The cotton market was a chaotic sprawl of traders, hawkers, and hustlers, a perfect hideout for petty criminals. Vikram parked near a banyan tree and walked the muddy lanes, his boots sinking into the earth. He flashed Ravi’s photo at chai stalls and paan shops, asking about “Bhaiya.” Most shook their heads, but an old man selling roasted corn squinted at the picture and spat red betel juice into the dirt. “That’s Ravi. Saw him arguing with Bhaiya two nights ago. Near the old godown.”

The air in Nagpur was thick with the scent of monsoon rain and the faint tang of oranges, the city’s pride. Inspector Vikram Deshmukh leaned against the rusted railing of his balcony, sipping a cup of cutting chai, his sharp eyes scanning the bustling street below. It was July, and the city hummed with life despite the drizzle. His phone buzzed on the chipped wooden table beside him, shattering the brief calm. A new case. A body had been found near the Sitabuldi Fort, tucked away in an alley behind a row of shuttered shops. The message was curt: “Unidentified male. Stabbed. Get here fast.”

Vikram arrived at the scene in his battered jeep, the windshield wipers slapping rhythmically against the glass. The alley was narrow, barely wide enough for two men to stand abreast, and the rain had turned the ground into a slurry of mud and blood. A constable waved him over, his khaki uniform clinging damply to his frame. The victim lay sprawled against a crumbling brick wall, a single stab wound to the chest, his eyes wide and unseeing. No wallet, no phone, no clues—just a cheap silver ring on his finger, engraved with a faint lotus design.

“Looks like a robbery gone wrong,” the constable muttered, scratching his head. “But why leave the ring?”

Vikram crouched beside the body, his knees creaking from years of chasing leads through Nagpur’s labyrinthine streets. The ring caught his eye. It wasn’t valuable enough to pawn, but the lotus etching nagged at him. It reminded him of something—a local gang, maybe? He’d seen that symbol before, scrawled on walls near Deekshabhoomi or whispered about in the seedier tea stalls of Itwari. “Bag it,” he ordered, standing up. “And get me a list of missing persons reported in the last week.”

Back at the station, Vikram pored over the files, the ceiling fan whirring lazily above. Nagpur wasn’t Mumbai or Pune—crime here was quieter, more personal. A missing persons report caught his eye: Ravi Shinde, 28, a mechanic from Sadar, hadn’t been seen since Friday. His sister had filed the report, mentioning a fight with a coworker over money. Vikram tapped his pen against the desk. It was a start.

He drove to Sadar, the jeep rattling over potholed roads. Ravi’s sister, Priya, lived in a cramped flat above a tailoring shop. She was a wiry woman with tired eyes, her hands fidgeting as she spoke. “He owed money to some thug,” she said, voice trembling. “Said he’d fix it. Then he didn’t come home.”

“Who was the thug?” Vikram pressed.

“Someone called Bhaiya. That’s all he said. Works near the cotton market.”

The cotton market was a chaotic sprawl of traders, hawkers, and hustlers, a perfect hideout for petty criminals. Vikram parked near a banyan tree and walked the muddy lanes, his boots sinking into the earth. He flashed Ravi’s photo at chai stalls and paan shops, asking about “Bhaiya.” Most shook their heads, but an old man selling roasted corn squinted at the picture and spat red betel juice into the dirt. “That’s Ravi. Saw him arguing with Bhaiya two nights ago. Near the old godown.”

The godown was a derelict warehouse, its tin roof sagging under the rain. Vikram approached cautiously, hand resting on the holster at his hip. The door creaked open, revealing a dim interior littered with broken crates. A figure moved in the shadows—a stocky man with a scar slicing across his cheek. Bhaiya.

“Police,” Vikram barked, drawing his gun. “Hands up.”

Bhaiya froze, then smirked. “You’re late, Inspector. Ravi’s already paid his debt.”

“With his life?” Vikram stepped closer, the lotus ring burning a hole in his pocket. “You stabbed him.”

Bhaiya’s smirk faltered. “He came at me first. Self-defense.”

“Then why strip him clean but leave the ring?” Vikram held it up, the lotus glinting faintly. “This ties you to the Vipers, doesn’t it? Your little gang.”

Bhaiya lunged, a knife flashing in his hand, but Vikram was faster. A shot rang out, echoing off the rusted walls. Bhaiya crumpled, clutching his leg, blood pooling beneath him. Vikram cuffed him, his breath steady despite the adrenaline coursing through him.

At the station, Bhaiya confessed under pressure. Ravi had borrowed money to pay off a gambling debt, but when he couldn’t repay, Bhaiya lured him to the alley under the pretense of a deal. The argument turned deadly, and Bhaiya panicked, stripping Ravi of anything traceable—except the ring, a Viper marker he’d overlooked in the dark.

Vikram stood on his balcony that night, the rain finally easing. Nagpur stretched out before him, a city of secrets and survival. He sipped his chai, the case closed but the weight of it lingering. Another life lost to the shadows, another story buried in the mud.