Ayan Mehta
1
The rains had not stopped for three days, and in the heart of Kochi’s old port area, the swollen waters had turned every lane into a stream. On the fourth morning, as the sky remained heavy with dark monsoon clouds, police were called to a derelict warehouse by the shore. Inside, half-submerged in knee-deep water, floated the body of a middle-aged man. His face was bloated, his shirt clung to his chest, and his trousers bore muddy stains. A faint smell of oil and damp wood filled the air, mixing with the pungent odour of decay beginning to seep from the corpse. The constables at the scene whispered among themselves, murmuring that this was yet another flood victim, another life lost to the merciless water. Outside, the swollen backwaters lapped against the crumbling walls of the godown, erasing any trace of how the body might have been placed there.
The victim was soon identified as Suresh Menon, a chartered accountant who had recently made news for accusing a local construction firm of laundering relief funds. To the casual observer, it seemed a tragic accident — a man swept by the flood into the empty warehouse. The officers on duty filed it away with little interest, their boots splashing through the water as they prepared to drag the body out. Yet even in death, Suresh’s hand told a story no one wished to read: his right wrist was bound with a thin, frayed red thread, knotted so tightly into the skin that it had left a deep indentation. A constable pointed it out, but his senior brushed him off with a muttered remark about “religious threads” and ordered the body bag to be sealed. No one cared to look deeper. Flood season was full of bodies, and paperwork moved faster when answers were simple.
When Inspector Veer Pratap arrived later that evening, summoned reluctantly from Mumbai on special assignment, he lingered over the corpse longer than the local officers were comfortable with. The rain drummed heavily on the tin roof of the mortuary as he crouched by the steel table, eyes narrowing at the faint, deliberate cuts across the man’s abdomen. They were not the marks of debris or accidental injury; they were sharp, clean incisions, unmistakably from a knife. Veer peeled back the wrist bandage and studied the red thread, his fingers tracing the knot. It was no casual ornament. The thread had been tied after death, pulled with the kind of precision that bespoke ritual or obsession. In that moment, Veer knew that this was not nature’s doing. The flood may have carried the body, but a human hand had taken Suresh Menon’s life.
Outside the mortuary, the rain continued to fall, drowning the city’s streets and silencing its corners. Veer lit a cigarette beneath the awning, ignoring the disapproving glances of local officers who wished he would leave their jurisdiction as quietly as he had arrived. But the accountant’s lifeless eyes haunted him, and the bloodless cuts whispered of a story waiting to be uncovered. Floods could bury a thousand secrets, but sometimes the water washed up truths too sharp to be ignored. And as Veer exhaled smoke into the wet night, he realized that the red thread was no accident of faith. It was a signature, a warning, and perhaps, the first sign of a storm darker than the monsoon itself. This was not the last body he would see. It was only the beginning.
2
The train from Mumbai pulled into Ernakulam Junction under a sky swollen with monsoon clouds, the steady rhythm of rain beating against the roof of the platform like war drums. Inspector Veer Pratap stepped onto the wet concrete, his coat clinging heavily to his shoulders, his leather shoes already slick with water. He had been sent reluctantly, pulled from half-closed files and dust-laden cupboards of Mumbai’s crime branch, to handle what the newspapers had begun calling “a series of unfortunate flood deaths.” Officially, he was only to “assist” the local police, a word that already tasted like resentment in his mouth. The city smelled of brine and damp earth, the canals swollen and brown, the roads a mess of traffic and umbrellas. Veer carried no illusion of welcome; he knew too well that when a man from outside is brought in, it is never to make friends.
His first meeting with the Kerala police confirmed his suspicion. ACP Harish Pillai, a broad-shouldered man with a politician’s smile, greeted him with formality but none of the warmth his words suggested. “We are managing fine,” Pillai said, gesturing at the rain-slick map of the district pinned to the wall. “The floods have been cruel this year. People die, Inspector. Accidents happen. But since Delhi insists, we are happy to have you look.” The room of officers chuckled softly at that, their sideways glances cutting sharper than words. Veer said nothing, his sharp eyes scanning the faces before him, reading irritation, pride, and something else — unease. He had seen this kind of reception before, in cities where truth was inconvenient. He lit a cigarette despite the “No Smoking” sign glaring from the corner, and the silence that followed was heavier than the rain outside.
