful people in this city—politicians, gangsters, you name it. The media is already circling like vultures, and the pressure from the higher-ups is immense. They want this solved quickly and quietly.”

Daksya listened intently, his mind already whirring with possibilities. A case like this was far from simple; it was a labyrinth of deceit, power struggles, and hidden agendas. He knew all too well what it meant to be called back for something like this—it wasn’t just about solving the case, it was about managing the fallout.

“Why me?” Daksya asked, his voice steady but with an edge of suspicion.

Deshmukh’s gaze met his, unwavering. “Because you’re the best we’ve got. And because this case has the potential to blow up in our faces if we don’t handle it right. We need someone who can navigate the politics and the criminal elements involved.”

There was more to it than that—Daksya could sense it. But he didn’t press further. He had learned long ago that some answers would only come with time.

“Alright,” Daksya said, his voice firm. “Give me the details.”

Deshmukh handed him the file. “The crime scene is being preserved for you. Get over there and see what you can find. We need answers, and we need them fast.”

Daksya took the file, feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline that came with being back in the field. But beneath that was a gnawing unease—he knew that stepping into this case meant reopening old wounds, and the whispers of the past would grow louder with each step he took.

The drive to Ashwin Thakur’s penthouse was a journey through the many faces of Mumbai. From the cramped, chaotic streets of the older districts to the wide, polished avenues of South Mumbai, where the city’s elite resided in towering glass skyscrapers. Daksya’s thoughts were as turbulent as the city around him. The file on the passenger seat held the key to the case, but it also carried the weight of expectation—both from his superiors and from himself.

Thakur’s building was a fortress of luxury, a high-rise that gleamed under the overcast sky. The entrance was swarming with uniformed officers, their faces set in grim determination. Media vans lined the street, reporters jostling for position, their cameras aimed at the building’s entrance, hoping to catch a glimpse of anything newsworthy.

Daksya stepped out of the car, his presence immediately drawing attention. Whispers spread through the gathered crowd—some recognized him, others speculated. He ignored them, his focus solely on the task at hand.

The lobby was a cavernous space of marble and glass, sterile and devoid of life. Officers milled about, securing the area, while detectives pored over the building’s security footage. A young officer approached him, his expression a mix of respect and nervousness.

“Inspector Rao, the crime scene is ready for you,” he said, his voice steady but with an undercurrent of tension.

“Lead the way,” Daksya replied in his neutral tone.

The elevator ride to the penthouse was silent, the young officer fidgeting slightly as they ascended. Daksya’s mind was already piecing together the few details he had—Thakur’s death was no ordinary murder. The meticulous staging of the crime scene, as mentioned in the briefing, hinted at something far more complex.

The elevator doors opened directly into the penthouse, revealing a space that was as opulent as it was cold. The large windows offered a panoramic view of the city, but the room itself was a study in contrasts—luxury furniture, expensive art, and, in the centre of it all, Ashwin Thakur’s lifeless body.

Thakur was slumped in a chair, his head tilted back, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. The cause of death was immediately apparent—a single gunshot wound to the head. The gun, a sleek, silenced pistol, lay on the floor near his hand, as if it had simply slipped from his grasp.

But what caught Daksya’s attention was the meticulousness of the scene. There was no sign of struggle, no overturned furniture, no blood splatter beyond the immediate area. The room was eerily pristine as if Thakur had simply sat down and allowed himself to be executed.

Daksya approached the body, his eyes scanning the scene with a practised gaze. He crouched down, examining the gun without touching it. The positioning was deliberate, but something about it felt off—too perfect, too staged.

He straightened up and turned to the forensic team, who were already at work documenting the scene. “What do we have so far?” he asked, his voice cutting through the silence.

One of the forensic officers, a woman in her thirties with sharp features and a no-nonsense demeanour, stepped forward. “The victim was shot at close range with a silenced pistol, likely from a seated position. No signs of forced entry, no struggle. The scene suggests either a suicide or a very carefully orchestrated murder.”

“Suicide?” Daksya echoed, though he knew the answer already.

The forensic officer nodded, her expression grim. “That’s what it’s meant to look like. But the positioning of the body and the gun…it feels too deliberate. There are no prints on the gun either—wiped clean.”

“Anything else?”

