The Salt Lake hospital stood as a monolithic sentinel under Kolkata's bruised dawn, its glass facade splintered by crimson streaks of a monsoon sky, reflecting the city's restless pulse. Police barricades choked the perimeter, their red-blue strobes clashing with the neon pandal lights strung for Durga Puja, flickering like fading prayers in the humid air. A restless crowd of reporters, onlookers pressed against yellow tape, cameras flashing like fireflies, their murmurs a low hum beneath the wail of sirens and the distant chant of morning aarti from a nearby temple. At the heart of this orchestrated chaos loomed the Ashoka statue, its sword raised in grim defiance, now transformed into a grotesque gallows. Dr. Munshi's broken body hung from it, neck twisted at an unnatural angle, tactical rope biting deep into flesh. His chest gaped, a cavernous wound where his heart had been carved out, now resting in the statue's outstretched hand, blood dripping in slow, viscous trails onto the cracked pavement below, pooling in the shadow of the sword.
Q's hover-chair hummed softly as he approached, bandages tight against his fractured ribs, each breath a sharp reminder of the veranda's brutal encounter. His hazel eyes burned through the pain, scanning the scene with a profiler's precision, missing nothing. The S.I.L.O. team followed, a silent blade cutting through the chaos, their presence a stark contrast to the disorganized clamor around them. W, still pale from her concussion, clutched a tablet, her green eyes darting over data streams despite the fresh stitches on her temple, glinting under the strobes. D, lanky and sharp-eyed, lit a cigarette, its ember glowing like a lone star as he surveyed the scene with predatory calm, his grey eyes catching every detail. L, his bravado muted since the veranda's fallout, adjusted his new but ill-fitting jacket, small eyes darting nervously, as if expecting the killer to emerge from the crowd. Kriti, clutching her notepad, profiled the onlookers, her wide brown eyes catching every twitch, every whispered exchange, her pen a blur as she cataloged behaviors. Sonia, in her forensic jumpsuit, led a secondary team of techs, her silver-streaked hair catching the strobe lights as she barked orders with surgical efficiency, her voice cutting through the din.
The air reeked of blood, diesel, and the faint tang of antiseptic drifting from the hospital's entrance, its sterile facade a cruel irony against the visceral horror before them. Q's jaw clenched as he studied Munshi's corpse, the tactical rope knotted with surgical precision, each loop a deliberate taunt, a message woven into the fibers. The heart, placed with chilling care in the statue's hand, glistened under the dawn's light, its arteries severed with the clean precision of a microtome blade, no jagged edges, no hesitation. "She's escalating," Q muttered, his voice raw, throat tight with the weight of the scene. His mind flashed to D's words days ago, buried in the file on Patil and Ferarra, spoken with his usual sardonic edge: "Tongues, fingers—what's next, hearts?" The prediction, tossed out almost flippantly, now landed like a telepathic premonition, chilling Q's spine as if D had unknowingly tapped into the killer's twisted psyche. It evoked the uncanny instincts of Feluda, Satyajit Ray's fictional sleuth, whose intuitive leaps bordered on clues surfacing like whispers from the subconscious. "D called it," Q whispered, almost to himself, the dread in his voice heavy, the realization sinking in that this killer was weaving a narrative they were only beginning to unravel.
Sonia knelt by the statue's base, her gloved hands probing the pavement with methodical care, her forensic kit open beside her, tools gleaming under portable floodlights. "No spatter here," she said, her tone clinical, detached, a shield against the horror. "The heart was removed elsewhere, then staged. The neck snap's post-mortem—rigor's just setting in. He's been dead maybe four hours, tops." A tech, young and jittery, handed her a portable MRI scanner, its low hum cutting through the crowd's murmur like a distant mantra. "Scanning for anomalies," she added, her dark eyes flicking to Q, a silent acknowledgment of the pattern they'd seen before. "Like the chips in Patil, Ferarra, and Chakraborty."
Kriti scribbled furiously, her profiler's instincts flaring as she pieced together Munshi's significance. "Dr. Munshi exposed medical fraud—cartels funneling black-market drugs through hospitals, exploiting the poor. He was high-profile, like Patil, Ferarra, and Chakraborty, all reformists challenging power structures. The heart's symbolic—his 'bleeding heart' for reform, turned literal." She glanced at the killer's riddle, scrawled in her notes from the broadcast that had hijacked S.I.L.O.'s servers: Where shadows dance and secrets sleep, my next mark waits where rivers weep. "The Hooghly River's less than a kilometer away. 'Rivers weep' fits perfectly. She selected this hospital as her stage." Her voice carried a mix of awe and fear, the killer's precision both terrifying and mesmerizing.