It was outside the station, in the narrow lane half-drowned in water, that Veer first met Meera Joseph. She was waiting by a battered scooter, her raincoat clinging to her frame, her hair damp and eyes burning with impatience. “Inspector Pratap?” she asked, her tone sharp, more challenge than greeting. Without waiting for his answer, she added, “You’ve come for the warehouse case. My brother was killed in the same way six months ago. They called it an accident. It wasn’t.” Her words rushed out like the rainwater running along the gutters, unstoppable and direct. Veer raised an eyebrow, unconvinced but curious. He had been warned of “meddling journalists,” and here one stood, young but defiant, her notebook jutting from her satchel. Meera Joseph was not merely reporting; she was demanding. “If you’re here to tick boxes and leave, don’t waste my time. If you really want to know who tied that red thread, talk to me,” she said, her voice low, fierce, almost trembling with a restrained grief.
Something in her conviction cut through the weariness that years of service had wrapped around Veer. He did not answer at once, but his silence was not dismissal. He studied her the way he studied a crime scene — piece by piece, detail by detail. Meera’s eyes held a pain that had sharpened into purpose, a familiar fire he had seen in others who refused to let the system bury their dead under official stamps. Around them, the city groaned under the weight of the rains, the streets clogged, the air heavy with damp and suspicion. Veer knew then that he had stepped not into a case, but into a wound, one the city itself was bleeding from. And if her brother’s death was part of the same pattern, then the red thread was more than a killer’s signature. It was a chain, and each knot pulled him deeper into a darkness from which there would be no easy return.
3
The rain showed no sign of retreat as evening settled over Kochi, its rhythm a constant background to the city’s tired heartbeat. Veer sat in the corner of a cramped tea shop, his cigarette burning down slowly as steam rose from chipped cups around him. Meera arrived without preamble, her raincoat dripping onto the tiled floor, her satchel clutched tightly against her side. She slid into the seat opposite him, her eyes restless, scanning the room before settling on his face. From her bag she pulled a battered leather-bound diary, its corners curled and pages swollen with dampness. “This belonged to my brother, Daniel,” she said, her voice steady though her hands betrayed a faint tremor. She pushed it across the table, the diary thudding softly against the wood, as if it carried weight far beyond its size. Veer flipped through its pages, noting the neat handwriting, the underlined figures, the names carefully scribbled and then struck out.
“This isn’t just a diary,” Meera continued, her voice gaining force as though she had rehearsed this moment. “Daniel was an accountant too, part of a local NGO that was tracking relief funds after the last floods. He found that money meant for rebuilding villages never reached them. Contractors, politicians, middlemen — they siphoned everything. He called it the ‘Red Ledger,’ his way of marking names that had blood on their hands.” Veer leaned closer, his brows furrowing as he read fragmented notes: dates, initials, amounts circled in red ink. But as he turned toward the back, the last few pages were torn cleanly out, leaving only jagged stubs. Meera’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Those missing pages… Daniel told me once they held the biggest names. He was planning to go public. A week later, they found him drowned in the canal, and the police said he slipped on the embankment.” Her tone carried neither grief nor rage now, only a hollow certainty.
Veer shut the diary, the faint scent of damp paper clinging to his fingers. He had seen ledgers like this before — crude but dangerous, evidence scribbled by men who had one foot in truth and another in fear. The missing pages troubled him most, not merely for what they might reveal but for how precisely they were taken. This was not an accident of weather, nor the careless destruction of time. Someone had wanted those names silenced, yet left just enough behind to serve as a warning. He thought of Suresh Menon, of the knife wounds disguised by floodwater, and the red thread biting into flesh. It was too deliberate, too neat. Veer knew well how power worked in India: documents vanished, files were stamped shut, and voices drowned not only in rivers but in the silence forced upon their families. And yet, here was a sister refusing silence, pressing a dead man’s words into his hands like a torch against the storm.
For a long moment neither spoke, the sounds of rain and clattering cups filling the space between them. Finally, Veer leaned back, exhaling smoke slowly, his eyes locked on Meera’s. “This ledger of his — do you understand what it means if it’s real?” he asked. Meera nodded without hesitation, her jaw tightening. “It means they killed him because he named them. And it means they’ll kill again.” Outside, the rainwater coursed along the gutters, carrying away dirt, leaves, and whatever else the city shed. But inside, Veer felt the weight of the diary pressing against his palm like a stone. The missing pages were out there, somewhere, and whoever held them held not just the truth of Daniel’s death but the key to a conspiracy far larger than a single red thread. He stubbed out his cigarette and stood. “Show me where he kept his records,” he said at last. And for the first time since arriving, his voice carried not just duty, but resolve.