She hesitated, then handed him a small evidence bag containing a crumpled piece of paper. “We found this on the floor, partially hidden under the chair.”

Daksya took the bag, examining the paper through the plastic. It was a note, hastily written and barely legible. The words were scrawled in a desperate hand, the ink smudged in places.

The bullet will reveal the truth.

Daksya’s blood ran cold. The note was a direct reference to his past—the bullet that had haunted him for years. He could feel the eyes of the officers on him, their curiosity barely masked. The mention of “the bullet” would not go unnoticed, and it was only a matter of time before questions would arise, questions he wasn’t ready to answer.

Daksya carefully placed the evidence bag on the table, his mind racing. The note was not just a taunt; it was a message meant for him. Whoever had orchestrated this murder knew about his past, knew about the bullet, and was now using it to draw him into a dangerous game.

He turned to the forensic officer. “Anything else?”

She shook her head. “That’s all we’ve found so far. We’re still going through the rest of the penthouse.”

Daksya nodded, his expression unreadable. “Keep me updated. I want to know the moment you find anything else, no matter how small.”

As the forensic team resumed their work, Daksya stepped away from the scene, moving to the large windows that overlooked the city. The rain had started again, a drizzle that blurred the edges of the skyline. He watched the droplets slide down the glass, his thoughts churning.

This case was more than just a murder; it was a message, a challenge. Someone wanted to drag him back into the shadows of his past, to force him to confront the one thing he had tried to bury. And they had chosen Ashwin Thakur—a man with connections to the underworld, a man who was untouchable in many ways to do it.

But why? What was the connection between Thakur and the bullet? And more importantly, who was behind this?

The answers were elusive, but Daksya knew he had to find them. Not just for the sake of the case, but for himself. The past was catching up to him, and he needed to face it before it consumed him.

He pulled out his phone and dialled a number, his fingers steady despite the storm brewing in his mind. The call connected after a few rings.

“Neha, it’s Daksya. I need you at the crime scene.”

Inspector Neha Deshmukh arrived at the penthouse with the same urgency and determination that had earned her a reputation as one of the sharpest minds in the Mumbai Police. She was younger, in her early thirties, with a keen eye for detail and an unyielding resolve. Her partnership with Daksya had been one of mutual respect, though it had not been without its challenges.

Neha stepped into the crime scene, her eyes immediately scanning the room with practised precision. She had heard about the case on her way over, and she knew it was big Thakur’s death was going to send shockwaves through the city.

But what caught her attention more was the presence of Daksya Rao. She had known him for years, admired him even, but she also knew that he was a man who carried his secrets close to his chest. The mention of the bullet in the briefing had piqued her curiosity, but she hadn’t pressed him on it yet.

“Inspector,” she greeted him, her tone professional but with a hint of concern.

“Neha,” Daksya replied, nodding. “Take a look around. I want your thoughts on the scene.”

Neha walked over to the body, crouching down to examine the position of the gun, the wound, and the note. She frowned as she read the message, her sharp mind already making connections.

“This isn’t just a murder,” she said, standing up. “It’s a message.”

Daksya met her gaze, his expression guarded. “I agree. But the question is, who’s sending it and why?”

Neha studied him for a moment, sensing the tension beneath his calm exterior. “What does the note mean, Daksya? ‘The bullet will reveal the truth.’ It’s meant for you.”

He hesitated, then sighed, knowing that he couldn’t keep her in the dark. “It’s a reference to something that happened years ago, back when I was still new to the force. A single shot that changed everything.”

Neha’s eyes narrowed slightly. “The legendary bullet?”

Daksya nodded. “Yes. But I don’t know how it connects to Thakur or why someone would bring it up now.”

Neha considered this, her mind working through the possibilities. “Could it be someone from your past? Someone who knows what happened back then?”

“Perhaps,” Daksya said, though he wasn’t entirely convinced. “But whoever it is, they’ve gone to great lengths to get my attention. And that means they’re dangerous.”

Neha agreed. The meticulous staging of the crime scene, the deliberate placement of the note—it all pointed to someone who was playing a very calculated game. “We need to dig into Thakur’s connections. See who he was dealing with, who might have had a reason to kill him and send this message.”

“Agreed,” Daksya replied. “But we need to be careful. This case is going to attract a lot of attention, and we can’t afford to make any mistakes.”