W's tablet pinged, a sharp sound that snapped the team's focus. Her fingers flew over the holographic interface, data streams cascading like a digital waterfall. "The chips from Patil, Ferarra, and Chakraborty are still pinging—same signal as before, but stronger here, amplified somehow," she said, her green eyes narrowing as she traced the anomaly. "I'm picking up a new frequency, too, faint but active, localized." She looked up, her voice tight with urgency. "It's coming from the statue itself."
D crouched near the heart, cigarette smoke curling upward like a wraith, his grey eyes catching a faint glint in the bloody tissue, a speck of unnatural light. "No prints, no DNA—clean as always," he drawled, his tone deceptively casual, masking the predator beneath. He pointed, voice sharpening. "There. Something embedded." Sonia leaned in, her laser scalpel humming softly, its beam precise as she made a delicate incision. A microchip, identical to those found in the previous victims, gleamed in the pulp, its circuitry pulsing faintly, a heartbeat of its own. She extracted it with forceps, placing it in a sterile vial, the glass catching the dawn's red glow. "Another one," she said, her voice tight, fingers steady but eyes betraying a flicker of unease. "Her signature, just like the others."
Q's fists clenched, the bracelet's blue hexagon stones heavy in his pocket, a secret he'd kept from evidence, its weight a gnawing mystery he couldn't explain. Its familiarity tugged at him, tied to the woman. "She's watching us," he said, voice low, almost a growl. "This is her stage, her performance." His gaze swept the crowd—reporters shouting questions, cops barking orders—searching for that flash of reddish-brown hair, those eyes that haunted him, but the faces blurred into a chaotic sea, each one a potential mask.
L, dusting the statue's base with a half-hearted swipe of his forensic brush, muttered under his breath, "This is a bloody circus." His tone carried a bitter edge. W shot him a glare, her green eyes flashing. "Focus, L. We're not here for your whining." She tapped her tablet, pulling up a 3D schematic of the hospital's security grid, her fingers dancing across the interface. "The hospital's security feed was wiped clean—same jammer tech as Chakraborty's scene. She's got access to high-end gear, military-grade."
Kriti stepped closer to Q, her voice soft but urgent, her notepad clutched like a shield. "The riddle's 'Doctor with a bleeding heart' fits Munshi perfectly—his exposés, his crusade against corruption. But the 'shadows dance' part… it's not just the hospital. There's talk of a gala tonight at the Salt Lake Convention Centre, elite attendees, top-tier security. It's the kind of place she'd thrive—crowded, chaotic, a perfect stage for her theatrics." Her wide eyes met Q's, a silent plea for direction, her profiler's mind already spinning scenarios. Q nodded, his mind racing, but he kept his focus on the hospital. "A gala fits her style—high stakes, high visibility. We'll look into it, but first, we lock this down." Q turned to Sonia. "What's the chip telling us ?"
Sonia handed the vial to a tech, who rushed it to a portable analyser stationed under a forensic tent, its screens glowing with data. "It's transmitting, like the others," she said, her dark eyes meeting Q's. "We'll need W to crack it, but it's not just a tracker. These chips… they're part of something bigger, a network she's building." She paused, her voice lowering, as if the words carried a weight she couldn't fully articulate. "This isn't random, Q. She's orchestrating something we haven't seen yet."
W's tablet flared, a holographic alert flashing red, cutting through the team's focus. "The signal's spiking—linking to a dark-web node," she said, her fingers blurring as she rerouted firewalls, her voice tight with urgency. "It's bouncing through Kolkata's grid, masking its origin, but it's active, real-time. She's close. Too close." Her eyes flicked to the hospital's towering facade, as if expecting the killer to step from its shadows.
The team tightened their formation, the crowd's murmur fading as they honed in, a unit forged in crisis. D lit another cigarette, his grey eyes scanning the rooftops, the hospital's upper floors, the dark alleys flanking the complex. "She's playing us like pawns," he said, exhaling smoke, his voice calm but laced with menace. "The chips, the heart, that broadcast—she wants us chasing her, distracted."
