The next morning, the sky remained overcast, as if holding its breath. At exactly 10 a.m., the Masked Detective and Inspector Ratan arrived at the Subarnagarh City Library.
The building was old—built during colonial times—its stone walls soaked in decades of silence and stories. A dusty scent of paper and ink clung to the air.
"Archives are in the basement," said the librarian, glancing curiously at the Detective's mask. "We keep all newspapers, journals, and city records there. But be careful—some files haven't been touched in years."
The basement was dim, lit only by flickering tube lights. Rows of metal shelves stretched endlessly, filled with bound newspapers labeled by year.
They began with the year twenty months ago.
For over an hour, they combed through yellowed pages. Missing person reports. Obituaries. School notices.
Then Ratan paused.
"Look at this," he said, pointing to a small article nearly two years old.
> "Taraniketan Tuition Student Found Dead in Apartment." Locals say the victim—identity unknown—was quiet and kept to herself. Her face was covered in deep cuts, and no ID was found at the scene. Police suspected she destroyed her own ID before the incident—but why? Ruled as suicide. Case closed. No foul play discovered.
"I remember that," said Inspector Ratan, straightening up. "I was there."
"Did you see her face?" the Detective asked.
"No," he said quietly. "Her face was... unrecognizable. Covered in cuts."
The Detective was silent for a moment. Then she asked, "Diptesh Chanda—wasn't he a part-time teacher at the tuition center?"
Ratan flipped through the tuition center staff file. "Yes. Art instructor. Taught every Thursday."
"Thursday," the Detective echoed. "That's the day Debolina had her class before she vanished."
The thread tightened.
She reached for another archive box labeled 'Police Notices: 2 Years Ago.'
Inside, buried deep in the folder, was a photo of Diptesh Chanda.
And on the corner of his desk—barely visible—was something carved into the wood.
A jagged triangle.
Her heart thudded in her chest.
"This man wasn't just a victim," she whispered. "He knew something. Maybe someone silenced him."
Suddenly, the lights in the basement flickered—then went out completely.
A loud clang echoed in the dark.
Ratan quickly pulled out his torch.
But the Detective was already moving, swift and silent, toward the source of the sound.
They turned a corner—
—and found a ladder knocked over on the floor.
A warning?
Or a trap?
"We're getting close," the Detective whispered. "And someone doesn't want us to be."
Outside, the rain returned—harder now, relentless.
And far from the library, someone sat in a dark room, watching through a security camera feed.
Their eyes fixed on the Masked Detective.
Waiting.
Plotting.
---
To Be Continued...