The next morning, Inspector Ratan stepped through the gates of Taraniketan Institution, his eyes sharp, his footsteps firm. The atmosphere was tense—whispers followed him as students parted like waves in a sea. Something had shifted. Everyone could feel it.
He headed straight to the principal's office, where Ms. Bidisha Basu—the new principal and wife of the late Animesh Basu—sat behind a polished desk.
She looked up as he entered. Her face wore a calm mask, but her fingers nervously tapped a pen.
"Good morning, Inspector," she said with a tight smile. "To what do I owe this visit?"
Ratan didn't sit. He remained standing, voice firm.
"I have a few questions, Ms. Basu. This is regarding the janitor's death yesterday."
She nodded slowly. "Yes… a tragedy. We're all still in shock."
"When did you arrive at school that morning?" he asked.
Bidisha hesitated, then answered, "Around 7:35 a.m. The guards can confirm."
"You didn't see Mahadev Das? Or hear anything unusual?" he pressed again.
"No," she said. "I went straight to the staffroom. Everything seemed normal until the scream."
Ratan scribbled a note in his pocketbook. "Was anyone else in the building before 7:15?"
Bidisha frowned. "Ms. Jayasree often comes early. She likes to prepare her lessons. And the cleaning staff usually arrives around 6:30."
He closed his notebook and stared at her. "I'll be speaking to her next."
As he turned to leave, something on the nearby bulletin board caught his eye—a flyer for the upcoming Annual Founders' Day Celebration, scheduled three days from now. A small drawing was etched in one corner of the paper.
A student doodle?
No.
A black rose.
The same symbol.
Ratan's breath caught in his throat. Was this part of a larger plan?
He stepped into the corridor just as Ms. Jayasree Mukherjee exited her classroom. Their eyes met.
She smiled.
Ratan didn't.
"I need a word with you," he said.
Her smile didn't fade. "Of course, Inspector. I've been expecting you."
He noticed something—a tattoo on her left wrist, half-hidden beneath the sleeve of her saree.
A black rose with a crescent moon at its heart.
His eyes narrowed. "So you are part of that evil organization."
Jayasree clicked her tongue disapprovingly. "No, Inspector. Don't call it evil. We have a name—The Black Rose of the Garden."
"Why did you kill the janitor?" Ratan asked, voice rising.
She laughed lightly. "Oh no, my dear Inspector. I didn't. But this… was part of the game. And he was worthy of being chosen."
"What game?"
Her eyes sparkled.
> "The game is called Psycho Doll.
The rules are simple:
Find the doll… before it kills five people."
"Who are the five victims?" he asked coldly.
She shrugged. "Anyone. A student. A teacher. Even the headmistress."
"And the doll?"
She leaned in, whispering:
> "It could be anyone.
One student…
Or many."
She turned away, walking down the hall.
> "Come find my sweet psycho doll, Inspector…
Before it finds you."
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To be continued...