A thin stream of smoke curled towards the ceiling, vanishing into the dimly lit air of the cramped, messy room. The scent of cheap tobacco lingered as Isarish leaned back against the rickety wooden chair, staring blankly at the peeling walls.
A knock came. Loud. Impatient.
He didn't move.
Then—BAM!
The door swung open with force, revealing a man whose dramatic entrance could put theatre actors to shame.
Subhash Banerjee.
Tall, thin, and always too loud for his own good, Subhash stomped into the room, holding his head as if the weight of the world had crushed his soul. His wavy black hair was unkempt, and his kurta was slightly torn—probably from getting tangled in something he shouldn't have been near.
"Isarish!" Subhash wailed, throwing his hands in the air. "You said you'd help me find my cat!"
Isarish took a slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling without a word.
"Aaaah!" Subhash dramatically collapsed onto the creaky cot. "How long are you going to live in this rat-infested hut? It's smaller than a prison cell! You're the favourite of Mr. Carlson! Ask him for something! A mansion! A life of luxury! Four wives!"
Isarish raised an eyebrow, finally glancing at him.
"Four?"
"Yes! One from Afghanistan, one from Kashmir, one from Europe, and..." Subhash frowned, counting on his fingers. "And... whatever! But a rich man's house, Isarish! With a courtyard full of cats!"
Isarish took another slow drag. "Subhash, are you high?"
"I'm desperate! My cat is missing!"
Before Isarish could roll his eyes, a sharp knock interrupted them again. This time, it wasn't a fool like Subhash.
A British officer stood at the door, his uniform crisp, his expression unreadable.
"Isarish." His tone was formal, distant. "Mr. Carlson wants you in his office. Now."
Isarish let out a breath of smoke, flicking the cigarette into an old, dented tin.
"Tch." He stretched his arms lazily before standing up.
Subhash sat up instantly, his eyes widening. "Wait, wait, wait! Are you about to get a promotion?! Don't forget about my cat!"
Isarish sighed, rubbing his temples.
"If I find your cat, will you shut up?"
"Yes! But I want a Kashmir wife more!"
"Get out."
As Isarish stepped out, the officer followed behind him. The streets of Calcutta bustled with the morning chaos.
Carlson's Office – The Case of the Mirrors
As Isarish stepped into the office, the murmurs halted. The scent of polished wood, damp paper, and faint cigar smoke lingered in the air. The officers inside paused their work, their gazes flickering toward him before quickly returning to their papers, as if pretending not to have been staring.
Carlson, sitting behind his heavy wooden desk, leaned back slightly. His expression was unreadable, but the way he tapped his fingers against the table betrayed his restlessness.
"Yeah, come in, Isa," Carlson said, motioning toward the seat in front of him.
Isarish sat down, his sharp eyes scanning the desk before him. A pile of case files sat there, thick with reports and notes. Carlson pushed them forward.
"These are the files of the victims," Carlson said, rubbing his temple. "They either died, disappeared, or lost their minds. No connection among them—no shared history, no common associates. But there's one thing linking them together."
Isarish flicked open the first file, his eyes darting over the words.
Cause of death: Cardiac arrest due to extreme anxiety.
Witness report: Victim collapsed while staring into a mirror.
He flipped to the next.
Cause of death: Suicide via self-inflicted wounds using a mirror shard.
Witness report: Victim seemed paranoid for days before the act, claiming something was watching them.
Another.
Status: Missing.
Last recorded action: Wrote a message on the mirror before vanishing.
He stopped. His fingers traced over the scrawled words captured in the report.
"He is watching me."
Isarish flipped another page. Another victim. Another message.
"He sees me."
And another.
"I see myself."
He leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers lightly against the file.
"Mirrors."
Carlson nodded grimly. "Some died looking into them. Some killed themselves using the shards. Those who disappeared? Every single one left a message on a mirror before vanishing. And the witnesses…" He hesitated. "They all say the victims were terrified of their own reflections."
Isarish exhaled slowly. The pieces of the puzzle didn't fit yet, but something about it sent a chill through him.
Carlson studied him. "This isn't an ordinary case, Isa. The men are spooked. Even the most seasoned officers refuse to go near the scenes anymore." He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "You have that... way of understanding things others don't. So, tell me—what the hell is happening here?"
Isarish closed the file, the unsettling phrases still echoing in his mind.
"He is watching me. He sees me. I see myself."
Carlson watched him carefully, waiting for a reaction. The silence in the room stretched, thick with tension.
Then—
A smirk.
A slow, confident grin spread across Isarish's face, the first he'd given all day. He leaned back in his chair, exhaling as if he had just solved half the case already. His fingers drummed lightly against the desk before he spoke.
"Don't worry, sir," he said, his voice carrying an edge of amusement. "Even if the son of the devil himself is behind this... I'll find him, catch him, and—" He paused, tapping his temple with a finger, pretending to think. "Damn, I forgot the rest of my dramatic dialogue."
He chuckled, shaking his head. But then, in an instant, the playfulness in his expression shifted into something sharper, more calculating.
"Don't worry. He's mine now."
The words carried weight—an unshakable certainty.
He leaned forward; his eyes gleaming with something unreadable. "Just give me time. This will be the first case I'm actually asking time for. And…" He tilted his head, watching Carlson's reaction, "I'll need authority too."
Carlson raised a brow.
"Authority?"
Isarish nodded, his tone dropping lower, heavier. "I need to move freely—go where I need to, talk to who I need to. This isn't just some common murder case. Something's off."
He pushed the file back toward Carlson and stood up.
"And I think I know where to start."
There was a shift in his voice now—deeper, steadier.
Carlson didn't miss it. This wasn't just confidence. This was certainty.
And for the first time since the case began—
Carlson actually felt like they had a chance.