That night, the fog thickened, cloaking Gangtok in an eerie hush. Sonam pored over the case files in her cramped office, the mud sample’s report blinking on her screen: traces of red clay, unique to the hills near Nathu La Pass, a smuggling hotspot. Her phone buzzed—Pema, breathless. “Ma’am, I followed that man from the teahouse. He’s at the old warehouse on Arithang Road. Something’s going down

In the mist-draped hills of Gangtok, where prayer flags fluttered like whispers of the divine, a crime had shattered the city’s serene facade. The body of Tenzing Dorji, a prominent local businessman, was found sprawled on the icy steps of the Enchey Monastery, a single gunshot wound through his heart. The Sikkim Police, unaccustomed to such brazen violence, called in Detective Sonam Lepcha, a sharp-eyed investigator with a reputation for unraveling the impossible.

Sonam arrived at the crime scene as dawn broke, the air thick with fog and the scent of juniper. The monastery’s crimson walls loomed above, silent witnesses to the night’s brutality. Tenzing’s body lay undisturbed, his silk scarf stained crimson, his eyes frozen in a final moment of shock. The head monk, Lama Rinchen, stood nearby, his face etched with grief. “He was here for the midnight prayers,” the lama murmured. “A devout man. Who could do this?”

Sonam crouched beside the body, her gloved fingers tracing the wound’s edges. “Clean shot. Professional,” she muttered. No shell casing, no footprints on the frost-covered steps. The killer had been meticulous. She scanned the surroundings— prayer wheels, a flickering butter lamp, and the distant hum of morning chants. Something caught her eye: a faint smear of mud on the railing, too fresh for the night’s chill. “Someone was here,” she said to Constable Pema, her young aide. “Get this sampled.”

The investigation led Sonam to Tenzing’s sprawling mansion in Tadong, where his widow, Meena, greeted her with tear-streaked defiance. “My husband had no enemies,” she insisted, clutching a jade rosary. But the opulent house told a different story—gold-plated statues, imported whiskey, and a locked study that Meena reluctantly opened. Inside, Sonam found ledgers hinting at Tenzing’s ties to smuggling routes across the Indo-Tibetan border. Opium, artifacts, maybe worse. “He was a businessman,” Meena said, her voice brittle. “Not a saint.”

Sonam’s next stop was the MG Marg, Gangtok’s bustling heart, where Tenzing’s partner, Rajesh Thapa, ran a teahouse that doubled as a gossip hub. Rajesh, a wiry man with a nervous tic, poured Sonam a cup of butter tea. “Tenzing was getting greedy,” he admitted, glancing at the crowded street. “He crossed someone big. Maybe the Triad.” The word hung heavy—Chinese gangs had long eyed Sikkim’s strategic border for their operations. Sonam pressed him, but Rajesh clammed up, his eyes darting to a man in a black cap loitering outside.

That night, the fog thickened, cloaking Gangtok in an eerie hush. Sonam pored over the case files in her cramped office, the mud sample’s report blinking on her screen: traces of red clay, unique to the hills near Nathu La Pass, a smuggling hotspot. Her phone buzzed—Pema, breathless. “Ma’am, I followed that man from the teahouse. He’s at the old warehouse on Arithang Road. Something’s going down.”

Sonam grabbed her revolver and drove through the mist, her jeep’s headlights slicing the darkness. The warehouse was a hulking shadow, its windows boarded. She slipped inside, the air reeking of diesel and damp wood. Voices echoed—a heated argument. Creeping closer, she saw the man in the black cap, now unmasked, barking orders at two others unloading crates. “The boss wants the shipment moved tonight,” he snarled. “Tenzing’s death has the cops sniffing.”

Sonam’s heart raced. She recognized the crates—military-grade, likely weapons. Before she could move, a floorboard creaked under her boot. The men spun, guns drawn. “Who’s there?” the leader shouted. Sonam ducked behind a crate as bullets splintered the wood. Thinking fast, she kicked over a stack of barrels, sending them crashing. In the chaos, she fired, wounding one man in the leg. The others fled, tires screeching outside.

Pema arrived with backup, but the warehouse was empty save for the crates and the wounded man, who refused to talk. The crates held rifles, unmarked, bound for the black market. Sonam’s mind raced—Tenzing’s ledgers, the Triad, Nathu La. The pieces were falling into place, but the killer’s face remained elusive.

Back at the station, a breakthrough: the mud on the monastery railing matched the warehouse’s clay. The killer had been at both scenes. Sonam revisited Meena, probing deeper. “Who did Tenzing meet at Nathu La?” she demanded. Meena’s composure cracked. “He never told me names,” she whispered. “But he was scared. Said someone was watching us.”

The final clue came from Lama Rinchen, who called Sonam to the monastery. “I found this in Tenzing’s prayer book,” he said, handing her a slip of paper with a name: Chen Wei. A known Triad enforcer, rumored to be in Gangtok. Sonam coordinated with border police, who tracked Chen to a safehouse near Rumtek. In a tense raid, they cornered him, his gun still warm from Tenzing’s murder. Chen sneered as they cuffed him. “Tenzing thought he could cheat us,” he spat. “No one cheats the Triad.”

As Chen was led away, Sonam stood on the monastery steps, the fog lifting to reveal Gangtok’s snow-dusted peaks. Tenzing’s greed had cost him his life, but the Triad’s shadow still lingered. She lit a butter lamp for the dead man, her breath visible in the cold. “One down,” she murmured, knowing the hills held more secrets yet to be uncovered.