He drove to Karma’s guesthouse on the edge of town, a modern structure clashing with the traditional chortens nearby. Karma was there, polishing a glass behind the bar, his limp evident as he moved. “Tenzing? Haven’t seen him in weeks,” Karma said, his smile too smooth. Rinchen didn’t buy it. He noticed a fresh scratch on Karma’s hand and a faint stain on his jacket—could be blood, could be rust. He needed evidence

In the heart of Sikkim, where the Kanchenjunga looms like a silent sentinel, Gangtok’s misty streets buzzed with the usual hum of monks chanting and vendors hawking momos. But beneath the vibrant surface, a chill had settled. A prominent local businessman, Tenzing Dorji, had vanished without a trace. His family’s sprawling estate on the outskirts of the city was the last place he’d been seen, and now, three days later, the Sikkim Police were grasping at straws. Enter Detective Rinchen Lepcha, a sharp-eyed investigator with a reputation for cracking cases no one else could touch.

Rinchen arrived at the Dorji estate just as dawn broke, the air thick with fog and the scent of pine. The sprawling wooden mansion, adorned with prayer flags, seemed to hold secrets in its creaking beams. Tenzing’s wife, Pema, greeted him with red-rimmed eyes. “He left for a meeting at the old monastery near Rumtek,” she said, her voice trembling. “He never came back.”

Rinchen’s first stop was the Rumtek Monastery, a sacred site perched on a hill, its golden spires piercing the mist. The head lama, a serene figure with deep-set eyes, confirmed Tenzing’s visit. “He came to discuss funding for our restoration project,” the lama said. “He seemed… distracted. Left abruptly after a call.” Rinchen’s gut twitched. A call. That was a lead.

Back in Gangtok, Rinchen dove into Tenzing’s life. The businessman owned a chain of hotels and had his fingers in real estate, but whispers in the bazaar hinted at shadier dealings—smuggling, perhaps, or worse. Rinchen visited Tenzing’s office, a sleek setup overlooking the Teesta River. His assistant, a nervous young man named Sonam, handed over Tenzing’s phone records. One number stood out: a burner phone, called repeatedly in the hours before Tenzing vanished.

Rinchen traced the number to a seedy bar in the old market, a place where yak herders and smugglers rubbed shoulders. The bartender, a grizzled man with a scar across his cheek, clammed up when questioned. But a few rupees loosened his tongue. “Some guy met Tenzing here two nights ago,” he grunted. “Didn’t catch a name, but he had a limp and a Sikkimese accent. They argued about money.”

The limp was a clue, but Sikkim was small, and limps weren’t uncommon. Rinchen cross-referenced Tenzing’s contacts with known associates. One name popped: Karma Bhutia, a former partner turned rival, known for his limp from a mountaineering accident. Karma ran a rival hotel chain and had a reputation for playing dirty. Rinchen’s instincts screamed this was no coincidence.

He drove to Karma’s guesthouse on the edge of town, a modern structure clashing with the traditional chortens nearby. Karma was there, polishing a glass behind the bar, his limp evident as he moved. “Tenzing? Haven’t seen him in weeks,” Karma said, his smile too smooth. Rinchen didn’t buy it. He noticed a fresh scratch on Karma’s hand and a faint stain on his jacket—could be blood, could be rust. He needed evidence.

That night, Rinchen returned to the Dorji estate, combing Tenzing’s study. Hidden behind a thangka painting was a safe. Pema provided the code, her hands shaking. Inside were documents: ledgers detailing shipments of rare artifacts across the border to Nepal and China. Tenzing wasn’t just a businessman—he was smuggling Sikkim’s heritage. A note in the margin mentioned “K.B.” and a date: the day Tenzing disappeared.

Rinchen’s mind raced. Karma and Tenzing were partners in the smuggling ring, but something went sour. He called his contact at the border patrol, who confirmed unusual activity near Nathu La Pass the night Tenzing vanished—trucks moving in the dark, unregistered. Rinchen drove to the pass, the winding roads treacherous in the fog. At a checkpoint, he found a guard who’d seen a truck with a logo matching Karma’s guesthouse.

Under the cover of night, Rinchen and a small team raided Karma’s property. In a locked shed behind the guesthouse, they found Tenzing—bound, gagged, but alive. Karma had planned to dispose of him after a deal went bad; Tenzing had threatened to expose their operation to save himself. The shed also held crates of stolen artifacts—priceless Buddhist relics destined for the black market.

Karma didn’t go quietly. He bolted, limping through the misty woods, but Rinchen was faster. A tackle in the mud ended the chase, and Karma’s confession spilled out under pressure. “Tenzing wanted out,” he snarled. “He was going to ruin everything.” The artifacts, the money, the power—it was all slipping away, and Karma had panicked.

As dawn broke over Gangtok, Tenzing was reunited with Pema, though his freedom came with a price: he’d face charges for smuggling. Rinchen watched the reunion from a distance, the mist curling around him like a shroud. Sikkim’s beauty hid its secrets well, but not from him. Another case closed, but the mountain’s silence told him more would come.