Chapter 1: The Silent Death

The crescent moon hung in the sky like a thin scythe, barely illuminating the sprawling, high-end apartment complex of Crescent Heights. It was a community known for its luxury, sophistication, and exclusivity. Each tower boasted 30 floors, housing families who lived their lives in privacy, shielded from the outside world. On the surface, it was the epitome of wealth and security. But tonight, a sinister presence seemed to grip the pristine towers.

It was just past midnight when the security guard, Shinde, made his rounds. At first, it was nothing unusual—the soft hum of air conditioning, the occasional flicker of dimmed lights through curtained windows. But as he neared the eighth floor of Tower A, a foul stench stopped him in his tracks. It was unlike anything he had encountered before. It wasn’t just the smell of spoiled food or damp, unclean air. It was much worse—rotten, decayed. The kind of odor that sets your teeth on edge.

He hesitated for a moment, trying to locate the source. As he walked down the corridor, the odor thickened around Apartment 8B, making him gag. Heart pounding, Shinde knocked on the door, hoping the tenant would answer, but there was only silence. The door was locked. Instinctively, he knew something was terribly wrong.

He picked up his radio and called the building supervisor. “Sir, we need the police. Something is not right in 8B.” His voice trembled, though he tried to sound composed.

Within the hour, Inspector Pranav arrived at Crescent Heights. Known for his sharp intellect and calm, methodical nature, Pranav had solved some of the city’s most perplexing cases. He was in his late thirties, his chiseled features framed by short black hair, streaked with the faintest touch of gray at the temples. His eyes, always observant, held the weight of a thousand unsolved mysteries, but tonight, they burned with a quiet determination.

Pranav stepped out of his car, met by the security guard and a group of anxious neighbors who had gathered in the lobby. His team had already cordoned off the floor to avoid contamination of the crime scene. As he rode the elevator to the eighth floor, his mind raced through possible scenarios. Accidents were rare in buildings like this—too much control, too much care in the infrastructure. This had to be something more.

When he reached Apartment 8B, the smell hit him like a brick wall. The door was still locked from the inside. “Break it down,” he ordered, his voice cold and controlled. The officers took a heavy metal rod and, after a few solid hits, the door creaked open.

The stench of death greeted them, thick and suffocating. Pranav was the first to step inside, pulling a handkerchief over his nose as his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. The apartment was impeccably neat—too neat, he thought. The furniture was arranged with care, nothing seemed out of place. No signs of struggle, no overturned objects. It was as if the place had been frozen in time.

In the center of the living room, her body lay still. Meera, a 25-year-old woman who lived alone, was sprawled across the marble floor, her head tilted to the side. Her face, once lively and beautiful, was now an eerie shade of pale. There were no visible bruises, no cuts or gashes, no signs of violence—except for one thing. Her throat had been slit. It wasn’t a jagged cut made in a struggle, but a clean, surgical incision, executed with precision.

Pranav knelt beside the body, examining the wound closely. It wasn’t deep enough to cause excessive bleeding, which explained why there wasn’t a single drop of blood anywhere in the apartment. But there was something else—something unsettling. The wound was too deliberate, too practiced. Whoever had done this knew exactly what they were doing.

“Strangulation, too,” the forensics expert whispered as she joined him at the scene. “But no signs of struggle.” Her eyes darted around the room. “It’s like she didn’t even fight back.”

Pranav’s eyes scanned the living room. It was stark, cold, impersonal. He stood and wandered through the apartment. The kitchen was spotless, the dining room table meticulously set for one, and the bedroom—a picture of tranquility. As he walked into the bedroom, something caught his eye. It was small, barely noticeable, but there it was—a hidden camera. Placed underneath the mattress, it seemed to have been watching the bed. He examined it closely, but it was non-functional. It had been there for a while, undetected, silently observing.

Someone had been watching her.

But why?

As he searched the room further, his fingers brushed against a crumpled note under the mattress. Scribbled hastily, the words were barely legible: “It’s watching. Always watching.” Pranav’s heart skipped a beat. A chill ran down his spine, but he showed no sign of emotion. Something far more disturbing was at play here.

“Get this to forensics,” he said quietly, handing the note to one of his officers. His mind was already working through the possibilities. Was this a stalker? An ex-lover? Someone who wanted control over Meera’s life and death?

As he stepped out of the apartment, the weight of the mystery pressed down on him. He had faced many cases before, but something about this one felt different. There was no blood, no struggle, no immediate clues—only a surgical slit, a hidden camera, and a cryptic note.

The rain began to fall softly as Pranav looked out at the high-rise towers of Crescent Heights. Somewhere in these apartments, a killer was watching, waiting.