Midnight Mumbai / Season 1, Episode 3
Shadows of Suspicion
The fluorescent bulb flickered above Priya Kapoor’s head, casting jagged shadows across the steel table in Bandra station’s interrogation room. Her fingers drummed a staccato rhythm on the file in front of her, the edges worn from being flipped open and shut too many times in the last hour. Meera Jadhav sat across, eyes darting to the corners of the room like a trapped animal, her dupatta bunched tight in her fists. The air was thick with the smell of stale chai and sweat, the ceiling fan groaning as it spun lazy circles above them.
“You’re telling me you sold a memory,” Priya said, her voice low, cutting through the hum of the fan. “Not a story. Not a lie. A memory. Like it’s a bloody kilo of rice at the mandi. You expect me to believe that?”
Meera’s gaze dropped to the table, her knuckles whitening around the fabric. “I didn’t sell it, ma’am. I… I gave it. To clear a debt. They said it wouldn’t matter, that I wouldn’t even miss it. But then…” Her voice cracked, and she pressed her lips tight, as if the words themselves might betray her again.
Priya leaned forward, the chair scraping against the concrete floor. Her eyes locked on Meera’s, searching for the lie, the crack in the story she’d been fed for two days now. “Then what? You wake up one day and suddenly you’ve got someone else’s murder in your head? You confess to stabbing a man in Kurla when your fingerprints don’t match, your alibi checks out, and the CCTV shows you buying vada pav three kilometers away? Chalo, Meera, I’m not your saas. Stop the drama and tell me who’s pulling the strings.”
Meera shook her head, a small, frantic motion, her bangles clinking softly. “I don’t know who. I swear. I just… I see it, ma’am. Every night. The knife in my hand, the blood on the pavement, the man’s eyes—wide, like he’s begging. I hear his last breath, like it’s my own. But I wasn’t there. I know I wasn’t. Still, it’s in me. It won’t go.”
Priya’s jaw tightened. She sat back, the heat of the room pressing against her skin, her kurta sticking to her back. Outside, the distant wail of a siren bled through the walls, mixing with the rhythmic clatter of a train passing on the Western Line. Mumbai didn’t sleep, not even at 2 a.m., and neither did she. Not since this case landed on her desk. A murder confession that didn’t add up, a witness who was either insane or something worse—something Priya couldn’t yet name. And now this. Memories being traded like black-market gold.
“Who did you give it to?” Priya asked, her tone sharp now, no room for evasion. “Names. Places. I want details, Meera, or I’m booking you for obstruction. You’re already halfway to a cell.”
Meera’s hands trembled, and she pressed them flat on the table, as if grounding herself. “It was… a man in Dharavi. They call him the Doctor. Not a real one, just… that’s what they say. He has a place, a room under a tailoring shop. Machines, wires, all of it. I didn’t ask questions. I just wanted the debt gone. My husband, he owed too much after the shop shut down. They said one memory—something small, something happy—would clear half of it. So I gave it. A day from when I was a kid, playing by the creek near my village. I thought, fine, I’ve got other days. But after…” She swallowed hard, her eyes glassy. “After, there was something else in its place. This… killing. I didn’t ask for it. I don’t want it.”
Priya’s fingers stilled on the file. The Doctor. Dharavi. A room full of machines. It sounded like a fever dream, the kind of nonsense a desperate woman might spin to dodge a charge. But Meera’s fear was real—Priya could smell it, could see it in the way her shoulders hunched, the way her breath hitched. And there was something else, a nagging itch at the back of Priya’s mind. She’d heard whispers before, in the narcotics division. Not about memories, exactly, but about something new on the streets. A trade no one could pin down, a currency no one could track. She’d dismissed it as street gossip, the kind of thing junkies cooked up after too much cheap daaru. But now, staring at Meera’s haunted face, she wasn’t so sure.
“Stay here,” Priya said, pushing back from the table. The chair screeched again, louder this time, as she stood. “I’m not done with you.”
