Part 1: The Dead Number Rehan Mehta’s phone buzzed once. Then again. Then it stopped. Half-asleep, he groaned and turned over in bed, pulling the blanket over his head. The digital clock on his desk blinked 2:13 AM in a harsh red glow. Whoever it was could wait. But then he saw the notification: 1 new voicemail from Unknown Number. He sat up. Unknown numbers weren’t unusual in his line of work — Rehan was an investigative journalist for The Daily Ledger. But voicemails at 2 AM? That was new. He plugged in his headphones and hit play. Static. Then…
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Neelesh Arora Part 1: The Widow in Red The rain had begun at dusk, steady and indifferent, as if the city hadn’t just lost one of its most powerful women. Meher Singh lay sprawled across her marble floor, the crimson pooling around her head like a rose wilting in reverse. Her silk robe, the color of old rubies, glistened under the dim lights of her Walkeshwar apartment. The cordless landline still hung off the hook, mid-call to someone who’d never answered. Detective Inspector Jayant Rawte had seen worse in his years with the Mumbai Homicide Bureau, but something about this…
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अर्चित रस्तोगी भाग १ चौक बाज़ार की पुरानी सड़कें जब रात के अंधेरे में चुप हो जाती हैं, तब भी एक जगह है जहाँ हलचल बनी रहती है—चौधरियों की हवेली। लोगों का कहना है कि उस हवेली के भीतर से आधी रात के बाद ज़ंजीरों की खनक सुनाई देती है। कोई कहता है बंधी हुई आत्मा है, तो कोई कहता है किसी ने वहाँ कुछ छुपा रखा है। राघव, एक २७ वर्षीय पत्रकार, दिल्ली से इस छोटे से शहर “दौरगंज” आया था। वह क्राइम रिपोर्टिंग में नाम कमाना चाहता था, पर दिल्ली की भीड़ और राजनीति ने उसे थका दिया…
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Vivaan Sharma The Body on the Shore The waves crashed softly against the rocks, their rhythm almost meditative under the hazy early morning sun. Palolem Beach was just beginning to wake—fishermen pulling in their nets, yoga teachers arranging mats on the sand, tourists stretching and sipping on bitter black coffee from the shacks. And then the scream. It sliced through the humid air like a blade. A local boy had found her—curled on her side near the rocky edge of the shore, half-buried in sand, her hair tangled with seaweed. At first glance, it looked like she had been sleeping.…
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Amal Shukla Part 1 It was just past 3 AM when the neighbors in Versova’s Sea Breeze Heights heard the gunshot. A loud, sharp crack that echoed through the tiled corridors and bounced off the closed windows of sleeping apartments. No one called the police. In Mumbai, people had learned to let things pass. Besides, the rains were hammering down, and it was easy to believe the noise was just thunder. In Flat 9C, Rajiv Mehta lay sprawled on the Persian carpet of his study, a bullet hole clean through his forehead. His right hand was still resting on the…