Chapter 2: Bloodless Clues

As the rain drummed lightly against the window panes, Pranav found himself back at his office. The sterile glow of the fluorescent lights bounced off the walls, illuminating stacks of case files and evidence boards cluttered with old and new mysteries. Yet none of them bothered him like the case of Meera.

He couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched himself. That hidden camera, the surgical precision of the cut, and the eerie note haunted his thoughts. The idea that someone had been observing her, maybe for days, weeks, or longer, sent a chill down his spine. Who was “always watching,” and why had they chosen Meera?

As the night deepened, he sat at his desk reviewing the autopsy report. The forensic team had confirmed what he suspected: the cause of death was strangulation, followed by the clean incision across the throat. The strangest part? The wound wasn’t deep enough to bleed much. Whoever did this was meticulous, deliberate, and chillingly calm.

A sudden knock interrupted his thoughts. His trusted colleague, Sub-Inspector Ashok, entered the room, a troubled expression on his face.

“Pranav,” Ashok began, “you need to hear this. The lab came back with Meera’s blood type. AB-negative.”

Pranav raised an eyebrow. AB-negative blood was one of the rarest in the world, only about 1% of the population had it. “It could just be a coincidence, but keep that in mind,” Pranav said thoughtfully. He knew better than to rule anything out.

Ashok shifted nervously. “There’s something else. I spoke with a few of Meera’s friends and relatives. Most of them say she had become paranoid in the last month. She kept saying someone was following her, but nobody believed her. They thought it was stress from work. She never gave them details, just that she felt like she was under constant surveillance.”

The hidden camera made more sense now, Pranav thought. But what didn’t add up was why Meera hadn’t reached out for help. Was it because she thought no one would believe her? Or was there something deeper she was hiding?

“Any suspects?” Pranav asked, hoping for a lead.

“One.” Ashok handed Pranav a file. “Ajay Kumar. He’s a surgeon, and one of Meera’s close friends. According to her best friend, they had been spending a lot of time together. The friend hinted that their relationship might have been more than just friendly.”

Pranav flipped through Ajay’s profile. A surgeon. The surgical precision of the wound immediately flashed in his mind. Could this be the connection?

“We need to talk to him,” Pranav said, his voice steady but urgent.

The next morning, Pranav and Ashok made their way to Ajay Kumar’s upscale home. It was a sleek, modern house, fitting for a successful surgeon. They were greeted by the man himself—a tall, well-built figure with neatly combed hair, wearing casual clothes that still somehow reeked of professionalism. His expression was unreadable as he invited them in, offering them tea.

“I assume you’re here about Meera,” Ajay said, his voice soft but cold.

“Yes,” Pranav responded, watching him closely. “We understand you were close to her.”

Ajay sat down on a leather chair, crossing his legs as if settling in for a long conversation. “We were friends,” he replied, carefully choosing his words. “But nothing more than that. Meera was…troubled.”

“Troubled how?” Pranav pressed.

“She was paranoid,” Ajay said, shaking his head. “She kept telling me someone was watching her, that she felt like she was being followed. I told her she should go to the police, but she refused. She didn’t trust anyone.”

“Did you ever see anything unusual around her?” Ashok asked.

Ajay paused, his face tightening slightly. “There were times when I’d visit her, and she’d act strange. She’d check her windows, close the curtains, even unplug electronic devices. She became obsessed with the idea that her life was being monitored. But I never saw anyone. Never saw anything out of the ordinary.”

Pranav studied Ajay’s face. He was calm, composed, but there was something in his eyes that suggested he wasn’t telling the whole truth. “Where were you the night Meera died?” he asked bluntly.

Ajay didn’t flinch. “I was in surgery. You can check the hospital logs. I didn’t get out until after midnight.”

Pranav made a mental note to verify his alibi. “Do you know if Meera was involved with anyone else? Anyone who might want to hurt her?”

Ajay’s face darkened. “No. She was private, even with me. I don’t think she was seeing anyone.”

Pranav stood up, signaling the end of the conversation. “We’ll be in touch,” he said, leaving Ajay sitting stiffly in his chair. As they walked out, Ashok turned to Pranav.

“What do you think?” Ashok asked.

“I don’t trust him,” Pranav replied. “But we’ll see if his alibi checks out. There’s something he’s not telling us.”

Later that afternoon, Pranav received a call from the forensic team. “We found something odd,” the lead examiner said. “There was a trace of anesthesia on Meera’s neck. It’s faint, but it’s there.”

Anesthesia. The plot thickened. Whoever killed her might have subdued her with it, making the strangulation and incision effortless. A surgeon would know how to do that.

The case was growing darker by the minute. Pranav’s instincts told him that Ajay was hiding something, but without hard evidence, he couldn’t act. And then, just as he was about to return to his office, his phone rang.

It was Ashok, his voice frantic. “Pranav, there’s been another death. Same apartment complex. Same exact method.”

Pranav’s heart sank. He grabbed his keys and rushed out the door.

By the time he arrived at Crescent Heights, the apartment was already swarming with officers. Ashok met him at the entrance, his face pale. “25-year-old woman. Third floor, Tower B. Locked from the inside. No blood, no signs of struggle. Just a slit throat. Exactly like Meera.”

Pranav pushed past the crowd and made his way up to the crime scene. The apartment was a mirror image of Meera’s—clean, organized, and eerily quiet. And there, on the floor of the living room, lay another lifeless body. The same surgical cut. The same absence of blood.

His eyes scanned the room, trying to find something—anything—that connected the two murders. Then he spotted it. A diary, tucked under the coffee table, just like the one in Meera’s apartment.

Pranav opened the diary, his pulse quickening. On one of the last pages, written in the same shaky handwriting as Meera’s note, were the words: “It’s watching. Always watching.”

A chill ran down his spine. This was no coincidence. Someone was targeting these women. Someone who had planned these murders meticulously, leaving behind nothing but cryptic clues and broken lives.

But who? And why?

As the rain outside intensified, Pranav realized that the case was far more complex—and far more dangerous—than he had ever imagined.