Chapter 9: Echoes of Silence

1 months ago

aakanksha4

@aakanksha4

The records room looked like a paper jungle.

Dusty, disorganized, and never-ending.

Riya, surrounded by towers of case files, groaned internally.

Every time she feels like she’s making progress, more files seem to appear out of nowhere. The chaos is endless—unsorted, unlabelled and decades old.

“Yeah, sure. Let’s put the criminal psychologist in a cave of fungus and forgotten paperwork. When will I get outof this records room and get on-field, for some real action?”, Riya spoke to herself, almost cribbing.

She tied her hair back and got back to work, using coloured sticky notes to sort files.

Just as she started finding rhythm, Chotu strolled in with Shree trailing behind. He had got that annoying grin again, the kind that screams mischief.

“Morning, Professor. Still trapped in the tomb?” Shree mocked.
“She’s probably discovered the fossil of the first file ever made.”, Chotu snickered.

“Still more intelligent than what I see walking around, HE-MAN!”, Riya mumbled, irritated, barely audible.

Chotu walked closer, dropping a snack wrapper on one of her stacks, while Shree walked to the other end of the room that had all the boxes, labelled with years.

“Careful. Mess up enough, and the club raid story might just slip out at the wrong moment by this HE-MAN.”, Chotu spoke in a low but threatening voice.

Riya didn’t flinch this time. She looked calm.

“Oh, you mean the HE-MAN in uniform who sings 90s Bollywood songs in the bathroom for his girlfriend, Ruby, when he thinks no one’s around?

Chotu froze.

“The caretaker told me. Apparently, your “Tum jo aaye zindagi mein, baat bann gyi” rendition is legendary in the maintenance staff group chat.”, Riya spoke casually, smile never leaving her face.

CHOTU was mortified, “He talks?”

"Oh, I need to hear it myself.The recordings don’t do justice. No feel, you know?"

Chotu stumbled out of the room, dragging Shree with him.
Riya smirked and returned to her files—small victory of the day, secured.

---

The newly repaired women’s washroom smelled of lemon disinfectant and fresh paint.
Riya stepped in, grateful… and curious. She noticed something odd—a dusty locker slightly ajar. Inside: a small half-used women's perfume bottle.

She frowned.

Moments later, she marched towards Arjun’s office. Before she could knock, he opened the door, as if expecting her. He had seen her in the security camera of the hall.

"I don’t recall your job description involving perfume archaeology.", he said flatly.

Riya held up the dirty bottle—wrapped in tissue like it was radioactive.

"Whose is it?"

"Caretaker ki wife ka."
Arjun snatched it from her hand.

“Jhooth mat boliye, Shambhu ki to shaadi bhi nahi hui hai abhi tak!”

Arjun was speechless.

“Mujhe pta h… Shambhu ki shaadi nhi hui hai…!”, Arjun tried to shoo her away somehow.

“Ho gyi h, 2 bachche bhi h uske! I can smell lie!”, Riya knew the ball was in her court when she saw Arjun struggling for words.

“Kiska h ye?”, Riya tried again.

“Shree ka!”, he blurted as he saw Shree approaching them.

Shree was baffled at the accusation.

Riya eyed Shree notoriously while Shree looked at Arjun in disbelief.

Realizing he would soon lose this battle of words, he spoke in a hurry, “Not your concern. You’ve got another task.”

He handed her a box full of badly scanned case files with no labels or dates, that Shree had brought.

“Sort these by year. And nature of crime committed.”, he ordered, trying to shoo her away.

“This is… unnecessary.”, Riya frowned.

“Welcome to protocol!”, Arjun shrugged.

---

In the afternoon, Riya stomped in the conference room, looking for a break from the chaos. She found Shree, working on code, headphones on.

“Hello!”, Riya waved her hand in front of him, disturbing him from whatever he was doing.

“What!”, Shree was rude.

“Can I borrow the data sorter script for the scanned files?”, Riya requested him.

Shree smirked. “Oh, so now the shrink wants to play with code?”

“I know about the AI tagging tool you were beta testing last year. The one that was flagging false positives.”, Riya crossed her arms.

“How do you—?”, Shree was stunned.

“Your GitHub commits are public, genius. Also, maybe don’t name your test file ‘SuperCoolShree_finalFinalFinal.doc’.”, Riya said, pulling a chair next to him.

Shree was silent. Riya calmly leaned in.

“Now… about that script?”, Riya smirked.

“Fine. I’ll send the link. But you better give me a proper code review.”

“Deal! Riya grinned!”

----

In the evening, the sun dipped low behind the ETF building.
Riya stepped out of the front gate, rubbing her temples, ready to call it a day.

As she waited for her cab, a black SUV rolled slowly across the road. Tinted windows.
It paused briefly.

Inside, four men, faces obscured in shadow. One of them lowered his window just slightly.

"The tip was right. Poetic. They still don’t learn, do they?"
The man whispered, a cruel smirk playing on his lips.

Then the SUV vanished into the evening traffic.

