Hyderabad writhes with a frenetic pulse, its tangled streets a living, breathing chaos. Auto-rickshaws jostle through the crush, horns shrieking in discordant bursts, while bicycles dart through gaps, riders spitting curses into the haze.
In this restless sprawl, Rishi Netra moves like a phantom. At 28, he's lean and taut, his body carved by sleepless nights and a relentless drive that burns in his veins.
His eyes, dark and piercing, miss nothing—a street kid's sleight of hand, a cop pocketing cash in a dim alley, the twitch of a witness's lip. His mind is a steel trap, always churning, forged by a wound that refuses to heal: the deaths of his parents a decade ago.The police ruled it suicide, But Rishi, then a scrawny 18-year-old, saw what they didn't. The entry wounds were too precise, the Beretta wiped clean, not even a smudge.
To Rishi, it screamed murder, and the threads led to a syndicate—a faceless web rumored to grip Hyderabad's underbelly, its tendrils snaking into the city's elite, its law, its lowlifes.
Now a private detective, Rishi works the margins, a lone operator trusted by few, feared by fewer. His reputation cuts both ways: a brilliant mind, but too reckless, a hound who'll chase a scent till it kills him.
He lives in a cramped Kachiguda flat, its walls bare save for a corkboard sagging under the weight of his obsession—photos of dead-end cases, yellowed news clippings, red yarn tying names to shadows.
The syndicate has no name, only a presence: informants who vanish, evidence that dissolves, cops who climb ranks too fast. It traffics in everything—fentanyl, land scams, human cargo—but leaves no trace, only corpses and shattered lives.
Rishi perches on a rusted fire escape above a narrow lane in Abids, his breath shallow, his pulse a steady drum. Below, a deal unfolds in the faint glow of a flickering street lamp.
Two men—one in a tailored suit, the other in a faded kurta—exchange a briefcase, their movements quick, practiced.
Rishi's informant, a twitchy chaiwala named Vijay, swore this was big: a shipment tied to the syndicate, maybe drugs, maybe something uglier.
Rishi's phone, silenced, records the scene, but unease gnaws at him. Vijay's been ghosting him all day, and the air feels wrong—too quiet for a city that never sleeps.
They're moving like they've rehearsed this a thousand times, Rishi thinks, his eyes narrowing as he zooms in on the briefcase. Too smooth, too clean. This isn't just a deal!!—it's a performance.
But for who....?
Me....?
His fingers tighten on the phone, the weight of his Glock pressing against his ribs—a relic from a case he buries deep.
Vijay, you swore this was my shot. If you're playing me, I'll find you. And you won't like it.
Ten years, Ten years of chasing your shadows. Every lead, every dead end, it's led me here. This has to be it.
But doubt creeps in, cold and sharp.
Or is it another trap?
Another lie?
His mind flashes to Vijay's nervous grin two nights ago at the chai stall.
"Bhai, this is bigger than you think. Names, dates, everything. Just trust me."
Trust. The word tastes like ash. Trust gets you a bullet in Hyderabad.
"Come on, Vijay."
he mutters under his breath, his voice a low growl.
"Where the hell are you? You said this was the big one."
He shifts slightly, the fire escape creaking under his weight, and freezes as the man in the suit glances up, his eyes scanning the shadows.
"Did you hear something?"
the suit asks, his voice low but sharp, cutting through the still air.The kurta guy shakes his head, his hand slipping into his pocket.
"Just the city, boss. Rats, maybe. Let's move."
The suit's eyes linger on the fire escape, and Rishi's pulse spikes. He knows. He can't see me, but he knows.
He presses himself flatter against the rusted bars, his breath held.
Stay calm, Rishi. You've got this. Just get the footage and get out.
"Paranoid bastard,"
Rishi whispers, his lips barely moving. If you're looking for me, you're gonna have to try harder.
But his mind races, replaying every detail.
Vijay's been dodging me. No calls, no texts.
What if he sold me out?
What if this is a setup?
The kurta guy hands over the briefcase, his voice tense.
"It's all there. You gonna count it here, or what?"
The suit smirks, his fingers brushing the case.
"I trust my people. Unlike some."
He pauses, his gaze flicking to the alley's mouth.
"Let's go. Now."