Neha nodded, her expression resolute. “I’ll start with his financials, see if there are any irregularities, any hidden transactions that might point us in the right direction.”

As Neha set to work, Daksya returned to the scene, his thoughts still swirling. The case was already proving to be as complex as he had feared, and the involvement of his past only made it more so. But he couldn’t back down not now, not when the stakes were this high.

He looked at Thakur’s lifeless body, his mind returning to the note. The bullet will reveal the truth.

What truth? And why now?

The questions gnawed at him, but there were no easy answers. He knew that the only way to find them was to follow the trail, wherever it led, no matter how dark or dangerous.

The next few days were a blur of activity. Neha worked tirelessly, poring over Thakur’s financial records, tracing his connections to various underworld figures and high-ranking officials. The web of corruption and deceit that she uncovered was vast, stretching into nearly every corner of the city’s elite. But despite the mountain of evidence, none of it pointed directly to the person responsible for his death.

Daksya, meanwhile, focused on the crime scene itself. He revisited the penthouse multiple times, going over every inch of the space, searching for anything that might have been missed. The forensic team’s reports confirmed that he had already suspected Thakur’s death was a carefully orchestrated assassination, designed to look like a suicide but with just enough discrepancies to raise doubts.

As the investigation progressed, the pressure from the media and the political elite grew. The story of Ashwin Thakur’s murder was front-page news, and the city was gripped by speculation and rumour. Every day brought new theories and new suspects, but no definitive answers.

The whispers about Daksya’s past began to resurface as well. Reporters who had long followed his career started to dig into the mystery of the bullet, their curiosity reignited by the cryptic note found at the crime scene. But Daksya remained tight-lipped, refusing to give them anything to feed their stories.

It wasn’t until the fourth day after Thakur’s murder that a breakthrough came.

Neha had been working late, her desk cluttered with papers and her computer screen filled with spreadsheets. She had been tracing a series of offshore accounts connected to Thakur, following the money trail to see where it led. And finally, she found something in a transaction that didn’t make sense.

“Daksya,” she called, her voice urgent.

He looked up from his work, immediately sensing the importance of her discovery. “What is it?”

Neha pointed to her screen. “I found a payment made from one of Thakur’s accounts to a shell company based in Dubai. The payment was made two days before his death, and the amount is significant five million dollars.”

Daksya’s brow furrowed. “A payoff?”

“Possibly,” Neha said. “But the timing is too coincidental. I think this payment was made to someone involved in the murder. Maybe even the person who killed him.”

“Can you trace it?” he asked, already knowing the answer would be difficult.

Neha shook her head. “The money trail goes cold in Dubai. Whoever set this up knew how to cover their tracks.”

“But they made a mistake,” Daksya said, his mind racing. “They didn’t expect us to find this.”

Neha nodded. “We need to dig deeper into this shell company. See if we can find any connections to Thakur or anyone else in his circle.”

As Neha continued to trace the financials, Daksya’s thoughts returned to the note the bullet that would reveal the truth. The message was cryptic, but the connection to Thakur’s death was becoming clearer. Someone was pulling the strings, manipulating events from the shadows, and they were using his past to do it.

The following morning, as the sun struggled to break through the monsoon clouds, Daksya received an unexpected call.

“Inspector Rao,” the voice on the other end was unfamiliar, but there was a tension in it that immediately put him on alert. “We need to meet. I have information about Ashwin Thakur’s murder.”

“Who is this?” Daksya demanded, his tone sharp.

“You don’t need to know that. All you need to know is that I have the information you’re looking for. But it’s not safe to talk over the phone.”

“Where?” Daksya asked, his instincts telling him that this was the lead he had been waiting for.

“There’s a café in Worli, near the sea face. Be there in an hour. Come alone.”

The line went dead before he could ask anything else.

Daksya stared at the phone, the weight of the case pressing down on him like a vice. This could be a trap he knew that. But it could also be the break he needed, the clue that would finally unravel the mystery of Thakur’s death and the shadowy figure behind it.

He didn’t have a choice. He had to go.

As he grabbed his coat and headed out into the rain-soaked streets of Mumbai, Daksya felt the familiar tension in his chest, the anticipation of stepping into the unknown. The past was catching up to him, and this time, there was no running from it.

The bullet would reveal the truth but only if he survived long enough to find it.