The Bhil gang, a local mafia operating out of Annapurna, was a plausible lead. Vikram raided their hideout near the Kshipra River, but the gang’s leader, a grizzled man called Bhanu, laughed off the accusation. “Malhotra? Never crossed us. Check his inner circle, Inspector. Greed cuts deeper than any knife.”

In the heart of Indore, where the neon-lit chaos of Sarafa Bazaar pulsed with life, a shadow moved unseen. The air was thick with the scent of jalebis frying in ghee and the chatter of late-night foodies. But beneath the vibrant surface, a crime was brewing, one that would draw Inspector Vikram Rathore into a labyrinth of deceit.

Vikram, a wiry man in his late thirties with a scar above his left eyebrow, was no stranger to Indore’s underbelly. His office at the MG Road police station was a cluttered shrine to unsolved cases, but his sharp mind and relentless drive had earned him a reputation. Tonight, though, he was off-duty, savoring a plate of poha at Sharma’s stall when his phone buzzed. It was Constable Shinde, his voice taut with urgency.

“Sir, there’s been a murder. Rajwada Palace. You need to see this.”

Vikram abandoned his meal and sped through Indore’s narrow streets, the city’s eclectic mix of heritage and hustle flashing by. Rajwada, the 18th-century Holkar palace, loomed ahead, its seven-story facade ghostly under the moonlight. The crime scene was in the courtyard, cordoned off by nervous constables. A man lay sprawled near the ancient well, his throat slit clean, blood pooling on the stone tiles. His expensive suit and gold watch screamed wealth.

“Arun Malhotra,” Shinde whispered, handing Vikram a wallet. “Real estate tycoon. Owned half of Vijay Nagar.”

Vikram crouched beside the body, noting the precision of the cut. “No struggle. This was quick. Personal.” His eyes scanned the scene—no footprints, no weapon, just a faint smear of sindoor near the body. Odd, he thought. Sarafa’s temples were close, but sindoor at a murder scene?

The investigation kicked into gear. Malhotra’s empire was built on shady deals, and his enemies were legion. Vikram’s first stop was Malhotra’s office in Palasia, a glass-and-steel monstrosity that screamed new money. There, he met Priya Malhotra, the victim’s wife, a poised woman in her thirties with eyes that held more secrets than grief.

“He had threats, Inspector,” she said, lighting a cigarette. “Land disputes, mostly. But Arun always handled it.”

“Handled it how?” Vikram pressed, catching the flicker in her gaze.

She shrugged. “You know how business works in Indore.”

Vikram didn’t buy the grieving widow act. Priya’s alibi—she was at a friend’s house in Rau—was shaky, and her friend’s hesitation on the phone only deepened his suspicion. Next, he tracked down Malhotra’s business partner, Sameer Khanna, at a swanky bar in AB Road. Khanna, a slick man with a gold chain, was evasive.

“Arun was reckless,” Khanna said, swirling his whiskey. “Pissed off the wrong people. Maybe the Bhil gang?”

The Bhil gang, a local mafia operating out of Annapurna, was a plausible lead. Vikram raided their hideout near the Kshipra River, but the gang’s leader, a grizzled man called Bhanu, laughed off the accusation. “Malhotra? Never crossed us. Check his inner circle, Inspector. Greed cuts deeper than any knife.”

Back at the station, forensic reports trickled in. The sindoor was a breakthrough—it matched a rare batch used at the Khajrana Ganesh Temple. Vikram visited the temple, weaving through devotees and incense smoke. The priest, a wiry man with darting eyes, confirmed Priya Malhotra had visited the night of the murder, claiming she was praying for her husband’s safety. Vikram’s gut twisted. Prayer, or a cover?

He dug deeper, pulling Malhotra’s phone records. A burner number popped up, traced to a seedy lodge in Chhoti Gwaltoli. The lodge’s register listed a “R. Sharma,” but the clerk’s description matched Sameer Khanna. Vikram confronted Khanna at his penthouse in Scheme 54, catching him off-guard.

“You were at the lodge, Sameer. Talking to Malhotra hours before he died. Care to explain?”

Khanna’s composure cracked. “Alright, we fought. He was siphoning funds from our projects. I threatened to expose him, but I didn’t kill him!”

“Then who did?” Vikram snapped, his scar twitching.

Khanna hesitated, then muttered, “Check Priya’s driver, Manoj. He’s more than he seems.”

Manoj, a quiet man in his forties, lived in a slum near Mal Godown. Vikram tailed him to a dingy tea stall in Sarafa, where Manoj met a man with a familiar face—Shyam, a lowlife fixer known for hired hits. Vikram moved in, arresting both. Under interrogation, Manoj broke.

“Priya paid me,” he confessed, sweat beading on his forehead. “She wanted Arun gone. He was leaving her for another woman. I followed him to Rajwada, used a surgical blade. The sindoor was her idea—to throw you off.”

Vikram stormed Priya’s mansion in Saket Nagar. She was calm, almost expectant, as he cuffed her. “You’ll never prove it,” she sneered. But Manoj’s testimony, paired with the sindoor and phone records, was damning. As Vikram led her to the jeep, Sarafa’s lights flickered in the distance, the city’s heartbeat unbroken.

In the end, Indore kept its secrets, but Vikram had peeled back one layer. Rajwada stood silent, its shadows hiding a thousand more stories, waiting for the next crime to unravel.