She stepped out into the corridor, the door slamming shut behind her with a metallic thud. The station was a hive of noise even at this hour—constables barking orders, phones ringing off the hook, the clack of typewriters hammering out reports. The air was cooler here, but only just, the faint tang of cigarette smoke lingering from someone’s illicit break. Priya pulled her phone from her pocket, the screen smudged with fingerprints, and scrolled to a name she hadn’t called in months: Rohan. Her old informant from the Dharavi beat, a wiry little ferret of a man who knew every back alley and every secret those slums held.
The line rang twice before his voice crackled through, sleepy but wary. “Haan, Inspector saab. Itni raat ko? Kya hai?”
“Rohan, I need intel,” Priya said, keeping her voice low as she paced past a row of filing cabinets. “Dharavi. A man called the Doctor. Runs some kind of setup under a tailoring shop. Machines, weird stuff. You heard anything?”
There was a pause, the kind that told her he knew more than he wanted to say. She could almost hear him scratching at the stubble on his chin, weighing how much trouble this call might bring. “Doctor, huh? Arre, Priya madam, that’s not my kind of gossip. I stick to the usual—powder, pills, you know. This… this is different. Dangerous different. People talk, but they don’t talk loud. You get me?”
“Stop dancing around it,” she snapped, her patience thinning. “I’ve got a woman in there spinning stories about memories being bought and sold like they’re bloody ration cards. I need to know if there’s anything to it, or if I’m wasting my night on a liar. Spill, Rohan. Now.”
Another pause, longer this time. Then a sigh, heavy through the speaker. “Okay, fine. I’ve heard things. Not much, but enough. There’s a place, near the 90 Feet Road, behind a shop with a blue shutter. Tailor’s sign on top, but everyone knows it’s a front. This Doctor, he’s not just some roadside quack. People say he… takes things from your head. Things you don’t wanna give up. And he gives you other things instead. Bad things, sometimes. I don’t know how, madam, I swear. I just know people who go there, they come back… not the same. Chupke se baat hai, but it’s big. Bigger than the usual bakwas.”
Priya’s grip tightened on the phone. The corridor seemed to narrow around her, the fluorescent lights buzzing louder in her ears. Takes things from your head. It matched Meera’s story too closely to be coincidence. And if Rohan, who’d seen every kind of filth in Dharavi, was spooked, that meant something. “You got a name for this Doctor?” she asked.
“Nahi, madam. Just the Doctor. That’s all anyone calls him. And they don’t call him for long, if you get my drift. You going there, be careful. That’s not a place for police. Not even you.”
She ended the call without a goodbye, her thumb hovering over the screen as her mind raced. Dharavi at this hour was a labyrinth, a warren of narrow lanes and flickering sodium lamps, where every shadow hid a deal and every doorway a danger. She’d worked cases there before, busted ganja peddlers and small-time smugglers, but this felt different. Deeper. Like stepping into a current she couldn’t see the end of. Her instinct, the one that had kept her alive through ten years on the force, screamed at her to wait, to build a case, to call for backup. But Meera’s face—those hollow eyes—kept flashing in her mind. And the clock was ticking. If IG Shinde got wind of her digging into something outside the murder file, he’d shut her down faster than a hawker’s stall in a raid.
She slipped the phone back into her pocket and pushed through the station’s main door, the muggy night air hitting her like a slap. Outside, Mumbai pulsed in its sleepless glory. Auto-rickshaws growled down the road, their horns blaring in a discordant symphony. A street vendor nearby was packing up his cart, the sizzle of leftover bhajiyas still lingering in the air, mixing with the faint stench of garbage from an overflowing bin. The neon sign of a nearby chemist flickered erratically, painting the pavement in sickly green. Priya’s boots hit the ground hard as she strode toward her bike, a beat-up Pulsar parked crookedly by the curb. She swung a leg over, the leather seat still warm from the day’s heat, and gunned the engine. The roar cut through the night, a warning to anyone listening.
Dharavi wasn’t far, not in distance. But it was a world away from Bandra’s relative order. The lanes tightened as she rode, buildings leaning in like they were whispering secrets to each other. Laundry lines sagged overhead, dripping water onto the asphalt, and the air grew heavier with the smell of frying onions and burnt plastic. Groups of men lingered at corners, their eyes tracking her as she passed, the bike’s headlight cutting sharp beams through the haze. She kept her face forward, her jaw set, but her hand hovered near the holster under her jacket. You didn’t ride into Dharavi at 3 a.m. without expecting trouble.
