[POV: Divya]
The Peerless Industrial Estate looked like a graveyard for ambition. Rusted chain-link fences sagged under the weight of apathy. Broken windows stared like blind eyes. The air smelled of diesel and forgotten promises. Warehouse 7B was at the far end, a hulking concrete slab painted a grimy, peeling beige. The only thing that wasn't decaying was the heavy, new-looking padlock on the rolling steel shutter door.
Sunset was painting the sky in pathetic fallacy oranges and pinks. It was beautiful. It made me want to puke.
Come alone. The command echoed in my head.
My phone was in my pocket, location shared with Rajesh. I'd texted him a vague update twenty minutes ago: Following a design lead on sustainable warehouse spaces. Might lose signal. A lie wrapped in enough truth to sound plausible. He'd probably be annoyed at the lack of detail, but he wouldn't panic. Not yet.
I stood across the cracked asphalt road, hidden in the shadow of a dead forklift. My heart was a frantic drum solo against my ribs. This was monumentally stupid. This was the opening scene in every true crime podcast where they say "and she was never seen again."
But the greasy smear on the glass slide in my bag felt like a magnet, pulling me toward the warehouse. They knew about the fabric. They had answers.
A soft electronic buzz cut through the silence. The padlock on the shutter door clicked open by itself. Remote controlled.
The door didn't roll up. A smaller, human-sized door cut into the large shutter creaked open a few inches. An invitation.
Swallowing the lump of pure fear in my throat, I crossed the road. Each step echoed too loud in the empty yard. I paused at the door, my hand on the cold steel.
"Hello?" My voice sounded small, swallowed by the vast industrial silence.
No answer.
I pushed the door open and slipped inside.
The interior was a cathedral of shadows, lit only by long, dusty shafts of dying sunlight from high, grimy windows. It wasn't a vehicle depot. It was a gallery.
And the art was terrifying.
Large, coldly technical canvases lined the walls—the same style as the paintings left on the school roof. Detailed, bleak studies of industrial decay. But here, interspersed, were other things. Blown-up, framed photographs. Of Amit.
Not candids. Surveillance shots. Amit leaving the metro. Amit buying coffee. Amit walking into his grandparents' house. Amit standing on the rooftop of St. Martin's school, looking at the view, unaware he was being photographed.
My breath hitched. They'd been stalking him. For weeks.
"He had an artist's eye, your boyfriend. But no sense of composition. Too much heart. Not enough… structure."
The voice came from the deep shadows at the far end of the warehouse. Smooth. Cultured. A chill that had nothing to do with the temperature slid down my spine.
A man stepped into a sliver of light. He was in his late forties, dressed in immaculate grey linen trousers and a black turtleneck. He looked like a magazine spread for 'The Intellectual Villain.' He wasn't Vikram. I'd seen Vikram's picture—this man was sharper, colder. His eyes were the colour of a frozen lake.
"Who are you?" My voice didn't shake. I was proud of that.
"A curator," he said, smiling. It didn't reach his eyes. "Of truths. And of consequences. You can call me Karan." He gestured to the canvases. "Do you like the work? It's mine. A series on… urban conclusions."
"You killed him." The words were out, flat and certain.
Karan tilted his head, considering. "Killed is such a messy word. I facilitated an ending. One he was hurtling toward anyway. He was asking the wrong questions in the wrong rooms. He was a destabilizing element in a very delicate ecosystem. Vikram's greed is one thing. A nephew's righteous fury? That's a loose end."
He spoke about murder like it was a budget adjustment.
"The gel," I said, gripping the strap of my tote bag like a lifeline. "On his jacket. That was you. You grabbed him."
His smile widened, appreciative. "Very good. The fabric analysis. I heard you were clever. Slick hands ensure a firm grip. No struggle, no broken nails. Just a swift, decisive… redirection. Over the edge. The police see a jump. I see a perfect frame."
The casual confession, in this creepy self-made gallery, was more horrifying than any attack. He was proud of it.
"Why show me this?" I whispered. "Why bring me here?"
"To offer you a choice," he said, stepping closer. He moved silently. "Your CFO friend is digging in financial records. A nuisance. You… you're touching the art. That's more personal. I don't like people touching my work."
He stopped a few feet away. I could smell his cologne—spicy, expensive, wrong.
"Choice one," he held up a single, elegant finger. "You take this." He nodded toward a small table I hadn't noticed. On it sat a sealed envelope. "Inside is a ticket to Paris. One way. A generous stipend. A letter of recommendation to the Paris College of Art. You leave. You grieve. You become a brilliant designer. And you never, ever speak of Amit Sharma again. A beautiful tragedy becomes the fuel for a beautiful life."
My eyes flicked to the envelope. Paris. My dream. Handed to me by a murderer.
"And choice two?" My mouth was dry.
He sighed, as if disappointed by the predictable question. "Choice two is you become part of the exhibition." He gestured to a blank space on the wall between a photo of Amit and a painting of the school. "A new piece. 'The Grieving Girlfriend.' A study in futility. It would be… poignant."
The threat wasn't shouted. It was curated. My body would be his next artwork.
"You think I'd just leave?" The anger finally broke through the fear, hot and sharp. "You think a plane ticket fixes what you did?"
"It doesn't fix it," he said calmly. "It archives it. You become a closed file. The alternative is you become an open case. And I close those myself."
My phone, deep in my pocket, vibrated. Once. Then twice in quick succession. A call. Rajesh.
Karan's eyes dropped to my pocket. "He's checking on his asset. You should answer. Tell him you're safe. That you're pursuing your art. That you'll see him tomorrow."
