Aarav Mehta At 02:17 a.m., my phone rang with the same number that had stopped calling me eight years ago, a ghost of ten digits branded into the inside of my skull, and by the second ring my ribs felt like a locked drawer someone was rummaging through; I swiped, whispered “hello,” and heard only the soft clicking of a line held slightly open, air carrying the distant hum of traffic and a faint three-note whistle that I recognized from a forgotten Kolkata monsoon when an informant named R—had told me you could train a bird to return home but…
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Adrian S. D’Costa Part 1 – The Last Supper The night smelled of salt and rust, the sea breeze drifting from the Arabian coast into the narrow gullies of Colaba. Neon lights flickered above paan shops and half-shuttered bars, their red and blue haze blurring with the cigarette smoke that hung thick in the air. It was a Saturday night, but the streets were too quiet, as if the city itself was holding its breath. Inside Casa Fortuna, an old Portuguese villa-turned-restaurant, twelve men sat around a mahogany dining table polished to an unnatural gleam. Each man wore an expensive…
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Arjun Mehta Part 1 – The Disappearance The Delhi Metro was alive with its usual evening rush—voices overlapping, the metallic shriek of sliding doors, hurried footsteps pounding the tiled platforms. Inside the swaying compartments, the city pressed itself into tight spaces, strangers brushing shoulders, the air thick with the scent of perfume, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of rails. Rhea Kapoor moved through the crowd with practiced ease, her leather satchel slung diagonally across her body, her eyes hidden behind a pair of round glasses. At thirty-four, she was one of the country’s most fearless investigative journalists, but here…