The monsoon had just broken over Kanpur like a vengeful god, turning the narrow lanes of Sisamau into slick rivers of muck and regret. Inspector Rajesh Kumar wiped the rain from his mustache, his khaki uniform clinging like a second skin. It was past midnight, and the Ganges Bridge loomed ahead, its iron skeleton groaning under the weight of autorickshaws and the occasional truck hauling leather hides from the tanneries. Kanpur's lifeblood—its foul, aromatic tanneries—pulsed even in the downpour, the stench of chemicals mingling with the river's eternal rot.

A constable waved him over to the riverbank, where a cluster of locals huddled under black umbrellas, murmuring in Bhojpuri. "Saab, yeh dekho," the young man said, pointing to a bloated form tangled in the reeds. Rajesh shone his torch. The body was that of Vijay Malhotra, the leather baron whose factories on the GT Road churned out shoes for half of India's malls. His throat was slit clean, like a goat at Bakrid, and his gold Rolex glinted mockingly in the beam.

Malhotra, 52, had enemies thicker than the fog rolling off the Ganges. Rivals in the Jajmau tanneries whispered of cutthroat deals, bribes to overlook polluted effluents dumped into the river. But this? This was personal. Rajesh squatted, noting the absence of blood trails—dumped from upstream, likely. He pocketed a soggy business card from the victim's pocket: "Sattu Exports, Allen Street."

By dawn, the station house on Mall Road buzzed like a beehive. Rajesh sipped milky chai from a kulhad, scanning Malhotra's file. Born in a chawl near the Cawnpore Woolen Mills, he'd risen from stitching soles to owning three factories. Divorced, no kids, but a mistress in the posh Civil Lines bungalows. And debts—lakhs to the local loan sharks near the Naveen Market.

His first lead came from the postmortem: death around 10 PM, blade from a tannery knife, no prints. Rajesh drove his battered Gypsy to Jajmau, the industrial sprawl where the air burned your lungs. The tanneries squatted like crouching beasts, vats bubbling with chromium and hides from who-knows-where. He cornered Ravi Sharma, Malhotra's rival, in a office reeking of formaldehyde.

"Saab, we competed, haan, but murder?" Sharma's eyes darted like rats in the bazaar. He was a wiry man with paan-stained teeth, his factory walls plastered with faded posters of Lord Shiva. "Vijay was smuggling—exotic skins, tiger, croc. I told the forest officials, but nothing happened. Payoffs, saab."

Smuggling. It fit. Kanpur's underbelly thrived on it: fake Aadar cards hawked in the Sadar Bazaar, gutkha laced with opium. But tiger skins? That was big game, pulling in poachers from the Dudhwa reserves up north. Rajesh pressed: "Names?"

Sharma leaned in, voice a hiss. "Raju the Butcher, near the Phool Bagh. He supplies the hides. But watch your back—Malhotra's goons are loyal."

Raju's den was a slaughterhouse off the Faizabad Road, where goats bleated their last in the humid dusk. Rajesh arrived as the adhan echoed from a distant mosque, blending with the whir of ceiling fans. The butcher, a hulking figure with arms like ham logs, was sharpening blades when Rajesh burst in, flanked by two constables.

"Where's the skin trail?" Rajesh barked, dodging a swing from Raju's cleaver. The fight spilled into the yard, blood from fresh kills slicking the concrete. One constable cuffed Raju as he slumped, but not before he spat: "Malhotra double-crossed us. The consignment was for Dubai—croc skins worth crores. He skimmed, so we... taught him."

It unraveled from there. Raju fingered a driver, a wiry Bihari named Kali, who confessed over filter cigarettes at the thana. The murder happened on the old Bithoor road, Malhotra lured for a "deal" at a derelict haveli by the Ganges' bend. Kali drove the boat that dumped the body. But the mastermind? "Boss is inside," he muttered, eyes on the floor.

Inside. Rajesh's gut twisted. His partner, Sub-Inspector Neha Gupta, the sharp one with IIT Kanpur brains wasted on paperwork. She'd been pushing for that promotion, complaining about Rajesh's "old-school" ways. Late nights, unexplained cash in her locker.

He confronted her that evening in the station's dim corridor, rain lashing the windows like accusations. "Vijay was your uncle's contact, wasn't he? The smuggling ring— you handled the payoffs to the forest ranger."

Neha's face crumpled, mascara running like black tears. "Rajesh ji, it was for the girls' school. The bribes... they took everything. Malhotra threatened to expose me when I tried to quit. I had no choice."

Choice. In Kanpur, where the Ganges carried sins away but never the stains, choice was a luxury for the rich. Neha had hired Raju, but the slit throat was her order— a desperate bid to bury the ledger.

Rajesh arrested her at dawn, the city stirring with cycle bells and chaiwallahs' cries. As handcuffs clicked, she whispered, "Forgive me, bhaiya. This city eats its own."

He drove to the Ganges ghats alone, watching the sun fracture on the polluted waters. Malhotra's empire would crumble, tanneries seized, smugglers scattered like paan spittle. But Kanpur endured— its bridges sagging under secrets, its people weaving through the chaos with quiet defiance. Rajesh lit a beedi, inhaling the bitter smoke. Another shadow lifted, but the river whispered of more to come.

In the markets of Govind Nagar, whispers already stirred of a new baron rising from the ashes. Kanpur never slept; it schemed.