February 6, 2019 | New Delhi | 8:40 PM
The wind in the park whispered the kind of secrets no one wanted to hear.
Srikanth sat on a cold iron bench beneath a flickering lamp post. Yukti leaned her head against his shoulder, her breath warm but heavy with worry. The world felt far away in that moment—just the rustle of leaves and the dull glow of distant traffic.
"Srikanth," she began, hesitating, "one of my friends went to a massage parlour a few weeks ago. Said something felt... wrong. Like the owner was too calm. Too icy."
Srikanth turned to her, his eyes narrowing. "Which parlour?"
Yukti looked up. "Sunset Massage Parlour."
The name hit him like a slap. He fumbled for his phone and immediately dialed Subodh.
"Subodh, you remember that link you found? The common place the victims visited?"
Subodh's voice crackled on the other end. "Yes, sir. I was about to confirm it today. Sunset Massage Parlour."
Srikanth stood up, heart racing. "It's owned by Ananya. Sameer's girlfriend."
He drove like a man possessed, headlights slicing through the dark Delhi streets. Within twenty minutes, he reached the parlour. The sign outside still blinked softly—Sunset Massage Parlour: Relax. Renew. Rejuvenate.
Ananya was inside. Her expression changed the moment she saw him. "Srikanth? What are you doing here?"
He slammed a folder of photographs on the counter—images of the victims, all from the crime scenes. "All of them were here. Before they died."
Her hands shook. "I know you're my boyfriend's brother, but you can't barge in like this! This is harassment!"
Subodh, following closely, raised a hand. "Ma'am, we just need to ask—"
Ananya backed away. "No. I won't tolerate this. I can file a case. I've done nothing wrong."
Srikanth gritted his teeth. He couldn't act without proof. "Let's go," Subodh said, tugging Srikanth's arm gently. "We'll find another way."
The next morning, a boy came to the station. Thin, pale, eyes darting like he'd seen ghosts.
"Sir," he whispered to Srikanth, "I know the face. Of the killer. She sold me her phone. The same phone. Photos. Blood."
Srikanth stared. "You're sure?"
The boy nodded and pointed at the photo lineup. His finger hovered, trembled... and landed on Ananya.
The station fell silent. Subodh exhaled slowly. "We need a warrant."
Srikanth wasted no time. He stormed into Mr. Bhattacharya's office. "I need permission to raid Ananya's house and parlour."
The commissioner raised an eyebrow. "Isn't she your brother's girlfriend?"
"Yes, sir. Which makes this harder. But the evidence is adding up."
Bhattacharya sighed, reached for a folder. "Be sure, Srikanth. Once you cross this line, there's no going back."
"I'm already across."
The raid began before dawn. Officers swept through the parlour and her home. Every drawer, every corner. Files. Clothes. Devices.
Nothing.
No blood. No photos. No tools. No answers.
Ananya watched, arms crossed, shaking with rage. "Is this what your badge gives you? The right to destroy someone's life based on a hunch?"
Srikanth didn't reply. Because deep down, doubt had begun to crack through his armor.
That evening, he sat on the same park bench, this time alone. Yukti joined him, silent for a while.
Finally, she said, "Srikanth, is she really the Eye Snatcher... or are you trying to make her fit the profile because you're afraid she might be?"
He didn't answer.
Not because he didn't want to. But because he didn't know.
Later that night, Sameer didn't return home. Calls went unanswered. His phone was off. Srikanth sat by the window, staring at the darkness beyond, nerves like violin strings.
At 3:12 AM, the doorbell rang. Not a knock. A single chime.
Srikanth opened the door to find no one there.
Except for a package.
Wrapped in dark purple cloth. Clean. Precise. Neat folds. No return address.
He brought it inside, slowly unwrapping it like defusing a bomb.
Inside was a folded paper. Two human eyes were drawn on it—realistic, cold, staring. And in the center, scrawled in a jagged, blood-colored ink:
HE
The handwriting was different this time. Sharper. Angrier.
Srikanth didn't sleep that night. Because one thing was clear:
The killer wasn't hiding. The killer was watching.
And now... it was personal.