The monsoon had left Alwal, a quiet suburb of Secunderabad, draped in a humid haze. The narrow lanes, lined with old bungalows and tamarind trees, glistened under flickering streetlights. It was past midnight, and the air was thick with the scent of wet earth and something else—fear. Inspector Vikram Reddy, a seasoned officer at the Alwal Police Station, leaned against his jeep, chewing on a betel leaf. A call had come in an hour ago: a body found in the abandoned Shiva Temple near Lothukunta. 

Vikram’s boots crunched on the gravel as he approached the temple, its crumbling spire silhouetted against the moon. Constables milled about, their flashlights cutting through the mist. The victim was a young woman, no older than 25, sprawled at the base of the deity’s idol. Her throat was slit, her eyes wide open, staring into nothingness. A single jasmine flower rested on her chest, its petals stark against the blood-soaked sari.

“Any ID?” Vikram asked Sub-Inspector Lakshmi, who was scribbling notes.

“Nothing yet, sir. No purse, no phone. Just… this.” Lakshmi held up a small, tarnished locket, engraved with the initials “S.K.” Vikram’s jaw tightened. The locket was familiar, too familiar. It matched one he’d seen three months ago, on another body, another woman, found in a ditch near Suchitra Circle. Same slit throat. Same jasmine flower.

“Seal the area,” Vikram ordered. “And get forensics here. Now.”

By dawn, Alwal was buzzing with whispers. The news of the second murder had spread like wildfire through the chai stalls and vegetable markets. Vikram sat at his desk, staring at a map of Alwal pinned with red markers: the first murder at Suchitra, now the temple. Both victims were young, both killed with surgical precision, both adorned with a jasmine flower. The press was already calling it the work of “The Jasmine Killer.”

Vikram’s phone buzzed. It was Anil, his informant, a wiry auto-rickshaw driver with a knack for overhearing things. “Sir, you need to come to Venkatapuram. There’s talk about a guy seen near the temple last night. Shady type, carrying a bag.”

Vikram grabbed his khaki cap and drove to Venkatapuram, a maze of tenements and small shops. Anil was waiting near a paan stall, nervously twirling his mustache. “He’s called Raghu. Lives in the old colony. People say he’s been acting strange, sneaking around at night.”

“Why’d you run, Raghu?” Vikram asked, his voice low but sharp.

“I didn’t do anything!” Raghu stammered. “I… I just sell flowers at the market!”

“Then why were you at the temple last night?”

Raghu’s eyes darted. “I wasn’t! I swear!”

Vikram leaned closer. “We have witnesses. And your flowers match the ones on the bodies. Start talking.”

Raghu broke down, claiming he’d been paid to leave flowers at the temple by a man he didn’t know. “He wore a hood, sir. Paid me in cash. Said it was for a ritual.”

At 3 a.m., Vikram’s phone rang. It was Lakshmi. “Sir, we’ve got another one. Golnaka Road. Same MO.”

 Another woman, throat slit, jasmine flower on her chest. But this time, there was a note pinned to her blouse: “Catch me before I bloom again.”

The note was a taunt, and Vikram felt the killer’s eyes on him. He ordered a sweep of the area, but the rain had washed away any tracks. Back at the station, forensics confirmed the knife from Raghu’s house didn’t match the wounds. Raghu was a decoy, a pawn.

He sent the butt for DNA analysis and cross-checked CCTV footage from nearby ATMs. One grainy clip showed a tall man in a hooded jacket near the temple, slipping into an alley. The same man appeared in footage near Suchitra Circle three months ago. Vikram’s pulse quickened. He was closing in. The breakthrough came two days later. The DNA on the cigarette matched a sample from a decade-old assault case: Vikrant Sharma, a former surgeon who’d vanished after being accused of stalking a nurse in Secunderabad. Vikram tracked Sharma’s last known address to a posh gated community in Yapral, just outside Alwal.

Under cover of darkness, Vikram and his team raided the house. Sharma was there, calm, almost expectant. His study was a shrine to his obsession: photos of young women, surgical tools, and jars of jasmine flowers. A map of Alwal marked future targets.

“Why?” Vikram demanded, cuffs snapping on Sharma’s wrists. Sharma smiled thinly. “They were my garden, Inspector. I made them eternal.”

Vikram’s fist clenched, but he held back. Sharma’s trial would come. Alwal would sleep easier tonight.

As the jeep carried Sharma away, Vikram stood under the tamarind trees, the monsoon breeze cool against his skin. The jasmine’s scent lingered, but for the first time in weeks, it didn’t carry death.