Trust, Rishi thinks bitterly. That's your mistake. He records the exchange, his mind already mapping the next move.
Follow the kurta guy. He's the weak link. If there's a crack in this, it's him.The men split, and Rishi descends the fire escape, his sneakers soft on the chipped asphalt.
He tails the man in the kurta, sticking to the shadows, past a shuttered paan shop and a mangy dog gnawing a bone. The man slips into an alley, and Rishi follows, his instincts screaming. The alley dead-ends at a crumbling wall, and the man's gone.
No way he scaled that wall.
He's here. Somewhere.
Rishi's hand grazes his Glock, his eyes scanning the darkness.
This was too easy.
They wanted me to follow.
They wanted me here.
His heart pounds, but his mind is razor-sharp.
Come on, show yourself. I'm ready.
A faint click—metal on metal—sounds behind him.
Got you, he thinks, spinning, but a baton cracks against his skull, and the world collapses into darkness.
Ma, Baba, I'm sorry, he thinks as he falls, their faces flashing in his mind.
I was so close....
So damn close.....
He wakes to the sharp sting of antiseptic and the low hum of fluorescent lights.
His head throbs, a dull pulse of pain that radiates down his spine.
He's in a hospital bed, the sheets stiff, the air thick with bleach. Voices murmur nearby—nurses, a doctor barking orders.
Rishi bolts upright, his heart slamming, eyes darting. The room spins, but his mind sharpens, replaying the night: the deal, the alley, the blow.
Someone hit me. Hard.
But someone got me here. Why?
His jacket's gone, his phone and gun with it.
Vijay's tip, the briefcase, the syndicate—it's all slipping through his fingers.
I was played.
Vijay sold me out!!??, or he's dead!!!
Either way, I'm exposed. They know I'm coming for them.
Who's pulling the strings? he thinks, his mind racing.
The suit?
The kurta guy? Or someone higher?
Someone who wants me alive… but why?
To scare me?
To use me?
His hands tremble, not from fear but from rage. They think they can control me. They're wrong.
"Who brought me in?"
he rasps, grabbing the arm of a passing nurse, a young woman with nervous eyes named Meena, her name tag glinting under the lights.
She flinches, her voice trembling.
"Sir, please, lie back."
Meena stammers, her eyes wide with fear.
"You were found on the street, unconscious. An ambulance—???"
"Who called it?" Rishi cuts her off, his grip tightening, his gaze boring into her.
"Someone saw me go down. Who was it?
A name, a face, anything!"
"I—I don't know," she says, her voice cracking as she tries to pull away. "Please, you're hurting me."
Rishi releases her, his voice low and urgent.
"I'm sorry, Meena. But I need to know. Someone wanted me here, alive. That's not random. Help me."
Meena glances around, her voice dropping to a whisper.
"The call was anonymous. That's all we know. The doctor said… he said it's better not to ask questions."
Her eyes flicker with fear, and Rishi's stomach twists. She's terrified.
Not of me. Of them.Anonymous,
he thinks, his jaw clenching.
Of course. They're everywhere, even here.
He swings his legs off the bed, ignoring Meena's protests, his bare feet hitting the cold floor. His head screams, but his resolve is iron.
They're watching me. They think they've got me caged.
Let them try.Another nurse, older and sterner, named Lakshmi, approaches, her arms crossed. "Sir, you can't leave. You've got a concussion, maybe worse. Lie down, or I'll call security."
Rishi rounds on her, his voice low and dangerous.
"You want to help, Lakshmi? Tell me who dropped me here. Someone saw me in that alley. Someone carried me out. Who?"
Lakshmi's eyes narrow, but there's a flicker of unease.
"No one saw anything. The ambulance crew said you were alone, bleeding on the pavement. That's all we know."
She pauses, her voice softening slightly.
"You're lucky to be alive. Don't waste it."
Lucky? Rishi's laugh is bitter, his mind churning.
Luck doesn't exist in this city. Someone wanted me breathing, and that's a leash, not a lifeline. He stumbles to the ward's exit, shrugging off Meena's grip, his crumpled clothes clinging to his sweat-damp skin.
I need my office. My board.
Something to hold onto.
"You're making a mistake," Lakshmi calls after him, her voice heavy with warning.
"Whoever did this to you… they're not done."
Rishi pauses, his back to her, his voice cold.