The blue shutter Rohan mentioned came into view after twenty minutes of weaving through alleys so narrow the bike’s handlebars nearly scraped the walls. It was a rusted, dented thing, the paint peeling at the edges, with a faded sign above it reading “Shree Ganesh Tailors” in Devanagari script. The shop was dark, the windows boarded, but a faint light seeped from under the shutter, a thin yellow slit that didn’t belong at this hour. Priya killed the engine, the sudden silence pressing against her ears, replaced by the distant bark of a street dog and the murmur of voices from somewhere nearby. She dismounted, her boots crunching on broken glass, and crouched low, scanning the alley. No movement. No eyes on her. Not yet.
Her pulse kicked up as she approached the shutter, her fingers brushing the cold metal. The light underneath flickered, like someone was moving inside. She pressed her ear to the surface, holding her breath. A low hum vibrated through the steel, mechanical, steady, like a generator or something worse. Then a voice—muffled, sharp, speaking in hurried Marathi. “Jaldi kar, bhai. Ye wala pura khali hai. Aur ek ghanta bas.”
Hurry up. This one’s completely empty. One more hour.
Priya’s stomach twisted. Empty of what? She straightened, glancing down the alley again. No backup, no warrant, no plan beyond the itch in her gut telling her this was the place. Meera’s words echoed in her head—machines, wires, the Doctor. If this was his den, she couldn’t walk away. Not now. But going in blind was a gamble, the kind that could end with her name on a casualty report. Her hand slipped to her radio, hesitating. Call it in, wait for a team, play it safe. Or kick the door down and see what kind of hell she’d stumbled into.
The hum from inside grew louder, almost a whine now, and the voices picked up, urgent. Something was happening, something she couldn’t afford to miss. Her fingers tightened on the radio, then dropped away. Screw safe. She’d come too far to turn back. She rapped on the shutter, hard, the sound echoing down the empty alley like a gunshot. The voices inside cut off instantly, the hum dipping for a split second before steadying. Silence stretched, heavy, suffocating. Then a scrape of metal on concrete, and the shutter began to lift, inch by inch, revealing a pair of scuffed boots and the glint of a knife in a hand that didn’t hesitate.
Priya stepped back, her own hand snapping to her holster, her heart slamming against her ribs. The shutter stopped halfway, and a face peered out—lean, unshaven, eyes like black glass under a low cap. He didn’t speak, just stared, the knife still in plain view, his posture screaming trouble. Behind him, the faint glow of bluish light spilled from a doorway, and the hum pulsed louder, almost alive.
“Kaun hai?” he growled, his voice rough, like he’d smoked one too many beedis. “Kya chahiye itni raat ko?”
Priya forced her face into a neutral mask, her fingers itching on the grip of her service pistol. “I’m looking for the Doctor,” she said, keeping her tone flat, authoritative. “Heard he’s got something I need. You gonna let me in, or do I have to make this ugly?”
The man’s eyes narrowed, flicking over her, sizing her up. The knife didn’t move, but his other hand twitched, like he was signaling someone behind him. The bluish light flickered again, and a shadow moved in the background, quick and silent. Priya’s skin prickled, every instinct screaming that she’d just walked into a trap. But she held her ground, her gaze locked on his, waiting for the next move. The alley was too quiet now, the city’s usual clamor fading into a distant hum, as if Mumbai itself was holding its breath.
The man’s stare didn’t waver, his eyes glinting like wet coal under the brim of his cap. A faint smirk curled at the corner of his mouth, but it wasn’t amusement—it was the kind of look a street dog gives before it bares its teeth. Priya’s pulse thrummed in her ears, louder than the distant wail of a train slicing through the night. Her fingers tightened on the pistol grip, still holstered at her hip, but she kept her arm loose, casual. No point tipping her hand just yet. The air in the alley was thick, heavy with the stench of rotting garbage and something sharper, metallic, like old blood soaked into the asphalt.
