⚠️ WARNING:
This story contains fictional depictions of crime and justice. It does not promote violence or vigilante behavior. Reader discretion is advised.
The sun blazed high above the city, cracking footpaths and peeling paint from roadside walls. Even the shadows seemed to sweat.
Inside Ratan's small detective office, the ceiling fan fought valiantly against the heat, wobbling like it might give up any second. Its blades clacked and groaned, useless against the thick summer air.
Kavir lay sprawled on the sofa, shirt clinging to his back, hair messier than ever—his face hidden beneath dark strands.
"I'm melting, old man," he groaned.
Ratan chuckled from behind his desk, fanning himself with a client file. "You say that every summer. Why don't you chop off those curtains on your head, huh?"
Before Kavir could respond with something sarcastic, the front door creaked open.
It wasn't a knock. Just a hesitant push.
Both men turned.
A boy, no older than twelve, stood trembling in the doorway. He was drenched in filth—wet garbage clung to his torn clothes, pieces of plastic stuck to his back, and mud caked his face. The stench of city drains followed him in.
His legs shook. His eyes darted, full of fear. All day, people had walked around him, muttering curses and curling lips in disgust. No one helped. No one even paused.
Only this office door had been left slightly open.
Cool air had leaked out like a whisper of kindness.
And so the boy had stepped in.
"Can I… just rest here a little?" he whispered, one hand clutching his stomach.
Kavir sat up slowly.
Ratan's smile vanished.
"Come in, beta," Ratan said at once, rushing over. He glanced behind the boy, half-expecting someone to drag him back out. "Sit here. You need water?"
The boy nodded shyly, still unsure if he'd be thrown out.
Kavir silently walked to the corner and returned with a glass of cold water. He placed it gently on the table.
"Drink. Slowly," he said, voice flat as ever.
The boy drank like it was his first sip in days.
"What's your name?" Ratan asked, kneeling beside him.
"…Samar."
"Tell us what happened, Samar."
Samar paused. His lips trembled, and his eyes flicked toward Kavir—who sat like a statue, watching from behind his curtain of hair—and then back to Ratan's warm, gentle face.
"I used to live with my parents… We were happy," he began, voice fragile. "We had a small house. Papa ran a tea stall. Mama helped me with homework."
He blinked fast, as if trying to hold back something.
"One morning… I went to buy milk. I didn't come back."
Ratan's hands curled into fists.
"I remember a man… He covered my face with something. It burned my nose. I couldn't breathe. When I woke up… I was in a different place. A big house. But it smelled bad."
Kavir stood up and quietly walked into the kitchen. He opened a cupboard and stared into it without seeing anything.
"They locked me up. Days passed. Then the man came again… with three aunties."
Ratan's jaw tightened.
"They gave him money. And then… I was theirs. Like a toy."
Kavir gripped the edge of the counter.
"They dressed me up, told me to smile. But then… they started hitting me. For fun. Even when I didn't do anything. They laughed when I cried."
Ratan knelt lower beside him. "You're safe now, beta. You don't have to—"
But Samar continued, like it had been bottled up for too long.
"Sometimes… they would touch me. In ways that… I didn't understand. But it hurt. It really hurt. They'd tie my hands if I tried to fight. They said they'd kill me if I told anyone."
His voice cracked.
"I didn't know who to trust. I escaped through a window while one of them was sleeping. But outside… no one helped. I tried talking to people, but they called me dirty. Or crazy."
He lowered his head.
"I just wanted some cold air."
Samar hadn't even noticed the tears rolling down his cheeks until he stopped talking. The silence in the room was thick—suffocating.
Ratan placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "You're safe here. No one will ever hurt you again. I promise."
Kavir walked back in, his face calm, carrying a clean towel. He placed it beside Samar without a word.
His silence wasn't from sadness.
It was control.
Because inside that quiet mind, Kavir was smiling.
Not at the boy's pain—but at the storm now rising within him. At the thought of three grown women laughing while torturing a child. It twisted his insides with something dark—not rage like Ratan's. Something far more dangerous.
Hunger.
Not for food.
But for screams.
For justice.
For pleasure.
The kind that only came when he bled monsters dry.
Ratan stood up and glanced at Kavir, then nodded silently. He knew that look. He didn't need to say anything.
Because he knew.
Kavir would handle it.
The police weren't part of this story.
Not anymore.
Later that night.
Kavir stood outside a two-story house, well-lit and silent. Upper class. Fancy gates. Polished garden stones. The kind of place where sins smiled from behind tinted windows.
He didn't blink.
On the balcony above, one of the women laughed loudly into her phone. Her voice echoed down the empty street.
She was the one Samar pointed at in the photo Ratan had discreetly shown him.
Kavir's eyes shimmered.
A shiver passed through his body.
He whispered under his breath:
"Let's begin the game."