The Shatabdi Express sliced through the inky blackness of the Indian countryside, its rhythmic clatter a lullaby to the weary passengers aboard. It was March 19, 2025, and the train, bound from Delhi to Mumbai, carried a mix of travelers—businessmen, families, and a lone figure in a gray hoodie who kept his head low.

In Coach B, Seat 12A, sat Inspector Vikram Rathore, a grizzled cop with a reputation for sniffing out trouble. He wasn’t on duty tonight, or so he told himself. Retirement was two weeks away, and this trip was meant to be a break. But trouble, it seemed, had a way of finding him.

Across the aisle, a woman in a red saree fidgeted with her phone. She was beautiful—sharp cheekbones, kohl-lined eyes—but her nervous glances betrayed her. Vikram had noticed her at the station, arguing with a man in a leather jacket who’d disappeared before boarding. Now, she sat alone, clutching a small handbag like it held her life’s secrets. Next to her, a portly businessman snored, oblivious to the tension brewing in the dimly lit coach.

The train jolted as it hit a curve, and a scream pierced the air. Vikram’s instincts kicked in. He leapt to his feet, scanning the coach. The scream came from the next car—Coach C. Passengers stirred, murmuring in confusion, as Vikram pushed through the narrow aisle, his hand brushing the holster he still carried out of habit.

In Coach C, a crowd had gathered near the lavatory. A young attendant, pale and trembling, pointed inside. “He’s… he’s dead!” she stammered. Vikram elbowed his way through and froze. Slumped against the sink was the man in the leather jacket from the station. Blood trickled from a gash on his temple, staining the floor crimson. A broken bottle of Old Monk rum lay beside him, its jagged edge glinting under the flickering light.

“Everyone, back to your seats!” Vikram barked, flashing his badge. The passengers obeyed, whispering theories—accident, suicide, murder. Vikram knelt beside the body, checking for a pulse. Nothing. The wound was too precise for a fall, the bottle too conveniently placed. This was no accident.

He radioed the next station, but the train wouldn’t stop for another hour—plenty of time for a killer to vanish into the chaos of 300 passengers. Vikram’s eyes darted to the woman in the red saree, who’d slipped into Coach C unnoticed. She stood at the edge of the crowd, her face a mask of shock—or was it guilt? He approached her.

“Name?” he asked, voice low.“Meera… Meera Kapoor,” she replied, her eyes avoiding his. “You knew him, didn’t you? I saw you at the station. She hesitated, then nodded. “His name was Arjun. We… worked together. He was drunk, upset. I didn’t think he’d—” Her voice cracked, but Vikram wasn’t buying the tears. Something about her felt rehearsed.

“Stay where I can see you,” he ordered, turning back to the crime scene. He needed evidence, fast. The train’s CCTV was down—conveniently, the attendant said—and the murder weapon was a common bottle, untraceable. But then he spotted it: a faint smear of red on the lavatory doorframe. Not blood—lipstick. The same shade Meera wore.

Vikram’s mind raced. Was she the killer, or a pawn in a bigger game? He scanned the coach again. The businessman from Coach B had wandered in, now wide awake, clutching a briefcase. His shifty eyes met Vikram’s, then darted away. Suspicious.

The train lurched again, and the lights flickered out. Gasps filled the air. Vikram drew his gun, senses on high alert. When the lights returned, the businessman was gone—and so was Meera’s handbag. Vikram cursed under his breath and bolted toward Coach B.

He found the businessman in the passageway, briefcase open, rifling through Meera’s bag. Inside was a stack of cash and a USB drive. “Hands up!” Vikram shouted. The man froze, then lunged, swinging the briefcase. Vikram dodged, tackling him to the floor. The USB clattered free.Meera appeared, breathless. “That’s mine! He stole it!”

“Quiet!” Vikram snapped, cuffing the businessman. “What’s on this drive?”“It’s… evidence,” she whispered. “Arjun and I were smuggling data—corporate secrets. That man works for the buyer. Arjun got greedy, wanted more money. They fought, and—”“And you finished him off?” Vikram pressed.“No! I swear!” she cried. But the lipstick smear nagged at him.

The train slowed as the next station approached. Vikram secured the businessman and Meera, confiscating the USB. He’d let the local police sort it out—but deep down, he knew the truth was murkier than Meera’s story. The lipstick, the timing, her composure—it all pointed to her. As the train screeched to a halt, Vikram glanced at her one last time. Retirement could wait. This case wasn’t over.