“Doctor?” the man repeated, dragging the word out, testing it. His Marathi accent was thick, the kind that clung to the backstreets of Dharavi. “Koi doctor nahi hai yahan. Tum galat jagah aayi ho, madam.” His tone was a blade wrapped in silk, polite enough to mock her. The knife in his hand tilted slightly, catching the dim neon glow from a flickering sign above—a cheap ad for a paan stall that hadn’t been open in years. The bluish light from the doorway behind him pulsed again, erratic, like a heartbeat struggling to stay steady.
Priya didn’t blink. “Phir bhi,” she said, her voice low, matching his edge. “Main andar jaungi. Baat karni hai. Tumhare paas waqt hai ya nahi, yeh mujhe parwa nahi.” She took a half-step forward, testing the water, her boots scraping against the uneven ground. The alley was narrow, barely wide enough for two people to pass shoulder to shoulder, and the walls on either side were slick with moss and grime, glistening under the faint streetlight. She could feel the dampness seeping through the air, sticking to her skin, mixing with the sweat beading at the nape of her neck despite the late-night chill.
The man’s smirk vanished. His hand—the one not holding the knife—lifted slightly, a subtle gesture, but Priya caught it. A signal. Her gaze darted past him for a split second, catching the shadow in the doorway again, taller this time, moving with purpose. Two of them, at least. Maybe more. Her chest tightened, but she shoved the flicker of doubt down hard. She’d walked into worse dens than this in her eight years on the force—raids on godowns stuffed with heroin, busts in chawls where every window hid a lookout. This was just another night in Mumbai, even if the stakes felt heavier, sharper, like the knife still dangling in the man’s grip.
“Thik hai,” he said finally, stepping aside with a mock flourish, the knife still in hand but pointed down now. “Andar aao. Par yaad rakhna, yahan koi doctor nahi hai. Jo hai, woh shayad tumhe pasand nahi aayega.” His grin was back, all teeth, no warmth. Priya nodded, keeping her face stone, and moved past him, her shoulder brushing the damp wall to avoid getting too close. The smell of stale tobacco and something sour rolled off him as she passed, and she fought the urge to hold her breath.
The doorway loomed ahead, the bluish light spilling out in jagged streaks, painting the cracked concrete floor in ghostly hues. The hum she’d heard earlier was louder now, a mechanical drone that vibrated through the soles of her boots. It wasn’t just a sound—it was a feeling, crawling up her spine, setting her teeth on edge. She paused at the threshold, her hand hovering near her holster, her eyes scanning the space beyond. A narrow corridor stretched ahead, the walls plastered with peeling posters for long-forgotten political rallies, the floor littered with cigarette butts and crumpled plastic chai cups. At the far end, another door, half-open, leaked that same bluish glow, and the hum pulsed stronger, almost rhythmic, like a machine breathing.
Behind her, the man’s boots scuffed the ground as he followed, close enough that she could feel the weight of his presence, a silent threat. She didn’t turn, didn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her check. Instead, she squared her shoulders and stepped into the corridor, the air inside cooler but heavier, tinged with the sharp bite of antiseptic and something else—something chemical, acrid, like burnt wiring. Her nose wrinkled, but she kept moving, each step deliberate, her senses on high alert. The walls seemed to press in, the corridor narrowing as she approached the second door, and the hum grew so loud it drowned out the distant honks of autorickshaws and the faint devotional bhajans drifting from a nearby temple. Mumbai’s pulse was still there, but it felt muted, smothered by whatever was happening in this place.
She reached the door, her hand brushing the rusted metal frame, cold and slick under her fingertips. The bluish light was blinding up close, flickering like a dying bulb, and she squinted against it, trying to make out the shapes beyond. A room, cluttered and chaotic, unfolded in front of her. Metal tables lined the walls, stacked with equipment she didn’t recognize—tangles of wires, glass vials filled with murky liquids, monitors displaying jagged green lines that spiked and dipped erratically. In the center, a reclining chair, the kind you’d see in a dentist’s office, but this one was strapped with thick leather restraints, stained and frayed at the edges. Above it, a helmet-like device hung from a mechanical arm, bristling with electrodes, the source of the bluish glow. The hum came from there, a low, insistent thrum that made her skin crawl.
