• Crime - English

    Blood on the Expressway

    Prabhat Mishra One The night on the Delhi-Mumbai Expressway was unlike the chaotic city roads it connected. Here, silence ruled the vast stretches, broken only by the occasional roar of engines and the rhythmic hum of tires on asphalt. The headlights of passing cars carved fleeting tunnels of brightness through the darkness, then disappeared, leaving the long, lonely highway in its natural emptiness once more. For truck drivers, these journeys were about endurance—keeping eyes open, hands steady, and minds sharp. One such driver, Ravi Yadav, was maneuvering his lorry past a half-lit toll booth when he noticed something unusual: a…

  • Crime - English

    The Third Immersion

    Aparajita Tiwari One The train to Prayagraj rolled into the station just before dawn, its rusted wheels screeching softly against the tracks as if whispering secrets to the holy city. Nandita Mukherjee stepped out, clutching her leather satchel and the fading warmth of a voice note from her brother, Neel. It was barely thirty-six seconds long—his voice low, deliberate, and edged with urgency. “They’re watching me… The third dip is a front. Too many missing faces. If anything happens…” Then silence. No location. No follow-up. Just those words, haunting and cryptic. The air smelled of smoke, camphor, and wet earth…

  • Crime - English

    The Vanishing of Viraj Mehta

    Chapter 1:  It was the sort of evening that wrapped Mumbai in a damp silence—one of those monsoon nights when the rain doesn’t roar, but hisses steadily, like a whisper of secrets meant to be hidden. The streetlights near Colaba Causeway flickered through the drizzle, casting shimmering reflections across the wet tarmac. Viraj Mehta, the 42-year-old diamond merchant with a reputation as clean as the stones he traded, checked his Rolex for the fourth time as he exited his office building. He had ended his day like any other: signing off ledger sheets, taking calls from Dubai, and checking shipments…

  • English - Crime

    The Red Envelope

    Raghav Sethi Hauz Khas, 3:47 AM It began with the sound of dripping water. Inspector Ayaan Malik wiped sweat from his brow despite the midwinter chill and stepped further into the abandoned house in Hauz Khas. His torchlight danced across graffiti-covered walls and shattered glass. Rats scurried over dried leaves on the floor. The report had come in anonymous—just a single line typed in Courier font: “You’ll find her where memories rot.” That could mean anywhere in Delhi, but the envelope it came in—red, thick, wax-sealed—was dropped off at Hauz Khas Police Station. No fingerprints. No postage. Just a symbol…