4
The call came just before dawn, when the rain was at its heaviest and the backwaters had swallowed whole stretches of road. Veer and Meera drove through the deluge, the wipers battling in vain against the sheets of water, the headlights cutting a dim path toward Alappuzha. By the time they reached the embankment where the crowd had gathered, the sky was still bruised with clouds, thunder grumbling distantly. The body lay face up near the edge of a flooded paddy field, half-submerged in muddy water. Fishermen who had spotted it first stood muttering under umbrellas, their voices heavy with unease. Veer crouched beside the corpse, the stench of death familiar yet sharper in the damp air. The victim was identified quickly — Ravi Pillai, a mid-level government contractor notorious for cutting corners on relief housing. His face was pale, swollen, but what arrested Veer’s attention was the wrist: bound tightly with the same frayed red thread, knotted with deliberate precision.
The constables present shifted uncomfortably, whispering the same lines they had used before — that the flood had claimed another careless life, that the river swallowed all without discrimination. But Veer ignored them, his sharp eyes tracing the faint wounds on the contractor’s torso, concealed by water but clear enough to speak of violence. He rolled the body slightly and noted the bruises along the shoulders, marks of restraint, not of a fall or accident. Meera watched in silence, her notebook pressed to her chest, the rain dripping from her hood. When Veer stood, his boots sinking into the softened earth, his gaze followed the current of water that carried silt and debris past the corpse. “He doesn’t just kill,” Veer said quietly, more to himself than to her. “He waits. He chooses the storm to hide his work.” His words hung in the wet air, and Meera shivered though not from the cold.
The villagers had begun dispersing, leaving the officers to their work, but their murmurs carried a note of dread. The red thread was no longer a private mark — people were beginning to notice, to whisper. Meera stepped closer, her voice low so only Veer could hear. “Daniel wrote about Ravi Pillai in his diary. Said he was pocketing millions while families slept under plastic sheets. My brother knew too much about him.” Her words fell like stones, and Veer felt the weight of them. Another man tied to the ledger, another body silenced. He looked again at the water pooling around his boots, the sky above splitting with lightning, and realized the pattern was not just in the choice of victims but in the timing. The killer moved with the storms, waiting for the monsoon’s rage to wash away traces, to carry evidence into rivers where it would rot unseen. Each strike was calculated, deliberate, hidden beneath nature’s violence.
Later, as the body was taken away in a covered van, Veer lingered at the scene. The rain was easing but the land still drowned, the smell of wet earth clinging to everything. He imagined the killer standing here the night before, tying that knot with slow precision while the storm raged around him, knowing the water would hide what he had done until morning. It was more than murder — it was a message, a ritual of dominance over both man and nature. Veer lit a cigarette, shielding the flame against the wind, his mind already assembling the puzzle. If the killer struck only when the rains were fiercest, then the monsoon itself was his accomplice. And as he exhaled smoke into the damp air, Veer knew the storm was not nearly over. The floods would rise again, and with them, so would the bodies.
5
The rains had barely ceased when Minister Rajiv Nair arrived in Malappuram, his convoy slicing through the water-clogged streets like a show of power in the midst of despair. To the cameras, he was the perfect savior: sleeves rolled up, stepping into knee-deep water, consoling weeping families, promising relief funds with a carefully measured sympathy that felt rehearsed yet convincing. Crowds cheered, and local newspapers called him the “guardian of the flood victims.” For the people, Nair was a symbol of hope, but for Veer, standing on the sidelines, the performance was too polished to be real. He could see how every move was choreographed—where to look, when to pause, even the calculated touch of a child’s head. It was politics disguised as compassion, and Veer could not shake the feeling that the more the Minister projected benevolence, the deeper he had his claws in the shadows Veer was chasing.
Later that evening, the truth of the Minister’s power revealed itself behind closed doors. At the local circuit house, where officials had gathered in a hushed conference, Nair’s voice carried an unmistakable authority. ACP Pillai, usually a stoic figure, seemed almost deferential in his presence, nodding to every word. “This outsider from Mumbai,” Nair said, his tone smooth but sharp, “has begun asking questions that disturb the balance here. Floods are tragedies, not excuses to hunt for ghosts.” His eyes, cold despite the practiced warmth of his public face, swept across the room before landing on Pillai. “Control him. We do not need interference.” Pillai’s silence spoke volumes, and though Veer wasn’t present in that room, he would soon feel the weight of those words in the subtle changes of the investigation’s tone—the sudden reluctance of officers to share files, the missing witness statements, and the unspoken instruction to tread carefully.
The message came to Veer in less subtle ways too. The next morning, Pillai summoned him, his words measured but his unease evident. “Veer, I’ve received clear directions,” he began, avoiding direct eye contact. “This case is to be closed. The reports already state accidents during floods. Any further digging will only cause unnecessary unrest. We have to protect the state’s image.” The insistence in his voice wasn’t his own but borrowed authority, and Veer could sense the leash tightening. Every instinct in him rebelled at the thought of shelving the case when he had already connected the threads—literally and figuratively. But Pillai’s warning wasn’t one of caution alone; it was survival, a veiled reminder of the powers Veer was up against. The walls were closing in, and the enemy wasn’t just the killer in the shadows—it was the very system that was meant to deliver justice.