Her stomach twisted. This wasn’t a drug lab, not the kind she was used to busting. This was something else, something wrong. She’d heard whispers in the precinct, half-joking rumors about “memory doctors” in the underbelly of the city, but she’d dismissed them as urban legends, the kind of nonsense constables spun over late-night chai breaks. Now, standing in this room, the weight of those rumors crashed into her, heavy and real. Meera Jadhav’s words echoed in her head—“I sold a piece of me. I didn’t mean to, but I did.” Priya’s jaw clenched, her fingers brushing the holster again, more out of reflex than intent.
“Kaun hai yeh?” A new voice cut through the hum, sharp and impatient, coming from the far corner of the room. Priya’s head snapped toward it, her body tensing. A man stepped out from behind a cluttered shelf, tall and lanky, his face half-hidden in shadow. He wore a stained lab coat over a kurta, the sleeves rolled up to reveal wiry forearms crisscrossed with old scars. His eyes, though—those she could see clear as day. Dark, intense, bloodshot, like he hadn’t slept in days. He held a tablet in one hand, the screen casting a faint glow on his sharp cheekbones, and in the other, a syringe, the needle glinting under the bluish light. He didn’t look like a doctor, not the kind you’d trust with a fever, let alone your mind.
“Tum kaun ho?” he asked again, his voice dropping lower, suspicion lacing every syllable. His gaze flicked to the man behind Priya, then back to her, assessing, calculating. The air in the room felt thicker now, charged, like the moment before a storm breaks. Priya straightened, her cop instincts kicking in hard, but she kept her tone even, almost bored.
“Main ek buyer hoon,” she said, the lie slipping out smooth as oil. “Suna hai tumhare paas kuch khas hai. Memories, hai na? Main yeh dekhne aayi hoon.” She let her eyes wander over the equipment, feigning curiosity, though her gut was screaming at her to turn around, to get out before this went south. But she couldn’t—not yet. Not when Meera’s haunted face kept flashing in her mind, those vivid, impossible memories of a murder she didn’t commit. Whatever this place was, it was the key, and Priya wasn’t walking away empty-handed.
The lanky man—Arjun, she guessed, if the whispers about the “Doctor” were true—didn’t relax. His grip on the syringe tightened, and his lips pressed into a thin line. “Buyer?” he echoed, the word dripping with skepticism. “Itni raat ko? Bina appointment ke? Tum police ho, na?” His eyes narrowed, boring into her, and for a moment, she swore he could see right through the lie, straight to the badge she’d tucked into her jacket pocket before coming here.
Her heart stuttered, but she forced a laugh, short and sharp, the kind she’d heard from dealers in interrogation rooms. “Police? Bhai, main yahan paisa dene aayi hoon, arrest karne nahi. Par agar tumhe shak hai, toh main jaa sakti hoon. Tumhara loss.” She turned slightly, as if to leave, but kept her body angled so she could watch him from the corner of her eye. A gamble, but she’d played worse hands.
Arjun didn’t move, didn’t speak, just stared at her, his face unreadable. The man from the alley was still behind her, too close, his knife probably still out, though she didn’t dare check. The hum from the machine pulsed louder, syncopated with her heartbeat, and the antiseptic smell was starting to make her dizzy. Sweat trickled down her spine, sticking her shirt to her skin, but she held her ground, waiting him out. Mumbai taught you patience, even when every nerve was screaming to run.
Finally, Arjun exhaled, a short, frustrated sound, and set the syringe down on a nearby table with a deliberate clink. “Thik hai,” he said, his voice quieter now, but no less guarded. “Par yeh samajh lo—jo yahan hota hai, woh bahar nahi jaata. Samjhi?” He stepped closer, not threatening, but close enough that she could smell the stale coffee on his breath, see the faint tremor in his hands. Up close, he looked younger than she’d expected, maybe early thirties, but his face carried a weight that aged him—lines etched deep around his mouth, shadows under his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights and worse choices.
