The lab was colder than usual. The CCTV footage had been recovered by a third-party technician- a man I trusted more than the system itself. If he said it was fixed, it was fixed.
I powered on the computer, entered my credentials, and opened the file.
11:30 p.m.
The screen glowed dimly, revealing the street outside Mahesh's Photoshop shop. The footage was grainy, colors washed out like an old nightmare replaying itself. A few pedestrians drifted past, their shadows stretching across the narrow lane. Two bikers rolled by. Innocent. Too ordinary. Nothing that screamed danger.
But danger rarely screams. It creeps.
12:00 a.m.
Still quiet. Too quiet.
At 12:12 a.m., Mahesh stepped out. He locked the shutter loosely-maybe he thought he'd be back in a minute-and walked toward a bike parked nearby. He slipped the key into the ignition.
Then...
12:15 a.m.
A figure emerged from the darkness like it had been carved out of the night itself. A man in a black hoodie, a bag slung off his shoulder, walked toward Mahesh with an unsettling stillness. He said something-too low for the camera's mic to catch-but whatever it was made Mahesh flinch. His hands shook. Fear crawled across his face.
The hooded man's back was to the camera. I clenched my jaw. If he would just turn..
Mahesh panicked. He sprinted back toward the shop.
The hooded man finally turned.
A Ghostface mask.
White. Expressionless. Dead.
He dropped his bag and ran after Mahesh, vanishing inside the shop.
My fingers trembled slightly as I switched to the next camera.
1:00 a.m.
The scene hit me like a punch. Mahesh was on his knees, blood trailing down the side of his face. The hooded man held a metal rod-a tripod leg-and struck him again. Hard. Mahesh collapsed completely, his limbs slack.
But the man didn't stop. He punched him again and again, each blow dripping with a cold, calculated fury. No rush. No panic. Just precision.
When Mahesh finally stopped moving, the man walked into another room.
I exhaled shakily and switched the camera feed.
This was the room where we later found Mahesh's body.
The man slid a metal table to the center. He set up a tripod, mounted the camera, adjusted it carefully. He moved with the calmness of someone following a checklist. A routine. A ritual.
Then he brought a chair and placed it facing the camera.
He tested the lens.
He was staging something.
He left the room, stepped outside the shop, retrieved his bag, and returned to Mahesh.
That was when I saw it.
A syringe.
Filled with a milky liquid.
Nitazenes... if I wasn't wrong.
My heartbeat quickened.
He walked back to the table and laid out surgical instruments-scalpels, clamps, forceps-as if preparing for a procedure he had rehearsed many times before.
Then he returned to Mahesh and injected the liquid into the side of Mahesh's neck.
1:25 a.m.
The man grabbed Mahesh by the hair, dragged him across the floor, and forced him into the chair. He tied his wrists to the armrests, tightening each knot with deliberate care.
Then he looked directly at the CCTV camera.
The Ghostface mask stared back at me-cold, hollow, predatory.
And the feed cut.
The computer was shut off shortly after. Someone had wanted it that way. This wasn't rage. This wasn't impulse.
This was choreography.
Whoever he was, he worked like a professional-someone confident, someone who knew no one would interrupt.
Could it be...?
"Sir..." a voice snapped me out of my spiraling thoughts.
I turned. Rhea stood by the doorway, her expression uneasy.
"Yes, Rhea?" My voice felt distant, like it belonged to someone else.
"The DIG called everyone in the meeting room."
I swallowed, still half-lost in the footage. "That-uhm... coming."
But my mind stayed behind, trapped in that cold, dark room with Mahesh... and the Ghostface killer who wasn't supposed to exist.