Veer walked out of Pillai’s office that day knowing the battle had shifted. The rain-washed streets of Malappuram seemed quieter than usual, as if the town itself held its breath. He lit a cigarette under a dripping awning, his mind racing. He thought of Meera, her grief-laden eyes when she spoke of her brother’s death, the missing pages of the diary that hinted at a “Red Ledger,” and the bodies marked by red thread as if mocking the silence of authority. The pressure from above was real, and now it wasn’t just about solving murders—it was about defying a system that demanded he look the other way. Veer knew that closing the file would mean betraying the dead and abandoning the living to more calculated drownings. For the first time, he realized he was fighting not just a killer but also the invisible machinery of corruption that thrived on tragedy. And despite the warnings, he decided he could not, and would not, walk away.
6
The rains had turned the canals into restless beasts, their swollen currents dragging broken boats and uprooted trees in their flow. Veer stood on the ferry crossing, the air thick with the smell of damp earth and rust, watching the silhouettes of lanterns sway in the darkness. He had been following a faint trail, a suspicion that the killer used the chaos of water to vanish. When he caught sight of the figure, partly illuminated by the dim glow of the ferry lamp, his instincts sharpened. The man was moving fast, splashing through knee-deep water with a purpose that betrayed neither panic nor hesitation. Veer’s heart raced as he gave chase, his boots sloshing in the waterlogged streets, but the figure seemed to glide, cutting through the storm like a shadow rehearsed in escape. The distance between them widened with each step until the man disappeared into a labyrinth of flooded alleys, leaving behind nothing but silence and rippling water.
When Veer halted, chest heaving, the stillness of the lane pressed against him with suffocating weight. The faint whistle of someone humming carried faintly in the wind, a chilling sound that had no face to anchor itself to. He stood there, trying to trace the direction, but the alleys twisted like serpents, every shadow a potential refuge. The water reflected fractured pieces of moonlight, disguising the currents of movement beneath. Veer was not one to admit frustration easily, yet this pursuit had shaken him. The killer was deliberate, not just in choosing victims but in orchestrating the very setting of his vanishings. Each detail — the flooding alleys, the ferry crossings, the storm-drenched nights — was chosen as if to mock the limits of pursuit. Veer wiped the rain from his brow, muttering under his breath, realizing he was not chasing a man in the ordinary sense, but someone who had mastered disappearance itself.
Later that night, while questioning witnesses along the ferry crossing, a frightened child tugged at Meera’s sari, insisting he had seen something. His small eyes darted nervously as he whispered, “He ties knots.” Veer knelt to the boy’s level, the storm fading into background noise as he focused on each trembling word. “He ties knots,” the child repeated, his fingers twisting an imaginary thread, “and he hums, like a song… like the rain has music.” The simplicity of the observation struck Veer with more force than any forensic detail could. A man who tied knots — the red thread was not random, it was ritual. The humming was not mere distraction; it was an obsession. The boy’s description painted the killer not just as a figure of menace but as someone immersed in his own rhythm, weaving death into song, knot by knot. Veer scribbled the words down in his notebook, feeling the puzzle edge closer to form.
Yet for every step forward, the currents dragged him deeper into uncertainty. Back at his makeshift quarters, Veer sat staring at the boy’s words, the echo of that humming still gnawing at his ears. He tried to recall if he had ever encountered such patterns before in his career — killers who carried trademarks, obsessions that shaped their crimes. But this one was different. It wasn’t just a signature; it was a performance, timed with the floods, stitched with thread, and underscored by song. Veer’s jaw tightened as he realized the Threadman wasn’t merely killing; he was composing, leaving messages hidden in water, fabric, and rhythm. The chase at the ferry crossing had shown Veer the killer’s mastery of terrain, but the child’s testimony revealed something deeper: the mind of a man who believed knots and music were instruments of fate. And in that haunting thought, Veer knew the next encounter would demand more than instinct — it would require unravelling the very tune of death.