Q's hover-chair hummed as he maneuvered closer to the statue, his eyes locked on Munshi's lifeless face, the doctor's features frozen in a rictus of shock. The killer's taunt from the broadcast burned in his mind. He visualized the crime in vivid detail: the killer, cloaked in her tech-suit, adaptive camo shimmering, infiltrating the hospital's secure wing at night, bypassing biometric locks with a military-grade jammer. Munshi, working late in his office, poring over files , caught off-guard. A chokehold, swift and silent, then the blade—surgical, precise, no wasted motion. The body dragged through service corridors, hoisted onto the statue under cover of darkness, rope knotted with expert precision. The heart, carved out elsewhere—staged for maximum impact, a grotesque offering. The chip, embedded was her calling card, a dare to S.I.L.O., a piece of her larger, unseen puzzle.
The Chief's Office. The virtual TV's crimson glow bathed the Chief's office, the news report a hammer striking the team's resolve: "Fourth victim… heart carved out… killer's signature escalates…" Dr. Munshi's body hung from the Ashoka statue, a grotesque marionette, his heart a bloody offering in the statue's hand. Q's scream—"No! No! No!"—tore through the room, his bandaged frame shaking, hazel eyes wild with horror. The Chief's fist slammed the desk, his roar—"Dammit!"—a thunderclap that silenced the team. D's cigarette fell to the floor, his curse—"Bloody motherfucker"—a low snarl, his grey eyes blazing. W's stitches gleamed under the holo-light, her green eyes fierce despite her pain, her tablet clutched like a lifeline. L's small eyes darted nervously, his torn jacket a silent accusation, his bravado shattered.
The Chief paced, his suit straining against his broad frame, hair catching the TV's glow. "This is on us!" he bellowed, his dark eyes pinning each agent like a blade. "Four bodies, and we're chasing ghosts! The Home Minister's ready to gut S.I.L.O., and the public's screaming for blood!" His gaze locked on Q, softening briefly, a flicker of concern breaking through his fury. "You saw her, Q. You were there. What the hell happened?"
Q's throat bobbed, the woman's reddish-brown hair burning in his mind, her piercing eyes a phantom he couldn't shake. "She was fast, Chief. Tech-suit, adaptive camo, military-grade. She mentioned my sister." His voice cracked, the bracelet's weight in his pocket a secret he couldn't share, its blue stones a mystery that gnawed at his soul.
The Chief's eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. "Your sister? What's she playing at?" He didn't press, his focus shifting to W, his voice sharp. "The hack—any progress?"
W's fingers twitched, her tablet glowing with data streams, her voice steady despite her pallor. "They used our own quantum protocols against us. The attack fried 20% of our servers, but I've got a trace running. The chips' signals are still active, linking to a Bangalore server. It's a shadow network, hidden deep."
D leaned forward, his grey eyes sharp, cutting through the room's tension. "She's not just a killer—she's a strategist. The chips, the riddles, the staging—it's a campaign, calculated to the last detail. Munshi's heart means she's upping the stakes."
L shifted uncomfortably, his voice hoarse, resentment simmering. "We're screwed. She's always a step ahead." The Chief's fist clenched, his knuckles whitening, but before he could retort, Sonia entered, her forensic jumpsuit crisp, tablet in hand, her presence a grounding force. "Preliminary on Munshi," she said, swiping the screen, her voice calm but urgent. A holo-image of the heart materialized. "Same blade as the others, monomolecular."
The room fell silent, the TV's loop of Munshi's corpse a grim reminder of their failures. Q's mind raced, the woman, a splinter in his soul, her reddish-brown hair a ghost that haunted his every step. The team dispersed, their resolve fraying but unbroken, the Chief's final words a lash that burned into their minds: "Find her, or S.I.L.O. falls."
Back at the hospital a tech interrupted, his voice urgent, breaking Q's reverie. "Dr. Sonia, the analyser's got a hit. The chip's broadcasting , but there's a new data packet—encrypted, massive." Sonia's eyes narrowed, her jaw tightening. "Send it to W. Now."
W's tablet buzzed, her green eyes lighting up as she dove into the data. "It's a video file, embedded in the chip. I'm decrypting it," she said, her voice a mix of excitement and dread. The team gathered around her, the analyser's screen flickering under the forensic tent as the file loaded. A grainy feed materialized: a dark room, a single bulb swinging, casting shadows that danced like specters. The masked figure stood, red eye-slits glowing in a sleek tech-suit that shimmered with adaptive camo. "S.I.L.O., you're slow," their modulated voice mocked, each word dripping with contempt. "The Doctor was just the start. My next move's already in play. Find me, if you dare." The feed cut to static, no further clues, no blueprint, just a void of menace that left the team on edge.