Priya nodded, keeping her expression neutral, though her mind was racing. This wasn’t just a transaction. There was something personal here, something eating at him. She’d seen that look before, on informants who’d sold their souls for a quick payout, on junkies who knew they were in too deep but couldn’t climb out. Arjun wasn’t just running this operation—he was trapped by it, and that made him dangerous in a way a straight-up thug like the knife-man wasn’t. Desperate people did desperate things.
“Main samjhti hoon,” she said, her voice steady. “Ab dikhao. Kya hai tumhare paas?” She gestured toward the chair, the helmet, playing the part of the curious buyer, though every instinct told her to keep her distance from that thing. The bluish light flickered again, casting long shadows across the room, and for a moment, she swore she saw something move in the corner—a shape, hunched and silent, watching. Her skin prickled, but when she looked again, it was gone, just a trick of the light. Or so she told herself.
Arjun hesitated, his gaze flicking to the chair, then back to her. “Yeh... yeh simple nahi hai,” he muttered, almost to himself, his fingers twitching like he wanted to grab the syringe again. “Jo tum kharidogi, woh waapas nahi aayega. Na tumhare liye, na uske liye jiska hai. Samajh rahi ho?” His voice cracked on the last word, a raw edge slipping through, and Priya caught it, filed it away. Regret. Guilt. This wasn’t just a business to him—it was a curse.
She nodded again, slower this time, letting the weight of his words settle. “Main samajh rahi hoon. Par mujhe chahiye. Abhi.” She stepped closer to the chair, her boots clicking on the concrete floor, the sound swallowed by the hum. Up close, the leather restraints looked even worse—stained with sweat, maybe blood, the buckles rusted but still strong. Her throat tightened, but she forced herself to look curious, to keep up the act. Behind her, the knife-man shifted, his presence a constant pressure, and she knew she was running out of time to play this game.
Arjun sighed, a sound so heavy it seemed to drag the air out of the room. “Thik hai,” he said again, turning to a monitor on the table, his fingers flying over the screen. “Par pehle paisa. Aur yeh yaad rakhna—jo yeh machine karti hai, woh reversible nahi hai. Tum khud ko khona nahi chahti, na?” His eyes met hers, and for the first time, she saw something like fear in them—not for himself, but for her. It threw her, just for a second, long enough that she didn’t notice the knife-man stepping closer behind her until his shadow fell across the floor.
Her hand snapped to her holster on instinct, but before she could draw, a third figure emerged from the corner—the shape she’d glimpsed earlier, not a trick of the light after all. A woman, wiry and pale, her face half-hidden by matted hair, her eyes wide and glassy, like she wasn’t all there. She moved fast, too fast, a metal rod in her hand swinging toward Priya’s head. The air hissed as it cut through, and Priya barely had time to duck, the rod grazing her shoulder with a sharp, burning sting. She stumbled, her back hitting the edge of the chair, pain exploding down her arm.
“Ruko!” Arjun shouted, his voice cracking with panic, but the woman didn’t stop. Her face twisted into something feral, her mouth open in a silent scream, and Priya saw it then—the emptiness in her eyes, like she wasn’t a person anymore, just a shell. A memory gone wrong. A donor, maybe, or a buyer who’d lost too much. The realization hit like a punch, but there was no time to process it. The knife-man lunged, his blade flashing, and Priya rolled to the side, her shoulder screaming as she hit the ground hard.
The room erupted into chaos, the hum of the machine drowning out Arjun’s shouts, the bluish light strobing wildly now, casting everything in jagged, disorienting flashes. Priya’s hand finally found her pistol, yanking it free as she scrambled to her feet, her breath ragged, her vision swimming. The woman was coming at her again, the rod raised high, and behind her, the knife-man closed in, his grin back, wider now, hungry. Arjun stood frozen by the monitor, his hands raised like he didn’t know whether to stop this or let it happen.
Priya’s finger tightened on the trigger, her heart slamming against her ribs, every nerve screaming at her to shoot, to end this before it ended her. But her eyes locked on the woman’s face again, on that hollow stare, and something in her faltered. This wasn’t just a fight—this was a glimpse into what she was chasing, what Meera had fallen into. A trap deeper than any drug den, and she was standing right at the edge of it. One wrong move, and she’d fall in.