---

Later that night, Arjun sat in the quiet of his cabin, reviewing footage.

On-screen: Riya, standing in the hallway, examining the old perfume bottle. Curious. Sharp.
Too sharp.

He watched in silence, then leaned back with a heavy breath.

"You’re not ready for this, Riya."

---

At a dimly lit warehouse, far outside the city, a man stood in front of a large corkboard covered with photos of ETF officers.
Some faces were crossed in red.

All of them… women.

He pinned a new one:
Riya Mukherjee – captured entering ETF headquarters.

"Inform everybody."

---

Later that night, Riya lay curled onher hotel bed, tangled in her blanket, face illuminated by the soft glow of her phone screen.

Kabir’s face filled the screen—his hair was a mess, his shirt creased, and his smile as effortless as always.

"So... how’s Captain Fluff? Got him trained yet?"
Kabir teased, remembering their puppy conversation from before.

"Actually... slight change of plans."
Riya said with a smirk, brushing her hair back lazily.

"Oh no. Don’t tell me you’re naming him ‘Murderer’ now, after a day of sorting case files."

"Worse."
Riya tried not to laugh.
"I’m calling him… Scotch."

Kabir paused.

"Wait—Scotch? As in..."
He narrowed his eyes.

"Yup. As in your go-to poison during those overhyped ‘boys-only’ whisky sessions."

Kabir let out a dramatic gasp.

"You’ve been sneaking into my chats?! Riya Mukherjee, were you spying on me?"

"I didn’t need to! You literally forgot your group chat open when we were watching FRIENDS together. You and your ‘Desi Old Monk Warriors’."

“You need to get the concepts right! Old Monk is a rum, and Scotch, Whisky and Rum are all different entities. Don’t just cocktail them!”, Kabir provided Riya with a full-fledged insight.

Riya eyed him murderously.

Kabir laughed hard, holding his stomach.

"I have mostly quit, okay? My new addiction is... wait for it... Cutting Chai. That too from roadside stalls?!"
Riya’s eyes widened like she’d been told he licked doorknobs for fun.

"Of course! Hot, kadak, and in a glass washed with tap water and dreams."

"Kabir!! You’ll catch every bacteria known to science! I hope you’ve at least started carrying a sanitiser."

"I do! I even name it Scotch."
He winked.

Riya threw her head back, irritated.

"Fine. So now you're drinking bacteria!”

“And, you are naming your dog after my drinks. Beautiful."

Riya made a face.

"Or, hear me out—get a goldfish. Low maintenance. No barking. No flea shampoo."

"I’m not getting a pet I can’t cuddle. What next, a turtle?"

"Actually, yes. Think about it. He carries his house. Doesn’t leave fur. Plus, you’d relate—slow, stubborn, and hates being poked."

"Are you calling me a turtle now?!"

"I’m calling you perfect. Just slower."
Kabir said softly, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips.

Their laughter faded into a warm silence, the kind only best friends turned soulmates could sit comfortably in.

"You're my comfort zone, Kabir. My weird, absurd, unfiltered comfort zone."
Riya whispered.

"And you're my sanity, Riya."
His eyes softened.
"Scotch or not, I’m keeping you."

They smiled, just watching each other through the screen until sleep began to pull them away.

---

At the ETF Staff Quarters, the room was silent, except for the low tick of the clock and the occasional creak of the wind brushing against the windows. Arjun sat alone near the small table by the window, sleeves rolled up, a single glass of scotch in his hand.

He stared outside at the darkness blanketing the city, but felt nothing but unrest.

His mind wandered—not to a case, not to a suspect, but to a moment from earlier that evening.

He had passed by the corridor outside the record room, and from within, he’d caught a brief sound of laughter—bright, unapologetic, and almost too full of life.

Riya’s.

She had been talking to herself out aloud while writing something on her diary, voice soft but animated.

“I will be naming my dog Scotch.”

A pause. Then more giggles.

“Because he’d be warm, a bit clumsy, and way too loyal for his own good.”

Arjun hadn’t lingered, but those wordshad stayed with him.

Now, he sat in silence, staring at the contents of his glass.

Scotch.
Not a dog.

Not a joke.

Not a comfort.

Just a way to dull whatever had begun clawing inside him since that girl had walked into ETF. Since she had started speaking like she belonged.

“Scotch—because he’d be warm.”

He scoffed.

“Scotch is bitter. Like everything else that matters.”

He took another slow sip, gaze unfocused.

Somewhere down his mind, a light chuckle echoed faintly through his ears—maybe hers, maybe not. He couldn’t be sure. But the sound sliced through him.

She was laughing.
She was light.
She was still untouched by the weight of blood and failure.

“And she deserves to stay that way,” he muttered, almost convincing himself. “Far away from people like me.”

But the ache in his chest said otherwise.

The glass in his hand was empty now. He didn’t refill it.

Instead, he leaned back into his chair, staring up at the ceiling.

Somewhere in the world, someone was in love with life.
And here he was—trying to forget how to feel anything at all, with no one to stop him from hurting himself.