It started with silence. Not the peaceful kind. The kind that comes after something dies.

  Detective Aryan Sharma stared out over a mug of stale bck coffee, files stacked in front of him like monuments to Delhi’s endless filth. Then his phone buzzed.

  > “Sir, this is SI Tiwari from Farrukhabad. One Raghav Mishra, 38, has been missing for four days. No signs of forced entry. The family didn’t even file the report. We only found out through a nosy neighbor.”

  Aryan’s brow furrowed.

  > “Family didn’t report? That’s not a missing person. That’s a goddamn cover-up.”

  He grabbed his coat and left. The kind of cases he liked were the ones soaked in blood and lies.

  Farrukhabad. Mishra Residence.

  Small house. Cramped street. Quiet neighbors pretending they didn’t know anything. Aryan had seen this setup before. Plenty of times.

  Palvi Mishra opened the door. Pale. Still. Her face emotionless.

  > “Mrs. Mishra, when was the st time you saw your husband?”

  > “Four days ago. He said he was going for a walk.”

  > “Did he come back?”

  > “No.”

  > “And you didn’t think that was important?”

  > “It’s not the first time.”

  Aryan walked in. The house was clean. Obsessively clean. No male belongings in sight. No toothbrush. No socks. No smell of another man.

  A washing machine was running in the corner. Aryan walked to it and opened the lid. Empty. But the scent of bleach hit his nose hard.

  He looked back at Palvi.

  > “What were you washing?”

  > “Just bedsheets.”

  Aryan stared at her in silence. “Sure.”

  Over the next 48 hours, Aryan dug up everything on Raghav Mishra.

  Chronic gambler.

  Multiple debts.

  Domestic violence history.

  Recently updated his life insurance to 50 kh — nominee: Palvi.

  Aryan’s instinct screamed: this wasn’t a disappearance. This was a removal.

  He traveled to Lucknow and met Raghav’s younger brother — a drunk, useless piece of shit, but honest.

  > “Raghav called me the night he vanished. Said Palvi wasn’t speaking. Just staring. Said something was off... terrifying.”

  Back in Delhi, Aryan checked bus terminal CCTV footage from Anand Vihar. He saw Raghav — alone — looking over his shoulder. Nervous. Alive.

  Then a shadowy figure approached him. Covered face. After that, Raghav was never seen again.

  In Ghaziabad, Aryan found a chemist who remembered selling bleach, acid, gloves, and garbage bags to a woman in a scarf. Voice was soft. Eyes dead.

  > “She said she had to clean something deeply.”

  Aryan returned to Farrukhabad and secured a warrant. He had the entire backyard of the Mishra home dug up. Dogs. Shovels. Mud everywhere.

  Nothing.

  He walked back inside, sweating, furious.

  > “Where the fuck is the body, Palvi?”

  She looked him in the eye.

  > “What body?”

  > “Did you chop him up? Burn him? Feed him to stray dogs? You think you’re smarter than me?”

  She said nothing. But her eyes smiled.

  Aryan didn’t quit. He went deeper.

  He cross-checked garbage pickup routes. Found a rerouted disposal the same night Raghav vanished. Bribed the garbage truck driver until he cracked.

  > “There was a bck suitcase. Heavy. Smelled like shit and acid. I dumped it in the ndfill outside Ghaziabad.”

  Aryan and his team dug through four days of filth. Rats and rot everywhere. Until they found it:

  A half-melted suitcase. Inside: blood-soaked bones. Teeth. Torn cloth.

  Forensics confirmed it: Raghav Mishra. DNA matched. Partial jawbone. Burnt fingers.

  He arrested Palvi that night. Her daughter didn’t even blink.

  Court.

  Aryan thought the case was locked. Motive, physical evidence, timeline, history of abuse.

  But Palvi had hired a brutal defense wyer from Lucknow.

  He tore the case to shreds.

  > “There is no full body. Bones could be pnted. Teeth stolen from a cadaver. DNA results contaminated by dump site conditions. And where’s the murder weapon, detective?”

  Aryan watched his case crumble like ash.

  Palvi walked free.

  Two months ter.

  Aryan was in a run-down bar in Lucknow, chain-smoking, bitter.

  Then he saw him.

  Raghav Mishra. Bearded. Scarred. Limping. Alive.

  He walked straight to his table.

  > “So… you lived.”

  Raghav didn’t flinch.

  > “I crawled. I begged. She had a bde to my throat. I gave her everything. My bank details. My will. I told her I’d vanish if she let me live.”

  > “Why haven’t you come forward?”

  > “You saw her eyes, Sharma. She didn’t just kill me. She erased me.”

  Aryan stared at him.

  > “You deserved worse.”

  He walked out.

  No arrest. No report. No justice.

  Just silence.

  The kind that comes after something dies — and stays dead.

  THE END