[POV: Divya]
The Textile Department's dye lab smelled like vinegar and chemical dreams. I was supposed to be here for my Advanced Fabric Manipulation module, working on "environmentally responsive weaves." My project proposal currently read: Fabric That Reacts To Trauma (Working Title). My professor loved it. Called it "viscerally post-modern."
Little did she know.
Right now, I was hunched over a stainless steel table, not with my own swatches, but with a tiny, secret scrap of midnight blue wool crepe. I'd cut it from the inside seam of Amit's tuxedo jacket on the day of the funeral, my hands shaking so badly I'd nearly sliced my finger. It was a violation. A theft from a ghost. But I needed to know.
The jacket was with the police. Would be, forever probably, in some evidence locker labeled "SUICIDE - CLOSED." But this scrap was mine. And if the fabric could talk, I needed it to scream.
Across from me, chewing gum with industrial focus, was Pia. Textile science major. Human spectrometer. She could tell you the thread count of your soul.
"So let me get this," she said, peering at the scrap under a heavy magnifying lamp. "This is from, like, a bespoke piece you made? And you think the client maybe… damaged it after the fact? Like spilled acid on it or something and is trying to blame your materials?"
My cover story. Thin, but plausible for a paranoid designer.
"Something like that," I mumbled, adjusting the lamp. "I just need to know if the fabric's integrity was compromised. Like, if it was weakened before a… a stress event."
Pia gave me a sideways look. "A 'stress event.' You mean like, someone ripped it?"
"Yeah. Or… fell in it."
She shrugged, used to artists being weird. "Okay, well, standard tests first." She began with the basics, her voice a monotone tutorial. "No obvious chemical stains. No bleaching agents. I'm not seeing pilling or abrasion marks you wouldn't expect from normal wear." She picked up a pair of surgical tweezers. "Tensile strength test."
She anchored one end of the scrap in a small clamp, gently pulling on a single thread with the tweezers. I held my breath. Amit's weight… if the fabric had been weakened, if a seam had been pre-cut…
The thread stretched, taut, but held.
"Seems strong," Pia announced. "Good quality wool. Your stitching or the tailor's?"
"Mine," I whispered, a stupid surge of pride mixing with the grief.
"Nice. Tight, even lockstitch. Nothing here would just… give way."
A dead end. The fabric was innocent. It hadn't betrayed him. It was just fabric.
The hollow feeling returned. Another door slamming shut.
"But," Pia said, leaning closer, her gum snapping. "That's weird."
My heart stuttered. "What?"
"This." She pointed with the tip of her tweezers to a tiny, almost invisible spot near the cut edge I'd made. A faint, greasy-looking smudge. "See that? It's not a stain from the outside. It's on the inner facing, near where the lining would be. And it's not body oil or sweat. Wrong viscosity."
She grabbed a clean cotton swab and a bottle of clear solvent. With a careful dab, she touched the smudge, then rubbed the swab on a glass slide. Under the lamp, the smear on the glass had a faint, yellowish tinge.
"You said stress event, right?" Pia's eyes were alight with nerdy curiosity. "Could someone have, like, applied a topical muscle relaxant? Or a heating balm? Something with methyl salicylate or capsaicin? This kinda looks like residue from a sports analgesic gel. The really strong, prescription-level stuff."
The world tilted. A greasy smudge. Inside the jacket. Near the lining.
Not on the fabric. Under it.
"What would that do?" I asked, my voice barely audible.
"To fabric? Nothing. It's a gel. It would soak into the skin." She looked at me, her curiosity sharpening into concern. "Divya… is your client okay? This is starting to sound less like a warranty issue and more like a… medical thing."
Medical. My brain scrambled. Amit didn't use muscle gels. He was twenty, not an athlete with a bad back.
But what if someone else had used it? What if the gel wasn't on Amit?
What if it was on the hands of someone who grabbed him? Someone who needed a strong, slick grip?
"Can you tell how old the residue is?" I pushed.