Q's blood ran cold, his ribs aching as he leaned forward, the killer's voice echoing in his skull. "She's baiting us," he said, his voice steel, cutting through the team's silence. He turned to them, his hazel eyes blazing with resolve. "W, get a preliminary on that gala—guest list, security, anything public, but we stay focused here for now. D, cross-check Munshi's exposés for links to the other victims—cartels, power players, anything that ties them. Kriti, start profiling potential targets—high-profile reformists, anyone who fits her pattern. Sonia, keep your forensic unit on the hospital, dig deeper into the heart, the rope, everything. L, coordinate with ground teams, lock down the hospital perimeter, no one in or out without clearance."
L bristled but nodded, his resentment buried under the Chief's earlier warning, his voice a low mutter. "Got it." He moved to a comms station, barking orders to uniformed cops. D stubbed out his cigarette, his smirk grim but focused. "She's cocky. That's her mistake." Kriti scribbled, her profiler's mind racing. "Her vendetta's personal, tied to power structures, corruption. She's targeting symbols, not just pepeople Her voice was steady, but her eyes betrayed the weight of the killer's shadow.
Sonia's voice cut through, her gloved hands still probing the heart's tissue under a portable magnifier. "The heart shows micro-abrasions, the blade rare, expensive. The chip's placement required surgical skill, precise as a transplant." She paused, her dark eyes meeting Q's, a flicker of unease breaking her clinical mask. "There is something we're not seeing. There's a piece missing, and it's here, somewhere."
W's tablet pinged again, her voice urgent. "The signal's live—still in the hospital vicinity, fluctuating but strong." Q's eyes blazed, "We lock this down," he said, his voice a low growl. "She's here, or she's left something for us to find. We tear this place apart if we have to."
The team intensified their sweep, forensic techs fanning out across the hospital's perimeter, their UV wands and scanners humming like a chorus of insects. Sonia's voice crackled through Q's earpiece, steady but urgent. "Found trace polymers on the rope—military-spec, same as Chakraborty's scene. Consistent, but no source yet. We're running isotopic analysis." Kriti, profiling the crowd, caught a flicker—a woman in a jumpsuit, reddish-brown hair tucked under the hoodie , slipping past a barricade with unnatural grace. Her heart raced, her profiler's instincts screaming, but the woman vanished into the throng, a ghost in the chaos. "Q, I saw her," Kriti whispered, her voice trembling with urgency. "She was here, I swear."
As the team's analysis deepened, Q's earpiece crackled with static, then a faint violin melody—the killer's signature, a haunting refrain from her broadcast. His blood ran cold, his left hand twitching, the alter stirring within, . The crowd shifted, no clear sign of her, but the tension coiled tighter, a spring ready to snap.
Outside, a low rumble cut through the monsoon's drone, a sound that turned heads and silenced murmurs. A vintage red sports car, its curves deceptively classic, purred to a stop at the hospital's edge, its presence an anomaly amid the chaos. To the untrained eye, it was a retro beauty, a relic of a bygone era, but its chassis hid S.I.L.O.'s DNA—carbon-titanium frame, fusion cell engine, nano-coating more advanced . The door swung open, and a figure stepped out, his silhouette sharp against the strobes, cutting through the dawn's haze. Piercing grey eyes glinted under the light, a five-o'clock shadow framing angular features that radiated quiet menace. Black leather gloves flexed, a custom watch glinting with embedded comms tech, its face a subtle nod to S.I.L.O.'s covert designs. His brown tailored overcoat blended elegance and threat, each step radiating an authority that made the crowd part instinctively, cops and reporters falling silent as he approached the yellow tape.
His gaze swept the scene—Munshi's corpse, the heart in the statue's hand, the chip's faint pulse—missing nothing. A faint smile curved his lips, cold and knowing, as if he saw a hidden piece Q's team had overlooked, a fragment of the killer's game that lay just out of reach.
The air thickened with suspense, the team unaware of his arrival, their focus locked on the hospital. Who was he? What did he know? The answers hung like a storm cloud, promising a reckoning that would either unravel the killer's game or ignite it further, his presence a riddle wrapped in thrill, poised to shift the balance in ways S.I.L.O. couldn't yet fathom.