In the humid haze of Balasore's monsoon season, where the Subarnarekha River swelled like a serpent guardingancient secrets, Inspector Rajesh Das arrived at the crime scene just as the first raindrops kissed the earth. Itwas July 15, 2025, and the air hung heavy with the scent of wet paddy fields and distant sea salt. The village ofBasta, on the outskirts of Balasore town, was a patchwork of thatched roofs and betel-nut groves, but tonight, itwhispered of death.

The body lay sprawled in the shadow of the crumbling Jagannath Temple, its idol staring impassively from thealtar. Vijay Rout, a 52-year-old scrap dealer who supplied metal to Chandipur's missile testing grounds, had beenshot twice in the chest. His kurta was soaked crimson, and clutched in his rigid fist was a crumpled envelopesealed with red wax—a symbol that made Das's stomach twist. The wax bore the imprint of a coiled cobra, themark of the dreaded "Naga Syndicate," smugglers who trafficked everything from arms to illicit ore alongOdisha's coast.

Das knelt beside the corpse, his torch cutting through the gloom. Rain pattered on the temple's tin roof, drowningout the crickets. "Time of death?" he barked at Constable Mishra, who fumbled with his notepad.

"Around 10 PM, sir. Locals heard a muffled pop—like fireworks. Found him at midnight during the evening aarti."

Das nodded, his mind racing. Rout wasn't just any dealer; whispers linked him to the syndicate, fencing black-market titanium scraps from failed rocket tests. But why here, under the gods' gaze? He pried open theenvelope. Inside: a single sheet, scrawled in Odia script. "The river knows your sins. Pay or drown." Nosignature, but the threat was clear.

By dawn, the station buzzed like a disturbed hive. Balasore's police outpost was a squat concrete bunkeroverlooking the National Highway, flanked by chai stalls and honking lorries hauling ore to Paradip Port. Dassipped bitter tea, poring over Rout's file. Divorced, two daughters in Bhubaneswar, debts up to his ears from afailed shrimp farm. Suspects? Plenty. His rival, Gopal Sahu, another scrap baron who'd accused Rout ofundercutting prices. Or Priya, Rout's estranged sister, who ran a fishing cooperative and claimed he'd swindledher out of ancestral land near the Bhitarkanika mangroves.

Das started with Gopal. The man's godown, a rusting warehouse by the riverbank, reeked of engine oil and fishguts. Gopal, pot-bellied and sweating under a faded Arsenal jersey, smirked as Das flashed the photo of theenvelope.

Never seen it, Inspector. Vijay was a snake himself—stole my contracts with the DRDO boys in Chandipur. Butkilling? Nah, too messy for business."

Das pressed. "Your lorry was spotted near the temple last night. Driver says you argued with him over payment."

Gopal's eyes flickered. "Business tiff. He owed me 5 lakhs. But I don't carry a gun—use fists for that."

A partial truth, Das noted. Gopal's alibi checked out: he'd been at a cockfight in Balasore town till 11 PM. But thedriver's log showed a detour to Basta. Sloppy.

Next, Priya. Her hut in Remuna, amid coconut palms swaying like weary dancers, felt worlds away from thegrime of the highway. She was wiry, her sari salt-stiffened from sea winds, eyes sharp as a fisherman's hook.

"Vijay was poison," she spat, stirring a pot of dalma over a chulha. "Sold our father's land to those syndicatedogs for a pittance. Said it was for the girls' education. Lies. Now the river's poisoned too—chemical runoff killingmy nets."

Das showed her the note. Her face paled. "The Naga? They came to me last month, demanding 'protection' formy boats. I told them to swim with the crocodiles."

Alibi: She'd been mending nets with neighbors till 9 PM, then home alone. Thin, but corroborated. Yet, as Dasleft, he spotted a fresh tattoo on her wrist—a faint cobra outline, inked in henna that hadn't fully washed away.

Back at the station, the rain had turned torrential, flooding the courtyard. Das's phone buzzed—a tip from ananonymous fisherman: "Check the scrap yard at midnight. The ghost walks."

Superstition or bait? Das armed himself with his service revolver, a relic Webley from colonial days, and slippedinto the night. The yard was a labyrinth of twisted metal and derelict trucks, the Subarnarekha murmuring nearbylike a conspirator. Lightning cracked, illuminating a figure dragging a sack toward the water.

"Halt!" Das shouted, heart pounding.

The figure spun, dropping the sack. It was Mishra, his own constable, face gaunt under the beam. "Sir! I—"

"Explain." Das cuffed him swiftly.

Mishra crumpled. "Rout found out about the side deals. The syndicate pays me to look the other way onsmuggled crates. He threatened to talk. Gopal put the contract out—through Priya. She's his lover, sir. They metin Remuna last Diwali."

Das's mind reeled. The tattoo, the note—Priya's handiwork, scripted to frame the syndicate. Gopal's lorry fortransport. And Mishra, the inside man, tying the noose.

"But the shot?" Das demanded.

Mishra sobbed. "I did it. At the temple. He begged, said he'd disappear. But orders are orders."

Sirens wailed as backups arrived, hauling the trio in. Gopal blustered denials; Priya cursed in Odia, her facadecracking like monsoon mud. As dawn broke over Balasore's mist-shrouded fields, Das watched the river carryaway the night's filth. The Subarnarekha, ancient witness, flowed on—swallowing sins, birthing new shadows.

\In the outpost, filing the report, Das lit a beedi, staring at the cobra seal. The syndicate's tendrils ran deep, fromChandipur's sands to Bhadrak's ports. One bust down, a hydra's heads to go. But for now, justice had bittenback.

The girls, informed by telegraph, arrived by noon train from Bhubaneswar. They wept over their father's shroudedbody, unaware of the fortune in hidden scraps that Das had uncovered—enough to bury debts and build dreams.As the pyre smoked on the ghat, pythons slithered unseen in the undergrowth, and Das vowed: the river wouldrun red no more.