The victim was identified quickly—Lakshmi, a local tailor’s daughter who’d gone missing the previous night. Her father, Venkatesh, wept as he recounted her last moments. “She said she was meeting someone near the old mill after dark. I told her not to go, but she insisted it was important.” Raghava’s ears perked up. The abandoned rice mill on the outskirts was a known haunt for shady deals. He had a lead

The sun dipped low over Siddipet, casting long shadows across the dusty streets lined with banyan trees and modest shops. The air carried the faint aroma of roasted corn and the distant hum of auto-rickshaws. It was an ordinary evening in this Telangana town—until the scream shattered the calm.

Inspector Raghava Reddy jolted upright in his creaky chair at the Siddipet police station. The call came from the edge of town near the Komati Cheruvu lake. A woman’s body had been found floating among the lotus leaves, her sari tangled in the weeds. Raghava grabbed his cap, barking orders at Constable Srinivas to ready the jeep. “Another quiet day ruined,” he muttered, though his gut told him this was no accident.

By the time they reached the lake, a small crowd had gathered—farmers, shopkeepers, and curious children craning their necks. The body lay on the muddy bank, her face pale and waterlogged, eyes wide with a terror that lingered even in death. She was young, maybe twenty-five, with a gold chain still clinging to her neck. Raghava crouched beside her, noting the bruises on her wrists and the deep gash across her throat. “Murder,” he said grimly. Srinivas gulped, turning away to shoo the onlookers.

The victim was identified quickly—Lakshmi, a local tailor’s daughter who’d gone missing the previous night. Her father, Venkatesh, wept as he recounted her last moments. “She said she was meeting someone near the old mill after dark. I told her not to go, but she insisted it was important.” Raghava’s ears perked up. The abandoned rice mill on the outskirts was a known haunt for shady deals. He had a lead.

That night, under a moonless sky, Raghava and Srinivas crept toward the mill. The structure loomed like a skeleton against the horizon, its rusted tin roof rattling in the breeze. Inside, the air was thick with the stench of decay and damp grain. Flashlights in hand, they navigated the maze of broken machinery until Raghava spotted it—a smear of blood on the floor, still tacky. Nearby lay a torn piece of cloth matching Lakshmi’s sari. “Someone dragged her from here,” he whispered, tracing the trail to a back exit.

The trail led to a narrow path winding through fields of sugarcane, ending at a ramshackle shed. Raghava signaled Srinivas to stay back as he peered through a cracked window. Inside, two men argued in hushed tones. One was burly, with a scar across his cheek, clutching a bloodstained knife. The other, lean and nervous, waved a wad of cash. “You said no one would find her!” the lean one hissed. Scarface growled, “She saw too much. Had to be done.”

Raghava’s pulse quickened. Lakshmi had stumbled onto something—smuggling, perhaps, or a land deal gone wrong. Siddipet’s rapid growth had attracted all sorts lately: greedy builders, loan sharks, and worse. He needed evidence. Slipping his phone from his pocket, he hit record, capturing their voices. But then—a twig snapped under Srinivas’s boot. The men froze, eyes darting to the window.

“Run!” Raghava barked, shoving Srinivas toward the fields. Footsteps pounded behind them as Scarface gave chase, knife gleaming. The sugarcane stalks whipped at their faces, slowing their escape. Raghava’s lungs burned, but he pushed on, zigzagging to lose the thug. A gunshot rang out—Scarface’s partner had a pistol. The bullet grazed Raghava’s arm, blood soaking his khaki sleeve. He gritted his teeth, diving into a ditch with Srinivas.

For a moment, silence. Then Scarface’s voice: “They’re gone. Let’s move the stuff before the cops swarm.” Their footsteps faded. Raghava clutched his arm, cursing. They’d escaped, but he had their voices—and a hunch about who they were.

Back at the station, Raghava played the recording for his team. The lean man’s nasal twang was unmistakable: Kishan Rao, a local real estate broker with a reputation for shady deals. Scarface was likely his enforcer, a thug named Bheem. Word on the street was Kishan was buying up farmland cheap, using threats to force sales. Lakshmi must’ve overheard their plans—or worse, seen them stash something incriminating.

The next dawn, Raghava led a raid on Kishan’s office. They found ledgers detailing illegal land grabs and, hidden in a safe, a bag of smuggled gold bars. Lakshmi’s death was collateral damage—she’d caught them moving the stash through the mill. Kishan and Bheem were arrested, their protests drowned out by the clink of handcuffs.

As the sun set over Siddipet once more, Raghava stood by the lake, watching the lotus leaves sway. Lakshmi’s killer was caught, but the town’s shadows ran deep. He lit a cigarette, exhaling into the dusk. “One down,” he murmured, “but who’s next?”