The rain lashed relentlessly against the cracked windows of the old haveli, its walls groaning under the weight of decades. Inspector Vikram Rana stood at the threshold, his flashlight slicing through the darkness. The call had come an hour ago—an anonymous tip about a murder in this forsaken mansion, abandoned since the infamous Rathore family massacre twenty years ago. The air smelled of mildew and something metallic. Blood.

Vikram’s boots crunched on broken glass as he stepped inside. The beam of light landed on a body sprawled across the marble floor—a man in his fifties, his throat slit, eyes frozen in terror. A single word was scrawled in blood beside him: Karma. Vikram’s gut tightened. This wasn’t random. It was personal.

The Rathore massacre had been a grisly chapter in Jaipur’s history. Twenty years ago, on a night much like this, someone had butchered the entire Rathore family—patriarch Devendra, his wife, and their two sons. The case went cold, the killer never found. Rumors swirled of a curse, of a wronged soul seeking vengeance. Vikram didn’t believe in ghosts, but he couldn’t ignore the timing. Today was the anniversary.

His phone buzzed. It was Constable Meera, his sharp-witted partner. “Sir, the victim’s ID says he’s Arjun Malhotra. Ex-business partner of Devendra Rathore. Left town after the massacre. Why’d he come back?” 

“Find out,” Vikram said, crouching near the body. A crumpled photograph slipped from Arjun’s hand—a faded image of the Rathore family, smiling, oblivious to their fate. Someone had drawn a red X over Devendra’s face. Vikram’s pulse quickened. This was a message.

The next morning, the station was abuzz. Meera dug into Arjun’s past—financial ruin after Devendra’s death, whispers of betrayal. “He cheated Devendra out of millions,” Meera said, sipping her chai. “Maybe someone blamed him for the massacre.”

“Someone who waited twenty years?” Vikram mused, staring at the case board. “Why now?”

The answer came that night. Another murder. This time, it was Shalini Gupta, a retired journalist who’d covered the Rathore case. Her body was found in her apartment, throat slit, the word Karma smeared on the wall. A clipping of her old article—“The Rathore Mystery: A Family Betrayed”—lay beside her, stained with blood.

Vikram’s mind raced. Two victims, both tied to the Rathores, both killed on the massacre’s anniversary. He revisited the haveli, combing through its shadows. In the attic, he found a hidden box—yellowed letters, a locket, and a photograph of a young woman with piercing eyes. The letters were signed “Naina,” pleading with Devendra for forgiveness, begging him not to destroy her life. The last one was dated a week before the massacre: You’ll pay for this, Devendra. In blood. “Who’s Naina?” Vikram demanded at the station. Meera cross-checked records. “Naina Sharma—Devendra’s mistress. Disappeared after the killings. Everyone assumed she died.”

“Or she didn’t,” Vikram said grimly. “She’s back.”

The third murder confirmed it. Ravi Khanna, the Rathores’ lawyer, was found dead in his car—same MO, same word: Karma. A witness saw a woman in a black saree fleeing the scene, her face veiled. Vikram pieced it together. Naina had been scorned, humiliated, perhaps framed by Devendra’s inner circle—Arjun, Shalini, Ravi. She’d vanished, bided her time, and now, two decades later, she was settling the score.

But where was she? Vikram tracked her last known address—a crumbling house on Jaipur’s outskirts. Inside, he found a shrine to the Rathores: photos, newspaper clippings, a dagger dripping with fresh blood. And then, a sound—a soft laugh from the shadows.

“Naina,” Vikram called, gun drawn. “It’s over.”

She stepped into the light, older but unmistakable from the photograph. Her eyes burned with a quiet fury. “Over? It’s just begun, Inspector. They took everything from me—my love, my child, my name. Devendra cast me aside, and his vultures picked me clean. I waited twenty years to make them feel my pain.”

“You’re a murderer,” Vikram said, stepping closer.

“I’m justice,” she hissed, lunging with the dagger. Vikram dodged, tackling her to the ground. She fought like a caged animal, but he pinned her, cuffs snapping around her wrists.

At the station, Naina confessed. Devendra had promised her marriage, then abandoned her when she bore his child. Arjun stole her savings, Shalini smeared her name, and Ravi buried the evidence. The child died, and Naina broke. She’d killed the Rathores that night, then vanished, plotting her revenge.

As Vikram locked her cell, she whispered, “Karma spares no one, Inspector. Not even you.”

The rain stopped. The haveli stood silent. But Vikram couldn’t shake the chill in his bones. Twenty years had passed, yet the shadows of that night still stretched long and dark.