Pia shook her head. "Not precisely. It's stable. Could be weeks. But it hasn't been washed, that's for sure. It's intact."
Weeks. It could have been from the night he died.
A new, horrifying image bloomed in my mind. Not a push. A struggle. On a gritty rooftop. Hands in expensive grey gloves, slick with analgesic gel to ensure a firm, un-slippery grip. Grabbing the wool of his jacket from behind. The gel transferring to the inner facing in the frantic, violent motion.
No signs of a struggle on his body. But what about on his clothes?
"Can I keep the slide?" I asked, my voice tight.
Pia looked at me for a long moment. The weird-artist story was crumbling. But she was a scientist first. She loved a mystery. "Yeah. Okay. But… be careful, Divya. Whatever this is, it smells like lawyers. Or worse."
"Thanks, Pia. You're a genius." I took the glass slide, sealing it in a plastic specimen bag.
"Just doing my job," she said, but her eyes followed me as I packed up. "Hey. That fabric… it's really beautiful work. Whoever wore it was lucky."
The words were a knife to a fresh wound. "Yeah," I managed. "I guess they were."
---
I left the lab, the specimen bag burning a hole in my tote. I needed to tell Rajesh. This was a clue. A real, physical clue that pointed away from a jump and towards a fight.
But as I walked through the sun-drenched central courtyard, my phone buzzed. Not Rajesh. An Instagram DM. From an account with no profile pic, username: @truth_seekr.
@truth_seekr: The velvet speaks. But does it sing? The Sunlight fades at the depot. Warehouse 7B. Peerless Industrial Estate. Sunset is a good time for art. Come alone. Tell the CFO to balance his books elsewhere.
My blood turned to slush. I stopped walking, my back against a hot brick wall.
They knew. They knew about the fabric. They knew about Rajesh ("the CFO"). They knew Pia and I had been talking. Were they watching the lab? Did they have someone inside the university?
And they were giving me an address. An invitation. Warehouse 7B.
It was a trap. It had to be.
But it was also the first direct move. They were engaging. They were showing me the "depot" Rajesh wanted to find.
I looked at the specimen bag in my hand. The gel residue. The first piece of physical evidence that contradicted the police narrative. If I went to the police with just this, they'd shrug. If I went to the warehouse…
My phone buzzed again. Rajesh.
Rajesh: Data compiled. Three high-probability depot locations based on vehicle registrations. Sending now. Do NOT recon alone. Wait for my go-ahead.
I stared at the screen. The list of addresses would be in my inbox. One of them would be Peerless Industrial Estate. Warehouse 7B.
He'd tell me not to go. He'd plan a "tactical approach." He'd want surveillance, exit strategies, backup.
But they'd told me to come alone. And they'd referenced the fabric. They were speaking directly to me. To the girl who made the clothes. This was my thread to pull.
Me: Got it. Will review.
A lie. The first direct lie I'd told him.
I opened my email. His list came through. The third one: Peerless Industrial Estate, Ghaziabad border. Suspected secure vehicle storage.
Bingo.
I looked at the time. 4:17 PM. Sunset was around 6:30.
I had two hours to decide if I was brave enough to walk into a trap, or stupid enough to ignore the only people who might know how Amit really died.
I touched the bracelet under my sleeve. Paintbrush. Sun. Star.
He'd walked into a confrontation. Scared, but he went.
"Okay," I whispered to no one. "Let's see what truth looks like at sunset."
I started walking toward the metro station, my mind already racing ahead. I wouldn't go completely unarmed. I had my sewing kit. The heavy shears were in there. Not a weapon, but a tool. A very sharp, pointy tool.
And I had my phone. Location sharing permanently on for Rajesh. If I stopped moving, he'd know. Maybe that was enough. Maybe he was my backup, whether he liked it or not.
As the metro train rattled toward the city outskirts, I held the specimen bag up to the grimy window light. The greasy smudge on the glass slide seemed to pulse.
It was a message. From Amit's jacket. From the moment he was taken.
And I was finally going to answer it.