Arjun and the woman—whose name, he learned, was Tara—followed, weaving through the chaos. The next coach was a sleeper class, packed with families and students, but the man was already gone, vanishing into the crowd. Arjun’s mind spun. If Vikram was a cop, and Meera was on this train, then this was bigger than a kidnapping. It was a setup

The night was heavy with the scent of rain-soaked earth as the Mumbai-Delhi Express thundered through the darkness, its wheels screaming against the tracks. Inside the AC sleeper coach, the dim lights flickered, casting long shadows over the passengers. Most were asleep, lulled by the rhythmic clatter, unaware of the storm brewing within the steel beast.

Arjun Khanna, a man in his late thirties with sharp eyes and a jawline etched with quiet intensity, sat by the window, his reflection staring back from the rain-streaked glass. He wasn’t here for leisure. His fingers tightened around a crumpled photograph in his pocket—a woman’s face, smiling, unaware of the fate that had torn her from his life. Six months ago, his wife, Meera, had vanished. The police called it a runaway case, but Arjun knew better. Meera wasn’t the kind to disappear without a trace. And now, a tip—an anonymous text—had led him to this train.

The message was cryptic: She’s alive. Mumbai-Delhi Express. Coach A-3. Trust no one. Arjun’s heart had raced as he boarded, his senses on edge. He scanned the coach again, noting every detail—the elderly couple snoring softly, the young man glued to his phone, the woman in a red saree reading a novel under the reading light. Something felt off, like a note played wrong in a familiar song.

Across the aisle, a man in a black jacket slouched in his seat, his cap pulled low. Arjun had noticed him earlier, lingering too long near the coach’s entrance. The man’s hands were restless, fidgeting with a lighter that sparked briefly before dying out. Arjun’s gut churned. He’d seen that kind of nervous energy before—in men who carried secrets heavier than their luggage.

The train lurched as it rounded a curve, and a muffled cry broke the silence. It came from the direction of the restroom at the end of the coach. Arjun’s head snapped up. No one else seemed to notice, lost in their own worlds. He rose quietly, slipping the photograph back into his pocket, and moved toward the sound, his steps measured but swift.

The restroom door was ajar, a sliver of light spilling onto the floor. Arjun pushed it open and froze. A man lay slumped against the wall, blood pooling beneath him, his throat slashed clean. The metallic tang of blood hit Arjun like a punch. He crouched, checking for a pulse—nothing. The man’s wallet was open beside him, ID card visible. Vikram Seth, 42, Mumbai. Arjun’s mind raced. This wasn’t random. Not on this train. Not tonight.

He heard footsteps behind him and spun around, hand instinctively reaching for the knife he carried strapped to his ankle. It was the woman in the red saree, her novel now tucked under her arm. Her eyes widened at the sight of the body, but there was something else in her expression—something calculated.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said, her voice low, almost a whisper.

“Neither should you,” Arjun shot back, standing to block her view. “Who are you?”

She hesitated, then stepped closer, her gaze flicking to the body. “Someone who knows more than you think. That man—he was a cop. Undercover.”

Arjun’s pulse quickened. “How do you know that?”

“Because I’m looking for the same thing you are,” she said, her voice steady now. “Meera.”

The name hit him like a freight train. Before he could respond, the lights in the coach flickered and died, plunging them into darkness. A scream echoed from the other end of the coach, followed by the sound of shattering glass. Arjun grabbed the woman’s arm, pulling her back into the shadows of the restroom. “Stay here,” he hissed.

“No chance,” she whispered, pulling free. “I’m in this as deep as you.”

He didn’t have time to argue. They moved together, crouching low, navigating the darkened coach. Passengers were stirring now, voices rising in panic. Arjun’s eyes adjusted to the faint emergency lights, catching a glimpse of the man in the black jacket slipping through the connecting door to the next coach. He was moving fast, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

Arjun and the woman—whose name, he learned, was Tara—followed, weaving through the chaos. The next coach was a sleeper class, packed with families and students, but the man was already gone, vanishing into the crowd. Arjun’s mind spun. If Vikram was a cop, and Meera was on this train, then this was bigger than a kidnapping. It was a setup.

They reached the luggage compartment, a narrow space stacked with suitcases and crates. The air was thick with dust and diesel. Arjun motioned for Tara to stay back, but she ignored him, her eyes scanning the shadows. A faint rustle came from behind a pile of bags. Arjun drew his knife, inching forward.

The man in the black jacket lunged from the darkness, a blade gleaming in his hand. Arjun ducked, the knife grazing his shoulder, and tackled the man to the ground. They grappled, fists flying, until Arjun pinned him, pressing his own knife to the man’s throat.

“Where is she?” Arjun growled. “Where’s Meera?”

The man laughed, a choked, guttural sound. “You’re too late. She’s not here. Never was.”

Tara stepped forward, her face pale but resolute. “He’s lying. Check the bag.”

Arjun kept the man pinned and yanked the duffel bag open. Inside were stacks of cash, a burner phone, and a single photograph—Meera, bound and gagged, her eyes wide with fear. The timestamp was yesterday.

Arjun’s vision blurred with rage. “Where. Is. She?”

The man’s laughter died as the train screeched to a halt, throwing them off balance. Sirens wailed outside—police, closing in. Tara grabbed the bag, rifling through it. “There’s a note,” she said, unfolding a scrap of paper. “A location. Delhi outskirts. Warehouse 17.”

Arjun tightened his grip on the man, but a gunshot rang out, and the man’s body went limp, blood seeping from a hole in his chest. Arjun spun around, searching for the shooter, but the compartment was empty. Tara grabbed his arm. “We have to move. Now.”

They slipped out of the luggage compartment as the police stormed the train, shouts and flashlight beams cutting through the chaos. Arjun’s mind was a storm of questions, but one truth burned bright: Meera was alive, and he was closer than ever. He glanced at Tara, her face unreadable in the flickering light. Ally or enemy, he couldn’t be sure. But for now, they were bound by the same desperate thread. The train stood still, rain hammering its steel roof, as Arjun and Tara vanished into the night, chasing a ghost who might still be saved—or a trap that would bury them both.