7
The monsoon clouds still hung heavy over Malappuram when Meera walked into Veer’s temporary office, her eyes brighter than they had been in weeks. In her hand, wrapped carefully in a plastic pouch to protect it from the damp, was a small USB stick she had found hidden inside the false bottom of her brother’s desk drawer. She had almost given up searching, believing the missing pages of his diary to be the only key, but the discovery of this device gave her a renewed sense of urgency. Veer, who had been drowning in dead ends and political resistance, felt a jolt of anticipation as she placed it on the table. Together, they plugged it into his laptop, the generator humming in the background, and a folder opened with encrypted files labeled in code. Slowly, as Veer cracked through the protection, a picture began to emerge: lists of names, dates, and transactions that went far beyond small-time corruption. This was the “Red Ledger” her brother had whispered about in his notes—a secret record of siphoned relief funds, bribes, and cover-ups stretching across the state and reaching into the heart of Mumbai’s corporate and political elite.
The deeper Veer read, the more chilling the connections became. There were entries of inflated construction contracts for flood rehabilitation projects, funds diverted to shell companies, and fake beneficiary lists padded with ghost names. What struck him most were the initials and aliases linked to towering figures—an influential cabinet minister, senior bureaucrats with long-standing ties to the ruling party, and even a well-known real estate baron based in Mumbai. Each name was bound by the same marker: a red thread symbol attached in digital form, echoing the chilling ritual with which the victims were found. It was as if the killer himself had taken inspiration from this ledger, turning it into his manifesto of blood. For Veer, the realization was twofold—while the killer might be exacting justice in his own brutal manner, this document was the real danger. If it ever reached the public eye, it could bring down entire empires built on deceit and exploitation.
Meera sat in silence as Veer read aloud some of the entries, her hands trembling as she heard her brother’s name tied to whistleblower notes and half-finished reports. He had clearly been preparing to expose the racket before his death, collecting data that would have shaken the state. The missing pages of his diary now made sense—they had been a decoy, a breadcrumb trail meant to buy time until someone trustworthy found the real proof. Tears welled in her eyes as she imagined his fear in those last days, knowing he was closing in on something monstrous. Yet the thought that his sacrifice was not in vain gave her a strange sense of solace. Veer, though hardened by years of chasing crime in Mumbai, felt a quiet respect for the fallen accountant, a man who had dared to go up against forces much larger than himself. This USB stick was no longer just evidence—it was a key to unraveling a conspiracy that had been festering in silence for years.
But with the discovery came an equally heavy weight of danger. Veer knew instantly that possessing the Red Ledger placed both him and Meera in the crosshairs of the very people it exposed. Already, he had been warned by ACP Pillai and silenced by Minister Nair; now, if they suspected he had this device, the threats would escalate into direct action. The killer too, whoever he was, might come after them—perhaps to protect the purity of his crusade, or to prevent interference in his macabre justice. The rain battered harder against the tin roof as Veer closed the laptop and locked the USB inside his case, his mind racing. He had come to Malappuram to investigate murders, but what lay before him was no longer a series of killings. It was a war fought in shadows, with red threads marking the bodies of the silenced and ledgers recording the sins of the powerful. And somewhere in that storm of corruption and blood, Veer knew, the true battle had only just begun.
8
The rains had softened for a brief spell, and Veer decided to use the lull to mount a controlled operation. An informant had tipped him about a man who frequented the ferry ghats at odd hours, always carrying a small satchel, always humming under his breath. Everything about the lead pointed towards the Threadman. With Meera’s help, he drew up a sketch of the plan: block the exits along the canal, place plainclothes constables at the tea stalls, and quietly watch for movement. Veer felt a rare surge of conviction. For the first time, the chaos seemed to have an edge of order. He briefed ACP Pillai with care, stressing that secrecy was paramount. Pillai nodded gravely, his weather-beaten face giving away nothing, but something in his silence lingered longer than Veer liked. Still, he pushed the doubt aside, determined to trust the system even when cracks were showing.
That night, the operation unfolded under lantern light and shadows. The canals were restless, swollen from days of rain, their muddy surfaces reflecting the flickers of kerosene lamps strung by the watchmen. At 11 p.m., a figure emerged — tall, wiry, with a loose shawl covering his head. He walked with the peculiar rhythm of a man unbothered by the hour. Veer felt his heartbeat quicken. He gestured to his men to hold their ground until the target moved closer. Just as the signal was about to be given, a commotion broke out near the north barricade. Police sirens blared without warning, headlights cut through the dark, and startled locals poured onto the lanes. The figure froze, then darted back into the maze of alleys. By the time Veer reached the spot, the Threadman was gone, swallowed whole by the rain-slick labyrinth. The air reeked of betrayal. This was no accident — someone had deliberately blown the cover.