"Neither am I." He pushes through the door, his mind a storm of rage and determination. They think they've broken me. They're about to learn how wrong they are.
By dawn, Rishi's back in Kachiguda, the city waking in a haze of dust and noise. His flat is as he left it, the corkboard staring back like an accusation.
He slumps into a chair, his head pounding, and scans the board—names, dates, dead ends.
Ten years, Ten years, and I'm still chasing your ghosts. I was so close last night.
So damn close.Why didn't I see it? he thinks, his fingers digging into his scalp.
Vijay was nervous, sweating through his shirt, but I thought it was just his usual jitters. I should've known he was in too deep.
Guilt gnaws at him, sharp and relentless. I pushed him to talk. I told him to dig deeper. His blood's on my hands, and I can't wash it off.
His landline shrills, slicing through the silence. He snatches it, his voice low.
"Yeah?"
"Rishi, it's Praveen."
The ex-constable's voice is hushed, urgent, laced with a weariness that mirrors Rishi's own.
"Vijay's shop. Now. It's bad."
Rishi's stomach drops, his grip tightening on the receiver.
"Bad how? Talk to me, Praveen.
What's going on?"
"Just get here," Praveen snaps, his tone clipped, but there's a tremor beneath it.
"And watch your back. This isn't over."
The line goes dead.
Vijay, Rishi thinks, his heart sinking.
What did you do? What did you drag me into?
He grabs his jacket, his spare gun—a snub-nosed revolver—from a lockbox, and bolts. His bike roars through the neon-lit streets, weaving past dawn commuters and stray dogs.
Vijay's shop, a grimy corner store in the city's underbelly, comes into view, its flickering sign a faint beacon. Rishi screeches to a halt, and the scene hits him like a fist.
Two bodies lie sprawled in the alley, blood pooling beneath them, their faces frozen in death's grimace. The air reeks of iron and betrayal. Rishi's gut churns—he knows them both.
Vijay, his wiry frame crumpled, his desperate eyes dulled forever. The other is a low-level enforcer, a cog in the syndicate's machine, his throat slashed clean.
This wasn't a brawl; it was an execution, a message carved in blood.
Vijay, you idiot, Rishi thinks, his chest tightening. You thought you could outsmart them. You thought you were untouchable. He kneels beside Vijay's body, his fingers hovering over the chaiwala's lifeless hand.
I should've pulled you out. I saw the fear in your eyes, and I ignored it. This is on me.
"Damn it, Vijay,"
he whispers, his voice breaking. "You said you could handle it. Why didn't you run? Why didn't I make you?"
Two cops loiter nearby, their voices dripping with rehearsed certainty.
"Just another street fight," one, named Ravi, says, kicking a stray bottle.
"Thief tried to rob Vijay, got himself killed. Vijay went down swinging. Open and shut."The other,
Ajay, snorts, lighting a cigarette.
"These lowlifes never learn. Waste of our time, Ravi. Let's wrap this up and grab some chai."
Rishi's jaw clenches, his eyes burning with rage. Open and shut? You're not even pretending to care.
He rises, his voice cutting through the haze.
"You call this a fight? Look at the cuts—clean, professional. No struggle, no mess. You're not blind, are you?"
Ravi turns, his eyes narrowing, his hand resting on his baton.
"Who the hell are you? Some wannabe detective? Mind your business, hero, or you'll end up like them."
"Hero?"
Rishi steps closer, his voice low and dangerous, his fists clenched.
"I'm just someone who gives a damn. Unlike you, who's probably got syndicate cash lining your pockets right now."
Anil grabs Ravi's arm, his voice low but nervous.
"Leave it, Ravi. He's not worth it. Let's go."
Rishi's eyes lock onto Anil's, catching the flicker of fear. You know it's a lie, he thinks. You're not just lazy—you're bought. How much did they pay you to look the other way? He steps back, his voice cold.
"You're right. I'm not worth it. But neither are you if you let this slide."
The cops turn away, muttering, but Rishi's mind is elsewhere.
They're scared.
They know the syndicate's watching. This wasn't just a murder—it's a warning. To me. A shadow stirs, and Praveen Reddy steps into the dim glow of a street lamp. His face is a map of scars, each one a testament to the secrets he's unearthed—and the ones the law buried. His eyes, weary but fierce, lock onto Rishi's.
