The morning was a bleak gray, the kind that felt heavy against the skin.

Jagendra and Nikita sat across from each other in a grimy tea stall near Lingaraj Market, trying to piece together their next move.

Both of them felt it — a tightness in the air.

The clock was ticking.

“We need access to case files that were buried. Old Sangha-related disappearances,” Nikita said, voice low.

Jagendra nodded. “There’s only one man with access to those without raising alarms.”

He didn’t need to say the name.

Inspector Arvind Mishra.

A man whose badge was as filthy as the gutters of Old Town. Whispers said Mishra had ties to bootlegging, brothels, even “private disappearances.” Officially, he was “an exemplary officer.”

Unofficially?

A weapon for anyone who could pay.

__

They met him outside the crumbling police outpost near Rasulgarh. Mishra was waiting for them, leaning against his white Scorpio SUV, chewing paan lazily, a stain of red at the corner of his lips like blood.

“Well, well,” he sneered, arms folded. “Detective sahab and his pretty sidekick. What brings you crawling to my side of the city?”

Jagendra kept his hands loose by his side, but Nikita could feel the tension thrumming under his skin like a live wire.

“We want old case files,” Jagendra said. “Bhakta Padma Sangha. All disappearances tied to it.”

Mishra laughed — a short, sharp bark.

“You think I’m your bloody librarian, huh? Get lost. Before I plant drugs on you both and make you disappear.”

Jagendra stepped closer, lowering his voice.

“You were paid to bury those cases, weren't you?” His tone was almost casual. “By them. By the cult.”

Mishra's smile faltered.

Nikita watched the shift — the flash of fear before arrogance returned.

“You don't know what you're messing with,” Mishra said, voice tight. “This city belongs to gods older than your tiny brains can handle. They are awake now.”

Nikita stiffened.

They are awake now.

It was the same phrase found carved under one of the victims' fingernails.

Jagendra caught it too. His eyes hardened.

“We're not leaving without the files,” Nikita said sharply.

Mishra's face twisted in a snarl. “You’re dead anyway. Both of you. He's already marked you.”

Before Jagendra could react, Mishra grabbed for the revolver tucked into his belt.

But Jagendra was faster.

One smooth, brutal punch — straight to Mishra's throat.

The inspector crumpled, gasping for breath.

Jagendra knelt by him, voice cold:

“You're going to open that archive, Inspector.

Or you'll be found floating in the Daya River before sunset.”

Mishra, choking, nodded frantically.

---

Minutes later, they were in the backroom of the police outpost, rifling through dust-choked boxes. Nikita's hands shook slightly as she pulled file after file.

Then she found it.

A list of missing girls — names they recognized — each one linked to the Sangha.

Each one marked with a lotus symbol in red ink.

At the bottom of the list was a new name.

Nikita Rao.

And scrawled beside it, underlined twice:

"Harvest: Tonight."

Nikita's blood ran cold.

Jagendra looked at her, jaw set, rage and fear mixing in his eyes.

The killer wasn't planning.

He was ready.

And they were already out of time.