The mist hung low over the Ganges, curling around the stone steps of Varanasi’s Dashashwamedh Ghat like a shroud. It was just past midnight, and the city’s usual cacophony of temple bells and chanting sadhus had faded into an eerie stillness. Ravi Sharma, a wiry man in his thirties with a perpetual five-o’clock shadow, stood at the edge of the water, clutching a crumpled photograph.

His eyes darted nervously between the dark ripples and the labyrinth of narrow alleys behind him. He wasn’t a religious man, but tonight, he’d come to the river seeking something—absolution, perhaps, or just a way out.

Two days earlier, Ravi had been a nobody, a small-time photographer snapping tourists posing with sadhus for a few rupees. That was until he’d met her—Lalita Devi, a woman with kohl-lined eyes and a voice like a monsoon wind. She’d hired him to tail her husband, Vikram, a wealthy textile merchant with a reputation for ruthlessness. “I need proof,” she’d whispered, slipping him a wad of cash. “He’s hiding something.” Ravi hadn’t asked questions.

The money was good, and Lalita’s perfume lingered in his senses long after she’d left. The job had seemed simple: follow Vikram, snap a few discreet shots, and hand them over. But simplicity evaporated the moment Ravi’s lens caught Vikram slipping into a derelict haveli on the outskirts of the city. Through the cracked window, Ravi saw it—a woman, bound and gagged, her sari torn, her eyes wide with terror.

Vikram stood over her, barking orders to a hulking man with a scar running down his cheek. Ravi’s hands trembled as he clicked the shutter, capturing the scene. He didn’t know what he’d stumbled into, but he knew it was bigger than infidelity.

Now, standing by the ghat, Ravi clutched the photograph he’d developed in his tiny darkroom. It was his insurance, his ticket out of whatever hell he’d wandered into. He’d called Lalita an hour ago, his voice shaking as he told her to meet him here. “Bring cash,” he’d said. “And don’t tell Vikram.” She’d agreed, her tone icy yet calm, as if she’d expected this all along.

A soft splash broke his thoughts. Ravi spun around, peering into the fog. “Lalita?” he called, his voice swallowed by the damp air. No answer. Then, a shadow moved—a figure emerging from the mist, slow and deliberate. It wasn’t Lalita. It was Vikram.

The merchant’s silk kurta gleamed faintly under the ghat’s lone flickering lamp. His face was a mask of cold fury, his eyes glinting like polished obsidian. In his hand, he held a revolver, its barrel catching the light. “You should’ve stayed in your lane, photographer,” Vikram said, his voice low and venomous. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice you skulking around?”

Ravi’s heart pounded. He took a step back, his foot slipping on the wet stone. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he stammered, clutching the photograph tighter.

“Don’t play stupid,” Vikram snapped, advancing. “You’ve been sniffing where you don’t belong. Hand it over.”

Ravi’s mind raced. He could run, but the alleys were a maze, and Vikram’s goons were likely lurking nearby. He could fight, but the gun made that a fool’s errand. Then he saw it—a flicker of movement behind Vikram, a silhouette in the mist. Lalita? Hope flared, then died as quickly as it came. The figure stepped forward, and Ravi’s stomach dropped. It was the scarred man from the haveli, grinning like a jackal.

“You’re late, Arjun,” Vikram said without turning. “Tie him up. We’ll deal with him at the house.”

Ravi bolted. He darted toward the steps, his lungs burning as he climbed, the photograph crumpling in his fist. Gunshots cracked behind him, echoing off the ancient stones. He didn’t look back. The alleys swallowed him, their twisting paths a gamble between escape and doom. Footsteps pounded in pursuit—heavy, relentless.

He ducked into a shadowed doorway, pressing himself against the damp wall. His breath came in ragged gasps as he fumbled with the photograph. It was his only leverage, but it was useless if he didn’t survive the night. Then he heard it—a soft rustle, too close. He turned, and there she was: Lalita, her sari shimmering like a ghost’s veil, her face unreadable.

“Lalita, thank God—” he began, but the words died in his throat. She wasn’t alone. Arjun loomed behind her, his scar twitching as he smirked. And Vikram stepped into view, gun still in hand.

“You’re predictable, Ravi,” Lalita said, her voice dripping with disdain. “Did you really think I’d pay you to ruin my husband? We’ve been cleaning up loose ends for months—smugglers, blackmailers, pests like you.” Ravi’s knees buckled. The photograph slipped from his fingers, fluttering to the ground. It wasn’t proof of Vikram’s guilt—it was a trap, and he’d walked right into it. Lalita had played him from the start, her tears and cash a lure to flush out anyone sniffing too close to their operation.

Vikram raised the revolver. “The river takes what we give it,” he said, almost reverently. The last thing Ravi saw was Lalita’s faint smile as the gunshot split the night, and the Ganges welcomed him into its depths.