The aftermath was thick with anger and suspicion. Veer called for a debrief, his voice colder than the rains. Every constable swore they had no hand in the leak, yet whispers among them hinted at higher interference. The incident reports were sloppy, times mismatched, patrol logs conveniently missing. Veer’s instincts screamed that the failure was orchestrated. His eyes returned again and again to ACP Pillai. The man avoided his gaze, busied himself with paperwork, and repeated the same refrain — “We cannot afford more chaos in this city.” It was a line too polished, too rehearsed. Veer confronted him in private, demanding answers, but Pillai merely shrugged, warning him that pushing further would only put him in the Minister’s crosshairs. The message was clear: the police force was no longer a shield, but a wall built to keep the truth buried.
Alone in the rain-soaked streets later that night, Veer wrestled with the weight of realization. The killer was not his only adversary — the institution itself was stacked against him. Meera’s face flashed in his mind, her raw determination a mirror of his own, but unlike him, she had nothing to lose. He, on the other hand, was bound by invisible chains of hierarchy, bureaucracy, and political muscle. Still, the near-capture had given him something valuable: proof that the Threadman was real, not a ghost or rumor. He existed, he breathed, he hummed his eerie tune while tying knots in the dark. Veer clenched his fists, the rain drumming on his skin like an oath. If betrayal lurked within the ranks, then he would learn to move outside their reach. The fight had changed shape, but not its purpose — the hunt for the Threadman had become a war not just against a killer, but against the rot festering in the very veins of power.
9
The half-flooded temple stood like a ghost of history, its stone pillars half-submerged in murky rainwater, shadows flickering in the glow of oil lamps placed hurriedly by devotees fleeing the storm. Veer and Meera waited in silence, their trap set with the false name of a whistleblower already circulating in whispers through the town. The sound of rushing water against the temple steps blended with the occasional crack of thunder. Every detail had been carefully orchestrated — the name leaked, the bait prepared, and the knowledge that the Threadman’s twisted sense of justice would compel him to strike. For hours, they crouched in stillness, Meera’s breathing sharp and shallow while Veer’s hand tightened around the cold grip of his service revolver. Then, like a shadow stepping out of darkness, he came — his figure cloaked in rain, face hidden beneath the hood of his drenched jacket, hands moving with eerie calm as though the storm itself had guided him here.
The Threadman’s arrival was marked not by haste but by ritual, as he walked barefoot into the shallow water of the temple courtyard, pausing before an idol half-covered in moss. Humming — that same soft tune a child had once described — he knelt and pulled out a red thread from his pocket, tying it meticulously around the idol’s hand as though sanctifying his next kill. Veer’s chest tightened, every instinct urging him to spring forward, but timing was everything; the man’s sharpness was well-known, and any misstep could mean his escape into the waterlogged alleys. Meera’s eyes caught Veer’s, and in that instant they both knew — they would wait until the predator reached for the bait. The Threadman slowly produced a small knife, its blade reflecting the dim lamplight, and unfolded a crumpled slip of paper with the fake whistleblower’s name. His lips curled into something between a smile and a sneer, and he tucked the paper into the folds of his wet shirt as if marking his next victim.
Veer moved first, emerging from the shadows with his gun drawn, his voice commanding the killer to stop. The temple walls echoed with the sudden clash of power — Veer’s bark of authority against the low, unsettling hum of the Threadman, who refused to freeze. Instead, with the grace of someone accustomed to chaos, he lunged sideways, the knife flashing through the rain-slicked air. Veer dodged, slipping in the rising water, while Meera screamed a warning, tossing him a broken temple staff lying by the pillar. The fight that erupted was brutal and primal — the splash of limbs against water, the crack of wood against stone, and the suffocating fear that the Threadman could vanish into the storm at any second. The killer fought with strange rhythm, humming even as he struck, his knife weaving in precise arcs that forced Veer to defend with every ounce of strength. For a terrifying moment, Veer’s grip on his revolver loosened, and the knife grazed his arm, but the sight of Meera desperately blocking the temple’s rear exit reignited his determination.
It ended in a frenzy of splashes and broken breath. Veer, using the staff as leverage, drove the Threadman back against the submerged steps of the inner sanctum, where the water was chest-deep. The killer struggled, his hands still trying to knot the red thread even as Veer forced the knife from his grip. With one last surge, Veer slammed him down into the cold water, holding him long enough to strip away the humming calm that had shielded him. The Threadman gasped, the fight draining out of him as handcuffs clicked shut, binding wrists that had tied so many crimson markers of death. Meera stumbled forward, her clothes soaked, her trembling hand brushing against the confiscated knife as though touching proof that the nightmare had form. The temple, once echoing with the hymn of rain and ritual, now bore witness to silence — the silence of a predator finally caged. Yet even as Veer dragged the Threadman out, the man’s faint, broken hum lingered in the air, a chilling reminder that this was not the end but only the beginning of unraveling the truth that tied blood, power, and betrayal together in threads of red.
