The Karnaphuli River slithered through Chittagong like a serpent bloated on monsoon secrets, its muddy waters lapping at the concrete piers under a sky the color of bruised steel. Inspector Arif Rahman lit a bidi, the acrid smoke curling into the humid air as he stared at the bloated corpse bobbing against the pilings. The victim was Elias Karim, the port's iron-fisted shipyard magnate, his silk suit shredded like confetti, a single gunshot wound blooming red across his starched white shirt. No wallet, no watch—just a gold locket clutched in his stiff fingers, engraved with the name "Laila."

"Another one for the river gods," muttered Sergeant Habib, Rahman's shadow of a partner, wiping sweat from his brow. Karim had enemies thicker than the fog rolling in from the Bay of Bengal—rival smugglers, crooked customs officials, and a wife who loathed him more than the rats in the docks.

By noon, Rahman was knee-deep in the labyrinth of Agrabad's commercial alleys, where tea stalls hissed steam and autorickshaws honked like angry geese. Karim's office overlooked the shipyard, a fortress of rusting hulls and whispering welders. The desk was a chaos of ledgers, but one file caught Rahman's eye: invoices for "antique artifacts" shipped to Dubai, stamped with falsified dates. Smuggling. Old as the port itself.

"Inspector saheb!" A wiry clerk named Jamal burst in, eyes wide as saucers. "Bhai's men were here last night. Shouting about debts."

Bhai—the moniker for Reza Chowdhury, Karim's cutthroat competitor, a man whose beard hid more knives than a fishmonger's stall. Rahman pocketed a crumpled receipt from the desk: payment to a "Laila Begum" for "consulting services." The locket's name burned in his mind.

The trail led to Tiger Pass Road, where colonial bungalows decayed amid bougainvillea-choked gardens. Laila Begum's home was a faded pink villa, its verandas guarded by potted palms. She answered the door in a crimson sari, her kohl-lined eyes cool as the river at midnight. Mid-thirties, elegant, with the poise of someone who'd danced on graves.

"Elias was a fool," she said, pouring chai into chipped cups. No tears, just the faint tremor in her hand. "He thought he could buy loyalty. But Reza... Reza promised more."

Reza. Rahman leaned forward, the steam from the chai veiling her face. "You were lovers?"

She laughed, a sound like shattering glass. "Consultants, Inspector. For his little games with the artifacts. Ancient Buddha heads from the hills, smuggled out in tea crates. Elias double-crossed him—sold a shipment to another buyer. Reza's temper is legendary."

Outside, thunder grumbled, the first fat drops of rain pattering the tin roof. Rahman pressed: "Where were you last night?"

"Here. Alone." Her gaze flicked to a side table, where a pearl-handled revolver glinted innocently.

Habib, stationed at the gate, radioed in: "Boss, spotted Bhai's goons circling the block. Red Suzuki, plate matches the yard logs."

Rahman stood, the chair scraping like a warning. "Stay put, Begum. Lies float like bodies in the Karnaphuli."

The chase erupted as they hit the slick streets. Rain lashed the windshield of their battered Ambassador, wipers slapping futilely. The red Suzuki darted through Pahartali's crowded bazaar, horns blaring, vendors scattering like pigeons. Rahman floored it, the engine roaring defiance. The Suzuki veered toward the shipyard's labyrinthine docks, where skeletal cranes clawed the sky. Habib chambered a round in his service pistol. "They're cornered, saheb!"

But Reza's men were ghosts in the downpour. The car skidded into a warehouse, doors slamming shut like jaws. Rahman killed the engine, rain drumming on the roof. They approached on foot, boots splashing through oily puddles. Inside, the air reeked of rust and brine, crates stacked like tombstones.

A shadow lunged—steel pipe whistling. Rahman dodged, tackling the thug into a pile of chains. Fists flew, grunts echoing. Habib fired a warning shot, the muzzle flash carving yellow ghosts in the gloom. "Reza! Show yourself!"

From the catwalks above, a voice boomed, oily as engine grease. "Inspector! This is business, not your circus."

Reza Chowdhury descended like a king, flanked by two bruisers, his gut straining against a gold-threaded vest. In his hand, a snub-nosed Beretta—same caliber as the slug in Karim's chest.

"You killed him," Rahman growled, wiping blood from his split lip. "For a crate of idols?"

Reza chuckled, rain dripping from his beard. "Karim was skimming. Thought he could play me with that whore Laila. She tipped me off—said he'd stashed the latest haul in the riverbed, weighted for retrieval."

The locket. Rahman feigned a step forward, mind racing. "Laila? She sang to you?"

"Every night." Reza's eyes gleamed. "But you... you're in the way."

He raised the gun. Time fractured. Rahman lunged, Habib's shot cracking the air. The bullet grazed Reza's shoulder, spinning him. Chaos erupted—bruisers charging, crates toppling in a avalanche of splintered wood. Rahman grappled Reza to the wet concrete, knee in his back, cuffing him as thunder applauded.

Dawn broke gray over the Karnaphuli, the river regurgitating its secrets. Divers hauled up a tarp-wrapped crate: bronze statues, eyes staring sightless from millennia past. Laila Begum sat in interrogation, her sari wilted, makeup streaked like war paint.

"You played them both," Rahman said, sliding the locket across the table. It was hers—stolen by Karim in a lover's quarrel, now damning evidence.

She met his gaze, unbroken. "Elias trusted no one. I trusted the highest bidder. Reza paid upfront."

The twist uncoiled like a vine: Laila had fired the shot, not Reza. She'd lured Karim to the docks, staged the "double-cross" tale to frame her rival. The receipt? Forged. The revolver from her villa matched the ballistics.

"Why?" Rahman pressed, though he knew the rot in Chittagong's underbelly.

"Freedom," she whispered. "From men who own everything but their souls."

Reza, bandaged in the next cell, spat curses. "That snake! She played us all!"

As Laila was led away in irons, she paused, her voice a silken thread: "Tell me, Inspector—would you have pulled the trigger for less?"

He watched her go, smoke trailing from his lips. In the city of ghosts, some questions sank without answer.