The air at Katni Railway Junction hung heavy with coal dust and the faint tang of diesel. It was past midnight, and the platform buzzed with the restless energy of late-night travelers—families huddled on benches, hawkers calling out chai and samosas, and the occasional rumble of a freight train slicing through the humid night.

Inspector Vikram Rathore, a wiry man with a salt-and-pepper mustache and a permanent scowl, stood near Platform 3, his eyes scanning the crowd. A cryptic tip had brought him here: a murder was about to unfold, the informant had whispered over a crackling phone line, and the killer would vanish with the 1:15 a.m. Jabalpur Express.

Vikram’s instincts, honed over two decades with the Madhya Pradesh Police, told him to trust the tip. Katni, a gritty railway hub, was no stranger to crime—petty thefts, smuggling, the occasional brawl. But murder? That was rare. He adjusted his khaki cap and lit a cigarette, the ember glowing faintly as he watched the station clock tick closer to 1:00 a.m. The informant had mentioned a “red suitcase” as the key to identifying the victim. Vikram’s gaze darted to every bag in sight, but red suitcases were everywhere—cheap, mass-produced, and maddeningly common.

A commotion near the ticket counter caught his attention. A man in a crumpled kurta, sweating profusely despite the cool night, argued with a clerk. He clutched a red suitcase, its handle wrapped in duct tape. Vikram edged closer, his hand resting on the holster beneath his jacket. The man’s eyes were wild, darting toward the platform where the Jabalpur Express was due to arrive. Vikram’s pulse quickened. This could be his mark.

“Sir, ticket nahi hai, you can’t board!” the clerk barked. The man slammed a fist on the counter, muttering something about missing a connection, then stormed toward Platform 4, dragging the suitcase. Vikram followed, weaving through porters and stray dogs. The station’s loudspeakers crackled, announcing the Express’s arrival in ten minutes. Time was slipping away.

On Platform 4, the crowd thickened. Vikram kept the man in sight, noting his nervous glances at a group of college students joking nearby. Was one of them the target? The suitcase man stopped near a rusted bench, setting his bag down. He pulled out a phone, his fingers trembling as he typed. Vikram, now just a few feet away, caught a glimpse of the screen—a message: “It’s done. Meet at Carriage 7.” 

Vikram’s mind raced. Was this man the killer or the victim? He needed more. He scanned the platform for anything out of place. A woman in a green saree lingered near a tea stall, her face half-hidden by her pallu. She wasn’t drinking her tea, just watching the suitcase man. Vikram’s gut twisted. Two players in this game, maybe more.

The Jabalpur Express roared into the station, its brakes screeching like a wounded animal. Passengers surged forward, and Vikram nearly lost sight of the suitcase man in the chaos. He pushed through, his eyes locked on the red bag. The man boarded Carriage 7, and Vikram slipped in behind him, keeping his distance. The carriage was dimly lit, smelling of sweat and metal. The man sat near the window, the suitcase at his feet, his hands fidgeting.

Vikram took a seat across the aisle, pretending to read a tattered newspaper. The woman in the green saree boarded too, settling a few rows ahead. She glanced back once, her eyes locking with the suitcase man’s for a split second. Vikram caught it—a signal. His hand tightened on the newspaper. The train lurched forward, and the lights flickered.

Then it happened. A muffled thud, like a sack hitting the floor. Vikram’s head snapped up. The suitcase man was slumped in his seat, his head lolling to one side, a thin trickle of blood seeping from his temple. The red suitcase was gone. Vikram sprang to his feet, shouting for the conductor, but the carriage was a tangle of startled passengers. The woman in the green saree was nowhere in sight.

Vikram crouched beside the body, checking for a pulse—nothing. A small puncture wound marked the man’s neck, barely visible. Poison? A silenced weapon? The precision suggested a professional. He searched the man’s pockets, finding a crumpled train ticket and a photo of a young girl, maybe ten years old, smiling at a fair. No wallet, no ID. The killer had been thorough.

The train screeched to a halt at a signal just outside Katni, giving Vikram a narrow window. He radioed for backup, but the station was a good ten minutes away. He moved to the next carriage, scanning for the woman or the suitcase. At the far end, he spotted it—red, duct-taped handle, tucked under a berth. He approached cautiously, aware of every shadow. As he reached for it, a hand grabbed his wrist.

It was the woman in the green saree, her grip iron-strong. “Don’t,” she hissed. Her eyes were sharp, not panicked. “You don’t know what’s in there.”“Then tell me,” Vikram growled, twisting free but keeping his voice low. The carriage was half-empty, but eyes were on them.

“It’s not about him,” she said, nodding toward the dead man’s carriage. “It’s about what he was carrying. Open that case, and you’ll regret it.”Vikram’s mind spun. A setup? Blackmail? Smuggling? He didn’t trust her, but her warning carried weight. He pulled out his service pistol, keeping it low. “Who are you?”

She hesitated, then leaned in. “Railway Police, undercover. That man was a courier for a syndicate. The suitcase has evidence—documents, maybe worse. They’ll kill to keep it buried.”Vikram’s jaw tightened. He didn’t buy it fully, but her badge, flashed briefly, looked real. “Then why’s he dead?”“Someone got to him first,” she said. “Probably on this train.”

The signal changed, and the train jolted forward. Vikram made a call—open the suitcase or detain her. He chose both. “Stay here,” he ordered, prying open the suitcase with a penknife. Inside were files, photos, and a small vial of clear liquid. The documents listed names—politicians, cops, even a railway official. A corruption ring, maybe tied to smuggling through Katni’s freight lines.

Before he could read more, a blade glinted behind him. He ducked, the knife grazing his shoulder. The woman lunged, tackling the attacker—a porter who’d been hovering earlier. They wrestled, and Vikram joined in, subduing the man with a swift blow to the temple. The porter was out cold, a syringe in his pocket matching the victim’s wound.

Backup arrived as the train pulled into the next station. The woman, Agent Meera, explained the syndicate’s reach, how Katni’s junction was a hub for their operations. The suitcase’s contents would crack the case wide open, but the killer—the porter—was just a hired hand. The real mastermind was still out there.

As dawn broke over Katni, Vikram stood on the platform, the suitcase secured, the body bagged, and Meera coordinating with higher-ups. The station hummed back to life, oblivious to the night’s chaos. Vikram lit another cigarette, his scowl deeper. The Jabalpur Express was gone, but the hunt was far from over. Somewhere, another train was rolling, carrying secrets that wouldn’t stay buried long.