10
The interrogation room was dimly lit, its walls sweating with the dampness of the monsoon outside. Veer sat across the table from the man they had hunted for weeks—the elusive Threadman, his wiry frame hunched, wrists shackled, and a faint smirk playing on his lips. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the drip of rainwater leaking through a crack in the ceiling. Meera, standing in the corner with her arms folded, could feel the tension coiling tighter with every second. For all the terror he had unleashed, the Threadman looked disturbingly ordinary—a face that could disappear into a crowd, a man who could sit unnoticed at a tea stall. When Veer finally spoke, his voice was calm but razor-edged: “Why the red thread? Why the timing with the floods?” The man’s eyes glinted with something between pride and defiance, and then, with a deliberate pause, he began to unravel the truth.
He admitted that the thread was his creation, his personal calling card, not an instruction from the higher powers he served. It was his way of making the victims “speak” even in silence, each knot a mark of closure, each strand a fragment of his own twisted artistry. But as Veer pressed harder, the mask began to crack. The Threadman’s smirk faded, his words slipping from arrogance to resignation. He revealed that he had never chosen the victims; he had only carried out the killings under orders. His handler, he confessed, was none other than ACP Harish Pillai, the very man Veer had trusted and reported to throughout the investigation. The betrayal hit Veer like a blade—memories of Pillai’s guidance, his careful orchestration of search operations, his public displays of loyalty—all of it now reeked of manipulation. Meera’s face tightened in shock, but her journalistic instincts kept her steady; she knew the story had just cracked open wider than either of them imagined.
The Threadman leaned back in his chair, his voice lowering into a near-whisper, forcing both Veer and Meera to strain to catch every word. Pillai had not acted alone—he had taken direct orders from Minister Nair, the same man being paraded as a savior in flood relief efforts. The murders, the silencing, the ledger—all of it was part of a meticulous cleansing operation, a way to erase voices that could expose a network of corruption stretching from Kerala’s government offices to the corporate towers of Mumbai. The Threadman was nothing but a pawn, a weapon deployed in the shadows while the powerful remained untouchable. For every thread he tied, there was a command whispered in the dark, a name passed to him by Pillai, and behind Pillai, the unseen hand of Nair. The realization twisted like a knife in Veer’s gut—this wasn’t just about a serial killer; it was about a system that had nurtured him, protected him, and disguised him as a ghost while others pulled the strings.
As the confession poured out, the room felt colder, the rain outside harsher. Veer’s knuckles whitened against the table as the enormity of the betrayal settled on him. He had been chasing shadows, while the true puppeteer had been standing beside him all along, shaking his hand, calling him “son.” The Threadman, stripped of his menace, now seemed pitiful—an expendable tool who had mistaken his bloody rituals for power when, in truth, he had been a disposable servant in a game far bigger than himself. Meera’s voice finally cut through the silence, steady and piercing: “If this is true, then the real fight begins now.” Veer met her eyes, the weight of her words pressing heavy. The truth was out, but it was a truth that could cut them both down if they dared to wield it. In that room, under the flicker of a failing light bulb, they understood—capturing the killer was only the beginning. The deeper battle lay ahead, against men who didn’t need threads to strangle, only power.
11
The morning broke with a hollow silence across the city, a deceptive calm after days of rain and fear. Veer sat at his desk, papers scattered before him, tracing the fragile line that connected victims, politics, and betrayal. But his phone rang, shattering the fragile quiet. A junior officer’s trembling voice reported the unthinkable: ACP Harish Pillai had been found dead in his official quarters, hanging from a ceiling fan, his suicide note nothing more than a cryptic apology scrawled in haste. Veer rushed to the scene, his instincts whispering that this was no simple end, but a carefully staged exit. The room was too neat, too staged, the silence inside speaking louder than any words could. For Veer, Pillai’s death was less an ending and more a door slamming shut in his face, cutting off the only direct link he had to the truth.
As news spread, the city erupted in whispers. To the public, Pillai’s suicide painted him as a lone wolf weighed down by guilt, a corrupted officer who had buckled under the shame of his misdeeds. The narrative spread like wildfire, carefully planted and meticulously nurtured. Newspapers carried mournful tributes, television anchors turned the story into a parable of a fallen protector, and within hours, Pillai was no longer a traitor but a tragic figure swallowed by his own sins. Veer could see the invisible hands working behind the curtain — the careful orchestration that ensured the truth would never surface. The files Pillai had access to, the witness statements he had quietly buried, the whispers of his meetings with Minister Nair — all of it vanished. Evidence lockers were found emptied, digital records wiped clean, and what little remained was rendered inadmissible. Someone had pulled strings far beyond Veer’s reach, and the walls around the truth only grew higher.
