‘The monsoon rains battered Madras, turning the streets of Royapettah into a glistening maze of reflections. At Royapettah High, a prestigious school nestled among colonial-era buildings, the air was thick with more than just humidity. It was 1987, and beneath the school’s hallowed arches, a crime was brewing that would shake its foundations.

Detective Vikram Suresh, a wiry man with a sharp jaw and sharper instincts, stood at the school’s entrance, his khaki trench coat slick with rain. He’d been summoned by the headmaster, Mr. Rao, after a cryptic call about a missing teacher. Vikram’s reputation preceded him—a former military man turned private investigator, known for solving cases the police couldn’t touch. Royapettah High, with its elite students and whispered secrets, was no stranger to scandals, but this felt different.

Inside, the headmaster’s office smelled of old books and sandalwood. Rao, a portly man with nervous eyes, handed Vikram a file. “Miss Lakshmi Nair, our history teacher, vanished two days ago. She was last seen in the library after hours. Her bag was found, but she’s gone. The police are useless, and the parents are starting to talk.”

Vikram flipped through the file. Lakshmi was 32, unmarried, and brilliant—her notes on the Chola dynasty were meticulous, almost obsessive. A photo showed a woman with piercing eyes and a quiet intensity. “Any enemies?” Vikram asked, scanning Rao’s face.

“None that I know of,” Rao said too quickly. “She was… reserved. Kept to herself.”

Vikram’s instincts prickled. Reserved people didn’t vanish without reason. He headed to the library, a cavernous room lined with teak shelves and stained-glass windows. The librarian, an elderly woman named Mrs. Gupta, pointed to a corner table where Lakshmi’s bag had been found. “She was working late, as usual,” Mrs. Gupta said, her voice trembling. “I locked up at 9 p.m. She promised to leave soon after.”

Vikram examined the table. No signs of a struggle, but a faint smudge of red caught his eye on the edge of a shelf—dried blood, barely noticeable. He bagged it for analysis. Nearby, a book lay open: The Chola Chronicles, with a page marked on a temple in Thanjavur. A cryptic note in Lakshmi’s handwriting read, “The key lies beneath the seventh step.”

The school’s corridors buzzed with students, their whispers trailing Vikram like ghosts. He questioned Lakshmi’s colleagues, but they offered little—vague praise for her teaching, veiled disdain for her aloofness. One teacher, Mr. Pillai, a pompous man with a handlebar mustache, seemed particularly evasive. “She was always digging into old history,” he scoffed. “Too curious for her own good.”

That night, Vikram returned to the library under cover of darkness. The rain had stopped, leaving a heavy silence. Armed with a flashlight, he searched for the “seventh step.” The library had no staircase, but a spiral one led to the school’s archive room in the basement. Counting carefully, Vikram reached the seventh step. Beneath it, wedged into a crack, was a small brass key. His pulse quickened. This was no ordinary disappearance.

The key unlocked a dusty cabinet in the archive room, revealing a hidden compartment. Inside was a journal, its pages filled with Lakshmi’s notes on a Chola artifact—a rumored medallion said to hold mystical power, hidden in Royapettah centuries ago. Her final entry was chilling: “They know I’m close. I saw the shadow in the corridor. If I don’t return, check the old well.”

The school’s old well, long sealed, sat behind the cricket field. Vikram enlisted Kumar, a groundskeeper with a limp and a knack for discretion, to help pry it open. The well’s cover groaned as they lifted it, revealing a dank, spiraling staircase. Torch in hand, Vikram descended, the air growing colder with each step. At the bottom, he found a small chamber—and Lakshmi’s body, her throat slit, her eyes frozen in fear.

Vikram’s jaw tightened. The killer had been precise, professional. He searched the chamber, finding a carved stone slab with Chola inscriptions. It matched Lakshmi’s notes—a map to the medallion’s hiding place. But why kill for it? And who was “they”?

Back at the school, Vikram confronted Pillai. The teacher’s smug demeanor cracked when Vikram mentioned the medallion. “You’re chasing myths,” Pillai stammered, but his trembling hands betrayed him. Vikram pressed harder, revealing the blood smudge and the journal. Pillai’s face paled. “I didn’t kill her,” he whispered. “It was… them. The Order.”

The Order of the Saffron Veil, a secretive society tied to Royapettah’s founding, believed the medallion granted power over fate. Lakshmi’s research had threatened to expose their existence. Pillai, a reluctant member, had tipped them off. “They meet at the old temple in Mylapore,” he confessed, begging for protection.

Vikram didn’t trust the police—too many were in the Order’s pocket. He drove to Mylapore under a moonless sky, the temple’s silhouette looming like a predator. Inside, cloaked figures chanted around a stone altar. The medallion, gleaming with unnatural light, sat at its center. Vikram slipped into the shadows, his revolver ready. The leader, a man with a scar across his cheek, spoke of “cleansing” Lakshmi’s interference. Vikram’s blood boiled. He stepped forward, gun raised. “It’s over.” Chaos erupted—cloaks scattered, blades flashed. Vikram fought, his military training kicking in, until the leader lunged with a dagger. A single shot rang out, and the man fell. The medallion was secured, the Order dismantled, and Pillai turned witness. Vikram stood outside Royapettah High as dawn broke, the rain washing away the night’s sins. Lakshmi’s killer was dead, but the school’s secrets would linger. He lit a cigarette, the smoke curling like a question mark. In Madras, some shadows never faded.