Chapter 1: Is it really an Accident?
It was a dry afternoon, and the hum of tires against concrete echoed faintly on the near-empty outskirts of the city highway. William Jerry, seventeen, leaned against the hood of his car, eyes narrowed at the crowd that had gathered ahead. He had been traveling with his cousins when their car slowed to a halt. Not because of traffic—but because something wasn't right.
People were blocking the narrow stretch of road. There weren't many vehicles—just a few scattered along the shoulder. Far from the city's bustle, it felt oddly quiet for a highway. His cousins stayed back, seated in the car, but William, driven by a strange instinct, stepped out.
As he walked closer—just close enough to see, but far enough to avoid suspicion—he observed what the others missed. The terrain dipped slightly near the roadside: a sandy slope, three feet deep, where the body of a woman lay, lifeless. A scooter was sprawled nearby, oddly untouched. No police had arrived yet—standard response time in these parts was around 25–30 minutes. Only a few nurses and aid workers were present, trying to keep the onlookers at bay.
William's eyes scanned the scene methodically. No signs of a sudden stop. No tire marks. No shattered parts. The scooter looked... fine. Too fine for what was being described as an "accident."
His mind ran cold and fast.
> "Normally, if a car hit a scooter, there would be chaos. Wreckage. The back of the vehicle should be damaged. The scooter's guard should be bent or bruised from impact."
> "Unless... unless she fell on her own. Panic? Perhaps a car swerved or overtook her too suddenly. Could she have tumbled in fear?"
But that didn't add up either.
From a distance, William noticed something far more disturbing: her wrist, unnaturally bent, appeared shattered—as if crushed by heavy metal. Not a fall injury, but a deliberate strike. Even more strange was the blood on her mouth. It was dark... too dark. And there was no sign of impact to her face, chest, or stomach.
> "Dark blood from the mouth—dry, thick. Not caused by trauma. It suggests something internal. Something poisonous."
The young detective didn't need to crouch over the body to know. The setting told him everything. The body placement on the slope... the eerie stillness... the dry blood pattern.
His gaze shifted. Two cars had stopped near the scene. One had a husband and wife. The other carried four bachelors. William's eyes narrowed further.
One of the bachelors was holding a bottle—medical alcohol—and a glove in the other hand. Another was on a phone call. The rest simply watched the crowd, like actors waiting for the curtain to fall.
> "A glove and medical alcohol?" William thought. "Trying to 'clean' something? Or mask something?"
He felt a chill run up his spine. There was barely any blood on the ground—far less than what a real slope fall would cause. This wasn't an accident. It was a setup.
> "She was tortured," he murmured under his breath, just loud enough for himself. "Hit with something like a rod, somewhere else. Maybe in a room. Cleaned. And then dumped here. The blood's dry—she was poisoned about an hour ago."
That's when the sirens pierced the silence. The police had arrived.
They approached the group of four. The bachelor holding the glove stepped forward quickly.
"I'm a forensic student," he said, composed. "I noticed some dark blood, so I took a sample. I've sent it to my professor—Jougler Kinston, ex-forensic analyst."
The officer recognized the name. His demeanor softened.
"It's okay, sir. We know you. You may leave. Just let me note down your statement."
The others nodded. The scene slowly dissolved. The crowd thinned. The woman's body was lifted into an ambulance. Everyone else returned to their vehicles. But William stood motionless, frustrated.
> "I can't say a word," he thought. "If I speak, I'll be marked."
He returned to the car, his mind spinning, doubts festering. As the engine started, he heard a low murmur from the driver's seat.
Chandrashekar Garuda, his cousin A CBI Investigator. A man of quiet presence, composed and unreadable—yet now visibly shaken.
> "It's them... same methods," Chandrashekar whispered. "I shouldn't intervene."
William didn't reply. He didn't need to.
Because in that moment, both of them knew—
This was no accident.
It was a message.
And the shadows were only beginning to stir.
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TO BE CONTINUED...