Another body, another dead end, Praveen thinks, his heart heavy. This city chews up good men like Vijay and spits them out.
How long before it's Rishi? Or me?"This is no brawl," Praveen says, his voice low, gravelly, cutting through the haze.
"It's a murder, clean and cold. Vijay was our link, the enforcer our target. The syndicate's tying loose ends, and we're back to square one."
Rishi's voice is a hiss, barely controlled. "Vijay swore he had something big.
A shipment, maybe names. He was scared, Praveen. I saw it in his eyes, and I didn't act. This is on me."Praveen's gaze softens, but his tone is hard, forged by years of loss.
"Don't do that, Rishi. Vijay made his choice. He knew the risks."
"Did he?" Rishi snaps, his guilt spilling over, his voice rising.
"I pushed him, Praveen. I told him to dig deeper, to get me names. I might as well have put the knife in his throat myself."
Praveen grabs Rishi's shoulder, his grip firm, his eyes boring into him.
"Listen to me, kid. You didn't swing the blade. They did. You start blaming yourself, you're no good to anyone—not Vijay, not your parents, not this city. You want to honor him? Find the bastards who did this."
He's right, Rishi thinks, but the weight doesn't lift. Vijay's blood is on my hands, and it's heavy. But Praveen's been here before.
He's still standing. Maybe I can too. He nods, his voice low. "Okay. What's our next move?"
Praveen's lips twitch, a ghost of a smile.
"We dig. Harder. They're scared, Rishi. That's why they're killing. We're close."
Close, Rishi thinks, his mind racing. But close to what? Vijay said names, dates. Was he bluffing, or did he have something real? He scans the alley, his eyes catching a glint—Vijay's phone, half-buried in the dirt. He crouches, slipping it into his pocket before the cops notice.
If there's anything left, it's in here.
"Why here?"
Rishi mutters, half to himself.
"Why kill them in the open? They're sending a message."Praveen nods, his voice grim.
"To us. They know we're close. And they want us to back off."
Back off? Rishi thinks, his resolve hardening. They don't know me. I don't back off. I don't break. He looks at Praveen, his voice steady. "Let them try. I'm not stopping."
Praveen's eyes flicker with something—pride, maybe worry. He's got fire, Praveen thinks. But fire burns out. I've seen it. I just hope he's ready for what's coming.
Praveen's phone buzzes, and he steps away, his expression tightening as he answers.
His voice is hushed, urgent.
"When? … How many? … You're sure?"
He returns, his face grim, his eyes shadowed with grief. Not Arjun. Not him. This city doesn't deserve men like him.
"Rishi,"
he says, his voice barely above a whisper,
"Inspector Vikram Malhotra is dead. And Arjun Sethi… they're calling it suicide. The others involved—missing, likely dead."
Rishi's heart sinks, his vision blurring with rage and sorrow. Arjun Sethi. The name cuts like a blade. He never worked with Arjun, but he knew the man's reputation—a great officer, fearless, unyielding. A man like that doesn't quit. Not like that.
"Arjun was a brave man,"
Rishi says, his voice thick with conviction.
"He wasn't afraid of death, but he sure as hell didn't jump."
Praveen nods, his own anger mirroring Rishi's, but his mind is elsewhere. Arjun was my friend, he thinks. He fought the same fight I did, and they broke him. Or they tried. If it's not suicide, then it's murder. And I'll be damned if I let them bury him like this.
"We need to find out what case Arjun was working on," Praveen says, his voice steady but laced with pain.
"That's where the answers are."Rishi's mind churns, piecing together fragments.
Arjun, Vikram, Vijay—all tied to the syndicate. All dead or gone. What did they know? He looks at Praveen, his voice low.
"You ever think we're in over our heads? That we're chasing something we can't beat?"Praveen's eyes harden, his voice steady.
"Every damn day. But I'd rather die trying than live in their shadows."
He's right, Rishi thinks, his resolve hardening. This city's rotten, but I'm not done. Not yet. He meets Praveen's gaze, a silent pact forming between them. The syndicate thinks they've won. They're wrong.
Across the city, in a penthouse overlooking Hyderabad's glittering skyline, the man known as the Lion sits in silence. His fingers trace the edge of a lion mask on his desk, its cold metal glinting in the low light.