Priya’s finger hovered on the trigger, the cold metal of the pistol grounding her as the bluish strobe of the machine carved shadows across the woman’s face. That hollow stare—it wasn’t just fear or rage, it was absence. Like someone had scooped out whatever made her human and left a shell behind. The woman’s grip on the iron rod tightened, her knuckles pale, and behind her, the knife-man’s grin stretched wider, his blade catching the flickering light as he edged closer. Priya’s shoulder throbbed from the fall, a dull fire spreading down her arm, but she couldn’t look away from that empty gaze. It was Meera’s face all over again, back at the station, confessing to a murder she didn’t commit, her words too sharp, too real, for a lie. This wasn’t just a fight in a grimy basement. This was the answer—or the start of one.
“Stop!” Arjun’s voice cracked through the hum of the machine, raw and desperate, his hands still half-raised like he could push this whole mess away. “Don’t—don’t shoot her, please. She’s not—she doesn’t know what she’s doing!”
Priya didn’t take her eyes off the woman, but her jaw tightened. “Tell her to drop the rod, then. Tell him to back off with that knife. Now.”
Arjun stammered, his sneakers scuffing against the concrete as he took a shaky step forward. “Rani, listen—Rani, put it down. You don’t want this. You’re not—this isn’t you.” His voice trembled, not with authority, but with something heavier. Guilt, maybe. Fear. The kind of fear that knows it’s already too late.
The woman—Rani—blinked, her head tilting slightly, like she was hearing him through water. The rod wavered in her hands, but didn’t fall. Behind her, the knife-man barked a laugh, short and ugly. “Arre, doctor saab, ab kya drama? She’s gone, na? You took it. You took her. What’s left to save?”
Priya’s gut twisted at the words. Took her. Took what? Her aim shifted a fraction, the pistol now trained between Rani and the knife-man, her mind racing. The machine’s hum pulsed louder, vibrating through the floor, and the air in the basement felt thicker, sour with sweat and the metallic tang of fear. Wires snaked across the ground, tangling around cracked plastic chairs and rusted metal shelves, the whole setup screaming makeshift, desperate. A lab, Arjun had called it. A lab for what? She didn’t have time to piece it together—not with Rani’s rod still raised, not with that blade inching closer.
“Last chance,” Priya said, her voice low, steady, even as her pulse hammered in her throat. “Drop it, both of you, or I put you down.”
Rani’s eyes flickered, just for a split second, something human breaking through the void. Her mouth opened, a small, broken sound escaping, not words, just air. Then the rod clattered to the ground, the noise sharp against the concrete, and her hands went slack at her sides. She swayed, her knees buckling, and Priya lunged forward without thinking, catching her before she hit the floor. Rani’s weight was heavier than it looked, her skin clammy under Priya’s grip, and up close, the woman’s breath came in shallow, uneven rasps. Like she’d forgotten how to breathe properly.
The knife-man moved—fast. Priya heard the scrape of his boots before she saw the flash of steel, and she twisted, shoving Rani behind her as she brought the pistol up. Too late. The blade sliced across her forearm, a hot, searing line that made her hiss through her teeth. Blood welled up, dark and sticky, soaking into the sleeve of her kurta, but she didn’t drop the gun. Her other hand shot out, grabbing his wrist, and she yanked hard, using his momentum to slam him into the nearest wall. His head cracked against the concrete, a sickening thud, and he slumped, the knife skittering across the floor.
Arjun was shouting again, words tumbling over each other—“Stop, stop, please, I’ll explain, just don’t—” but Priya barely heard him. Her arm burned, the cut deeper than she’d thought, and her vision blurred at the edges as she straightened, keeping the pistol trained on the knife-man’s crumpled form. Rani was on the ground now, curled into herself, her hands pressed to her head like she could block out whatever was happening inside her. The machine’s hum hadn’t stopped, that bluish light still strobing, making the whole basement feel like a fever dream.
“Turn it off,” Priya snapped, her voice rough, nodding at the machine. “Whatever that thing is, shut it down. Now.”
