The first shot rang out, then another. Arjun dove behind a rusted drum as Roy’s bullets tore through the air. Pain seared his shoulder—grazed, not fatal. He returned fire, his aim steady despite the burn. Roy staggered, clutching his side, but didn’t fall. With a snarl, he leapt into the boat, the engine roaring to life

The air in Calcutta’s dark alleys hung thick with the scent of rain and decay. It was past midnight, and the city’s pulse thrummed low, a heartbeat muffled by the damp weight of monsoon. Detective Arjun Sen moved silently through the labyrinthine lanes of Sonagachi, his boots slick against the uneven cobblestones. A flickering streetlamp cast jagged shadows, and the distant wail of a street dog echoed off the crumbling walls. Arjun’s informant had whispered of a deal going down tonight—a shipment of opium, smuggled through the Hooghly River, worth crores. But now, the informant was missing, and Arjun’s gut told him blood had already been spilled.

He paused at the mouth of an alley, his hand resting on the cold steel of his service revolver. The tip had come from Ravi, a wiry pickpocket with a knack for sniffing out trouble. Ravi had sworn the deal was set for 1 a.m. at the old Ghosh warehouse, a rotting relic from the colonial era. But Ravi hadn’t shown at their usual meet, and Arjun’s calls went unanswered. The detective’s eyes scanned the darkness, catching a glint of movement—a figure slipping behind a stack of crates.

Arjun’s pulse quickened. He edged forward, the alley narrowing until the walls seemed to press in. The Ghosh warehouse loomed ahead, its rusted iron gate ajar. He slipped inside, the air growing colder, heavy with the stench of mildew and something sharper—blood. His torch beam swept the cavernous space, revealing crates stamped with faded Bengali script. Then, it landed on Ravi.

The informant lay crumpled against a pillar, his throat slashed, eyes wide in a frozen scream. Arjun crouched, checking for a pulse he knew he wouldn’t find. The cut was clean, professional. Whoever did this wasn’t some street thug. Arjun’s jaw tightened. Ravi had been scared, but he’d trusted Arjun enough to talk. Now, that trust had cost him his life.

A faint creak broke the silence. Arjun spun, torch beam slicing through the dark. Footsteps—soft, deliberate—retreated toward the back of the warehouse. He gave chase, weaving through towering stacks of crates, his revolver drawn. The footsteps stopped. Silence. Then, a low chuckle, chilling in its calm.

“You’re late, Detective,” a voice purred from the shadows. It was smooth, accented, like polished teak. “Ravi was… uncooperative. I hope you’re wiser.”

Arjun’s beam caught a silhouette—tall, lean, clad in a long coat. The man stepped into the light, revealing a face both handsome and cruel. Deep-set eyes, a scar tracing his left cheek, and a smile that didn’t reach his gaze. Arjun recognized him instantly: Vikram Roy, the ghost of Calcutta’s underworld. A smuggler, a killer, a man who’d slipped every net cast for him.

“Roy,” Arjun growled. “This ends tonight.”

Roy tilted his head, amused. “Does it? You’re alone, Sen. No backup, no witnesses. Just you, me, and the Hooghly’s secrets.”

Arjun’s grip tightened on his revolver. “Where’s the shipment?”

Roy laughed, stepping closer, hands in his pockets. “You think this is about opium? Oh, Detective, you’re chasing shadows. The real prize is power. Control. The kind that buys men like you.”

Arjun’s mind raced. Roy was baiting him, but there was truth in the taunt. The opium was a cover—something bigger was at play. He thought of the recent murders, all high-profile, all tied to the city’s elite. Politicians, businessmen, even a police commissioner. Each death had tightened Roy’s grip on Calcutta’s underbelly.

Before Arjun could respond, a crate behind him toppled with a crash. He dove, rolling as gunfire erupted, sparks flying off the concrete. Roy vanished into the maze of crates, his laughter trailing like smoke. Arjun scrambled to cover, heart pounding. He wasn’t alone—Roy had men here. The warehouse was a trap.

Arjun crept forward, ears straining. A shadow moved to his left. He fired, the shot echoing, and a grunt confirmed a hit. One down. But more were coming—he could hear their boots, their whispered Bengali curses. He needed to find Roy before they closed in.

Slipping through a side door, Arjun emerged into a narrow courtyard, the Hooghly’s black waters glinting beyond. Roy stood at the edge, a motorboat bobbing behind him, crates already loaded. The smuggler turned, his smile gone.

“Last chance, Sen,” Roy said, drawing a sleek pistol. “Join me, or sink with the city.”

Arjun raised his revolver. “I’ll take the river.”

The first shot rang out, then another. Arjun dove behind a rusted drum as Roy’s bullets tore through the air. Pain seared his shoulder—grazed, not fatal. He returned fire, his aim steady despite the burn. Roy staggered, clutching his side, but didn’t fall. With a snarl, he leapt into the boat, the engine roaring to life.

Arjun sprinted to the water’s edge, firing until his clip ran dry. The boat vanished into the Hooghly’s mist, Roy’s laughter fading. Sirens wailed in the distance—backup, too late. Arjun sank to his knees, blood soaking his shirt, the weight of failure heavier than the wound.

The opium was gone, Roy was alive, and Calcutta’s shadows grew darker. But Arjun wasn’t done. The Hooghly kept its secrets, but he’d drag them into the light, one body at a time.