The news of Vijay's death—and the enforcer's—has reached him, a necessary cleansing of loose ends.
But Arjun's case files remain missing, and Vikram's death hasn't brought the closure he'd hoped.Loose ends, he thinks, his lips curling into a cold smile. They multiply like roaches
Vijay was a liability, the enforcer a warning. But this detective… he's a problem.
Whispers of Rishi Netra have reached his ears—a reckless hound, sniffing too close to the syndicate's secrets. He's not like the others. He doesn't scare. That makes him dangerous. But danger can be tamed.He thinks he's a hunter, the Lion muses, his eyes drifting to the city below. But he's prey. He just doesn't know it yet.
I built this empire on bones—politicians, cops, fools like him. He's just another name to erase. But a flicker of unease stirs.
Arjun's files. Where are they?
If Netra finds them…His phone rings, and he answers without a word. The voice on the other end is nervous, one of his informants within the police, a man named Sanjay.
"The detective was at the alley tonight," Sanjay says, his words rushed, his voice trembling. "He's working with Praveen Reddy, the ex-cop. They're asking about Arjun's case."
The Lion's grip tightens on the phone, his voice a low growl. "Netra's digging. What does he know?"
"I—I don't know," Sanjay stammers. "He took something from the scene. A phone, maybe. He's not backing off, sir. He's… he's trouble."
"Trouble?"
The Lion's laugh is cold, sharp.
"He's a flea, Sanjay. A nuisance. Keep him in sight. Every move, every word. If he gets too close, he joins the others."
"Yes, sir," Sanjay says, his voice shaking. "But… what if he finds the files? Arjun's case—"
"Then you make sure he doesn't," the Lion snaps, his tone icy.
"You're paid to clean up messes, not make them. Do your job, or I'll find someone who will."
Sanjay swallows hard, his mind racing. I shouldn't have taken their money, he thinks, his palms sweating. Netra's a ghost, always one step ahead.
If he finds out I'm feeding the Lion… I'm dead. "I'll handle it, sir," he says, his voice barely steady.
"I swear."
The Lion hangs up, his gaze drifting to the city below. Hyderabad is his kingdom, its shadows his domain. But shadows can hide hunters, and Rishi Netra is one he can't ignore.
You think you're clever, Netra, he thinks, his fingers drumming on the mask. You think you can unravel my empire. You're a flea, nipping at a lion's hide. But fleas can be crushed.
Back in Kachiguda, Rishi sits at his desk, Vijay's phone in hand. The screen is cracked, but it powers on, revealing a single unread message from an unknown number:
"They know. Run."
Sent hours before Vijay's death. Rishi's blood runs cold. They knew he was talking. They knew I was watching.Vijay, you fool, he thinks, his chest tightening.
You tried to warn me, and I didn't listen. You were scared, and I pushed you anyway. Guilt surges, raw and relentless.
I should've dragged you out of that shop myself. I saw the fear in your eyes, and I told you to keep going. This is on me.
"Damn it," he mutters, his voice hoarse. "You were my shot, Vijay. My way in. And now you're gone."
He plugs the phone into his laptop, pulling up fragments of deleted texts—codes, addresses, a name: Krishna Rao. A businessman, clean on paper, but Rishi's heard whispers of his ties to the syndicate. Is this the thread? Or another trap?
"Krishna Murthi,"
Rishi says, his voice low, his eyes locked on a photo of the man—mid-50s, polished, smiling at a charity gala.
"Who the hell are you? A pawn? A king? Or just another ghost?"
His fingers trace the photo, his mind racing. If you're syndicate, you're my way in. If you're not… then I'm back to nothing.Ten years, Ma, Baba, he thinks, his eyes drifting to the corkboard. A faded photo of his parents stares back, their smiles frozen in time.
I'm close. I can feel it. But every step pulls me deeper into the dark. Am I chasing truth… or my own grave?
Doubt gnaws at him, but he pushes it down. No. I don't stop. I don't break. Not now.He leans back, the revolver heavy in his lap, his eyes scanning the corkboard—names, dates, dead ends. Hyderabad's pulse throbs outside—a city that never sleeps, and never forgives. Let them come, he thinks, his jaw set. I'm not running. Not ever.