CHAPTER 1 — The Weight of Silence

The heavy clouds over Chennai hadn’t moved in days. A dull grey light poured through the high windows of Commissioner Ravichandran’s office, casting long shadows across the room. The air inside smelled faintly of old paper, brass polish, and the sharpness of silence.

Pranav stood across from the Commissioner’s desk, arms loosely crossed. The faint creak of the ceiling fan above filled the pause between them.

“A week ago,” Ravichandran began, voice low but steady, “you caught a man who killed twelve people… and still made half of us pity him.”

Pranav smiled faintly. “Aravind was… layered. He didn’t kill out of impulse. He waited years. That kind of silence is louder than rage.”

Ravichandran leaned back, studying him for a long moment. “You and your team — Mitra, Thameem, Murali — you did something many wouldn’t even try. Not just solving it… but understanding it.”

Pranav gave a small nod. He had replayed that week’s events countless times in his mind, yet the faces of the victims and Aravind both haunted him equally.

The Commissioner opened a drawer, pulled out a thick, worn file and placed it gently on the desk between them. The paper edges were yellowed. A rubber band held the bundle tight, as if it were trying to contain years of pain inside.

He didn’t speak immediately.

Instead, he looked out the window for a few seconds before turning back to Pranav.

“There’s something I need you to take up,” he said. “A case I’ve never been able to forget. Personal.”

Pranav’s brows lifted slightly. He walked forward and sat down, hands resting on his knees.

“Seventeen years ago,” Ravichandran began slowly, “my college mate — Raghavan — was arrested for the murder of his wife, Lakshmi.”

He paused. The name left a hollow echo in the room.

“They’d been married seven years. No history of violence. No complaints. No rumors. One night she was found dead — her skull fractured. Blunt trauma. He was home. No break-in. No robbery. Everything pointed to him.”

Pranav stayed quiet, letting the weight of the words settle.

“I was just a low-ranking officer then. Couldn’t do much. I believed him, Pranav. I still believe him. But the evidence…” Ravichandran’s voice faltered. “It was brutal. His fingerprints were on the weapon. The neighbors heard screaming. Her blood was all over him when police arrived. He said he found her that way. That she was still breathing when he reached her.”

The Commissioner’s eyes darkened.

“No one believed him. The court ruled fast. Open and shut, they said. But it broke him. He was sentenced for life, and in two years, he had… changed. He stopped speaking. The prison labeled him mentally unstable. I visited him thrice. He didn’t even recognize me the last time.”

The silence that followed was thick with old guilt.

“I became Assistant Commissioner. Tried to reopen the file. But I was transferred. Again and again. Every time I tried, something got in the way. The system didn’t want an old, closed case reopened — especially not when it risked admitting a mistake.”

He gestured to the file. “No one gave me the time or the people. Until now.”

Pranav leaned forward and took the file. The weight was real — not just in paper.

“I want the truth,” Ravichandran said quietly. “Whatever it is. If he did it… fine. I’ll accept it. But if he didn’t — if he spent seventeen years punished for something he didn’t do — I want him to die with that cleared.”

Pranav opened the first page. Black-and-white photographs stared back. A bedroom smeared with blood. A young woman with shattered skull and lifeless eyes. A man, sobbing and handcuffed on a bedroom floor.

“Raghavan was a literature professor,” Ravichandran added. “Brilliant, soft-spoken. He wrote poetry, not rage. Lakshmi worked in a bank. No children. No history of abuse. No motive. Nothing that made sense.”

“And yet?” Pranav asked.

“And yet,” Ravichandran said, “the story was too convenient. A man. A dead wife. A quiet house. The end.”

He stood, walked to the window, then turned back.

“Take the file. Go where you want. Re-interview whoever you need. You have my full permission, all access. I’ve waited seventeen years to say this to someone — but now I believe I’ve found the only team that can crack it.”

Pranav stood, file in hand. “I’ll take it up,” he said.

Outside, the rain began again, soft at first, like memory returning.

Back in the hallway, he found Mitra, Thameem, and Murali waiting.

He handed the file to Mitra. “Seventeen years old. Woman murdered. Husband in jail. Commissioner believes he’s innocent.”

Thameem blinked. “That’s… personal.”

“Exactly,” Pranav replied. “And it’s our next case.”