He was right next to me now. I could see the fine weave of his turtleneck, the cold calculation in his eyes. If I ran, he'd catch me. If I screamed, no one would hear.
With trembling fingers, I pulled out my phone. Rajesh's name flashed on the screen. I swiped to answer, putting it on speaker.
"Divya." Rajesh's voice was tense, a wire about to snap. "Your location is stationary at a known industrial estate. You said design lead. Explain. Now."
I took a shaky breath, my eyes locked on Karan's smug face. "Hey, Rajesh. Yeah, I'm… I'm checking out this warehouse space. For my project. The light is… incredible at sunset."
Silence on the other end. He knew. He heard it in my voice.
"Are you alone?" His question was careful, loaded.
Karan gave a faint, encouraging nod.
"Yeah," I said, the lie tasting like ash. "Totally alone. Just me and the… the textures. It's really inspiring." I put every ounce of warning I could into that last word. Inspiring. Wrong. All wrong.
Another beat of silence. Then, his voice changed. It became lighter, conversational. Totally unnatural for him. "Great! Well, don't stay out too late. Remember we have that… group project meeting first thing. The one about the merger. Can't be late for that."
The merger. The fake case study. The one he'd walked out on.
He was telling me he understood. He was telling me to stall.
"Right," I said, my voice cracking. "The merger. Wouldn't miss it."
"Good. I'll see you then." He hung up.
Karan looked pleased. "See? Closure. Now." He picked up the envelope, holding it out to me. "Your future."
I looked at the ticket. At the blank space on the wall. At the surveillance photo of Amit, alive and oblivious.
My hand didn't reach for the envelope. It dove into my tote bag and closed around the cold, heavy handle of my sewing shears.
I yanked them out, the wicked-sharp points glinting in the dusty sunlight. I didn't point them at him. I held them like a knife, low and ready.
Karan's polished composure cracked for a microsecond. Surprise, then amusement flickered across his face. "A pair of scissors? That's your weapon? How… domestic."
"It's a tool," I said, my voice steadier now. "For cutting threads. And you're a loose end."
I didn't wait. I didn't charge him. I lunged to the side—towards his precious canvases—and slashed. The blade tore through a painting of the school rooftop with a shocking, ripping sound.
"NO!" The curator's scream was pure, undiluted rage. His art. His precious, psychotic art.
As he lunged for me, I dropped and rolled, coming up behind the table. I grabbed the Paris envelope and threw it into the air, scattering the ticket and papers like confetti.
"You ruin everything!" he snarled, all pretense gone. He was just a man now, a furious, dangerous man.
A deafening CRASH exploded from the front of the warehouse.
The entire rolling steel shutter door shuddered, then burst inward in a shriek of tearing metal. Framed by the jagged opening, silhouetted against the bloody sunset, was Rajesh's black Audi. He'd rammed the door.
He leapt out of the driver's side, not with a gun, but with a heavy, industrial fire extinguisher from his trunk.
"DIVYA!" he roared.
Karan froze, stunned by the vehicular intrusion.
"I'm here!" I screamed back.
Rajesh's eyes found me. Then found Karan. He didn't hesitate. He ran straight at him, raising the fire extinguisher like a battering ram.
Karan, to his credit, moved fast. He dodged the swing, and his hand went to his own waist. A sleek, black knife appeared in his hand.
It wasn't a fair fight. Rajesh with a fire extinguisher, Karan with a blade. But Rajesh had momentum, rage, and a complete disregard for his own safety. He swung the extinguisher again, catching Karan in the shoulder. The man grunted, stumbling back.
"The car! NOW!" Rajesh yelled at me, never taking his eyes off Karan.
I didn't need telling twice. I sprinted for the shattered doorway, my shears still clutched in my hand. I dove into the passenger seat of the Audi, the engine still running, groaning in protest.
Rajesh backed toward the car, still facing Karan, who was getting to his feet, knife held low.
"This changes nothing!" Karan shouted, his voice echoing in the wrecked space. "You have no proof! You have nothing but a ruined car and a story no one will believe!"
Rajesh reached the driver's seat, slammed it into reverse, and peeled backward, away from the warehouse, the mangled shutter door scraping against the car's roof with a teeth-jarring shriek.
He spun the wheel, slammed it into drive, and we shot forward down the industrial road, the ruined warehouse and the frozen-lake-eyed man shrinking in the rearview mirror.
Neither of us spoke. The only sounds were the ragged gasps of our breathing and the Audi's damaged frame groaning in protest.
He drove for five minutes in furious silence before pulling over in a well-lit gas station. He turned to me, his face pale, a cut on his forehead bleeding. "The shears?" was all he said.
I looked down at my hand, still locked in a death grip around the tool. I slowly unclenched my fingers. "They… seemed appropriate."
He stared at me for a long moment. Then, he did the last thing I ever expected.
He laughed. A short, sharp, almost hysterical sound.
"You," he said, shaking his head, the adrenaline shaking through him, "are the most insane, reckless, impossible asset I have ever managed."
I looked at the torn paintings, the scattered Paris ticket, the shattered door in the rearview mirror. The greasy smear on the glass slide was still in my bag. We had a confession. We had a face. We had a enemy who cared more about his art than his crime.
"Yeah," I said, my own hysterical laugh bubbling up to meet his. "But I got us a gallery show."
He stopped laughing, his eyes meeting mine. In them, I didn't see anger. I saw a grim, terrified, electrified respect.
The game had just changed. We were no longer investigators.
We were prey who had just turned and bitten the hunter.
And he knew our names.