Day 3 – *Mihir Gets Entangled in the Case*
"Next lesson... did you see this?"
- How hard he worked to make his dreams come true!
- And yet, he's still coming?
- How did he spot the SIM card on the TV?
- How did he even begin investigating this crime?
---
Even after Mihir received the reports, a storm of doubt raged inside him. The deeper he looked, the more complicated the case became. His mind raced—analyzing, remembering every detail from the reports in a single sweep. But it still wasn't enough. No solid proof. No concrete answers.
"This doesn't make sense," he muttered to himself, stepping out with the weight of unsolved questions pressing down on him. "Something is right in front of me, but I just can't see it. I have to find it... or else what's the point of coming this far?"
This mystery had to be solved—*by any means*. His dream was tied to it. If he failed now, that dream would shatter, and so would he. After coming this far, there was no turning back.
Lost in thought, Mihir reached the shop where he worked. People passing by on the street glanced at him with curiosity. He was talking to himself again. At the shop, he couldn't concentrate—his hands were busy, but his mind was stuck in the loops of the case. The shopkeeper's wife and her daughter noticed immediately.
"Is Mihir alright?" whispered the daughter. "Why's he talking to himself like that?"
They couldn't hold back anymore.
"Mihir, what's going on?" the woman asked. "Why are you behaving like this? Are you okay?"
Startled, Mihir looked up. "No, no. Nothing's wrong. I just... I have a bit of a headache."
She eyed him with concern. "You should go rest. You clearly can't focus."
"I'm fine, really. I can work," Mihir insisted.
But the lady was firm. "No, go home and rest. Your health is more important right now."
Without further argument, she sent him away. Mihir, though reluctant, knew this break could give him time to think. Maybe even a clue.
He walked quickly, the case spinning in his head. *What am I missing? What piece haven't I seen?*
Then, it happened.
He bumped into a stranger on the road. "Sorry, mister," Mihir said, startled. "I wasn't paying attention."
The stranger dropped a folded newspaper. Mihir bent down, picked it up, and turned to hand it back—but the man had vanished without a word. Strange.
In a rush, Mihir shoved the newspaper into his pocket and hurried home.
At home, after freshening up, Mihir sat in his secret room—a small, hidden space only he knew about. Inside, the walls were lined with photos and maps. A table, a lamp, and a corkboard bore the tangled web of this case: the faces of six suspects, the profiles of ten staff members, the murder scene, the bank layout... every possible connection laid bare.
He studied the board. "There's something here. I have everything... but still nothing."
For a moment, he considered turning to the police. "Should I go to them? Hand everything over?"
Just then, the newspaper he'd picked up fell from his pocket onto the desk. He unfolded it casually.
Then his eyes froze.
The front-page headline screamed back at him. The photo of the ACP—someone involved in the case—was displayed, along with a statement about the crime.
It read:
> "The robbery at the bank was carried out by a local thief, now in custody. The supposed murder was, in fact, a fatal heart attack. The victim's family confirmed he had suffered two minor attacks in the past, and the incident at the bank triggered a major one. The stolen money has not yet been recovered."
Mihir's blood ran cold.
"What?!"
He read it again. Then again.
*What is this ACP saying? Has he lost his mind?*
*He's claiming the crime was committed by a local thief?*
*And the man who died... just had a heart attack?*
Mihir paced the room. "No. This isn't right. There's something they're hiding. If I had gone to the police, they would've locked me up too."
His thoughts spiraled.
*This might be bigger than I thought. Maybe someone powerful is pulling the strings—someone with money, brains, and influence. A mastermind.*
He looked back at the wall of evidence. No, he couldn't trust anyone now. Not even the police. He could only trust his instincts, and his obsession with the truth.
"I have to solve this," he whispered. "No matter what."