Veer’s frustration festered into anger as he and Meera went over the pieces they had left. The USB stick, the Red Ledger fragments, the captured testimony of the Threadman — all of it meant nothing without Pillai alive to connect the dots. Every move Veer made now felt like stepping into quicksand. Anonymous threats began appearing on his desk, warning him to close the chapter, to let sleeping dogs lie. Meera, meanwhile, felt the icy grip of fear tighten around her; she knew they were closer than ever to those who had silenced her brother, yet further from justice. Their safe house became a prison of paranoia, each creak of the door and echo of footsteps outside carrying the weight of menace. Veer realized the real battle wasn’t against a murderer but against an entire edifice of power, one that had absorbed corruption so deeply it was part of its blood.
Minister Nair, meanwhile, emerged from the storm untouched, his image burnished rather than tarnished by the scandal. Cameras followed him as he waded through relief camps, handing out food packets with the practiced ease of a seasoned politician, his face plastered on billboards declaring him the savior of the flood-stricken. At press conferences, he condemned corruption with righteous fury, even paying tribute to the “fallen” Pillai as a man who had made grave mistakes but was “still one of us.” Every word was a dagger twisted into Veer’s resolve, the brazenness of it all a reminder of how little truth mattered in a system bent on protecting itself. As Veer watched from the shadows, he understood that winning justice for the victims would not come through official channels. The system had already written its story — Pillai was dead, the killer caught, the case closed. But Veer knew the truth still rotted beneath, festering in silence. And though the wall before him seemed unbreakable, he vowed in that moment that he would not turn away. If the corridors of power had buried justice, he would drag it back into the light, no matter what it cost him.
12
The ending unfolded with the weight of inevitability pressing down on Veer and Meera. After months of chasing shadows, of blood-soaked alleys and whispered betrayals, the truth they had unearthed seemed too dangerous for the world to acknowledge. In the first version of the end, tragic realism bled into every frame of their lives: the system rose like a fortress of silence, burying their case under piles of bureaucratic jargon and manufactured evidence. Pillai’s death was labeled a suicide, the Threadman quietly tucked away into a cell, and Minister Nair stood untouchable, his smile broadening under the flashing lights of television cameras. Veer watched as Meera’s story was published only to be shredded by establishment media, dismissed as “fake news,” while both of them bore the hollow knowledge that truth alone was not enough to pierce the rot of power. The streets fell silent once more, and the red threads—once symbols of terror—now felt like the fragile cords of their own helplessness.
But the second path crackled with the defiance of those who refused to surrender. In this version, Veer and Meera chose to burn their bridges and leak the Red Ledger to an independent media collective, bypassing every compromised channel of law and order. Within hours, the scandal ignited across Mumbai and beyond, protests swelling like a tide that threatened to wash away even the most fortified walls of corruption. Students, workers, and ordinary citizens took to the streets, their voices rising against the suffocating silence that had long protected the powerful. Yet danger lingered like smoke; Veer knew the system would retaliate, that shadows still hunted them, that both he and Meera had painted targets on their backs. And yet, for the first time, hope trembled in their chests—a fragile but undeniable spark that perhaps the truth, once unleashed, could not be caged again.
The third ending, ambiguous and haunting, left Veer staring into the abyss of uncertainty. The Threadman remained in custody, locked behind iron bars where he could hum his eerie tunes and tie invisible knots, yet the news of another murder jolted the city: a woman strangled, a crimson thread neatly coiled beside her body. The message was unmistakable—the nightmare was not over. Was this the work of a copycat, inspired by the terror that had gripped the city, or proof that the Threadman had never been alone? The implications sank deep into Veer’s bones: perhaps what they had caught was only a fragment of a larger, darker design. Meera’s eyes carried the same question that Veer dared not answer—had they been pawns themselves in a game whose true players still moved unseen? The case remained alive, twisting like a serpent, refusing closure.
Whichever end was chosen, the story left behind an aftertaste of unease. In one, the crushing despair of a system too strong to be challenged; in another, the electric defiance of voices raised against power, carrying both hope and peril; and in the last, the chilling ambiguity that evil was far from vanquished, its red threads still weaving new patterns in the city’s fabric. Veer and Meera, bound together by truth, sacrifice, and scars, stood at the edge of these possibilities like travelers staring at diverging roads. The only certainty was that the hunt for justice had no neat conclusion. Whether crushed, defiant, or suspended in dread, their journey reflected the fragile truth of their world: that shadows cannot be destroyed, only fought, and sometimes the fight itself is the only victory left.
End