Arjun hesitated, his hands trembling as he moved to the monitor, his fingers fumbling over the keys. “It’s not—it’s not that simple. If I just cut the power, it could—there’s feedback, okay? It could hurt her worse. Just… just give me a second.”
“Hurt her worse?” Priya’s eyes narrowed, her grip on the pistol tightening even as her arm screamed in protest. “What the hell is this, Arjun? What did you do to her?”
He didn’t answer, his focus on the screen, sweat beading on his forehead as he tapped out commands. The hum faltered, dipping for a moment before steadying, and finally, with a low groan, the machine powered down. The bluish light died, leaving the basement in dim yellow from a single bulb overhead, the shadows longer, harsher. The silence felt heavier than the noise, broken only by Rani’s uneven breathing and the faint drip of water somewhere in the corner.
Arjun turned, his face pale, his glasses crooked on his nose. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean for this. I swear. It’s not supposed to be like this. She—she was just supposed to give up a piece, a small one. Not… not everything.”
“A piece of what?” Priya’s voice was sharp, cutting through the stale air. She stepped closer, ignoring the throb in her arm, the blood now dripping onto the floor in slow, steady drops. “Talk, or I drag you to the station right now. You and your little science project.”
Arjun flinched, his hands coming up again, defensive. “It’s—it’s memories, okay? We extract them. Take them out, store them, sell them. It’s not supposed to be dangerous. It’s supposed to be clean. But sometimes… sometimes it takes more than it should. Sometimes it takes too much.”
Memories. The word hit Priya like a slap, cold and sharp, pulling her back to Meera in the interrogation room, her voice so sure, so vivid, describing a murder she couldn’t have done. Sold a piece, Meera had said. Sold it to forget, or to pay, or—Priya hadn’t understood then, hadn’t wanted to. Now, standing in this basement, the smell of rust and sweat clinging to her skin, the pieces started to snap together. Too fast, too ugly.
“You’re telling me you rip people’s memories out of their heads?” Her voice was low, dangerous, her free hand curling into a fist. “And what, sell them like drugs? Like they’re yours to take?”
“It’s not like that!” Arjun’s words came out in a rush, his eyes wide behind the cracked lenses. “Not always. Some people want to forget—trauma, pain, things they can’t live with. We help them. And the buyers, they want to feel something real, something they can’t get on their own. It’s—it’s a transaction. Consent. Most of the time.”
“Most of the time,” Priya repeated, her tone flat, her gaze flicking to Rani, still curled on the floor, her hands now clawing at her hair. “Does she look like she consented to whatever you did?”
Arjun’s mouth opened, then closed, his shoulders slumping. He looked at Rani, and for a moment, his face crumpled, raw and unguarded. “I… I tried to stop it. When I saw it was going wrong, I tried. But the system, it’s—it’s not perfect. There are glitches. Feedback loops. Sometimes it takes more than we mean to. Sometimes it… empties them.”
Empties them. Priya’s stomach churned, her mind flashing to Meera again, to the way her hands had shaken when she’d tried to explain, the way her eyes had darted, like she was looking for something she’d lost inside herself. Was this what she’d meant? Was this what had been done to her? Priya’s grip on the pistol faltered, just for a second, her injured arm trembling under the weight. The basement felt smaller now, the walls pressing in, the air thick with the stink of despair.
She forced herself to focus, her voice hard. “Who buys these… memories? Who’s running this? You’re not the boss here, Arjun. I can see that much.”
He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, his hands fidgeting at his sides. “I can’t—I can’t tell you that. They’ll kill me. You don’t get it, this isn’t some small-time operation. It’s bigger than me, bigger than this place. If I talk, I’m done.”
“You’re done if you don’t,” Priya said, stepping closer, close enough to smell the fear on him, sour and sharp. “I’m not playing, Arjun. People are getting hurt. People are dying. You think I care about your sob story when I’ve got a woman in lockup who doesn’t even know what’s real anymore?”
His eyes darted to Rani, then back to Priya, and something in him broke. His voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible over the drip of water in the corner. “Nana. That’s all I’ll say. You want answers, you find Nana. He runs the market. Midnight market, down near the docks. That’s where it happens. That’s where they… trade.”
Nana. The name landed heavy, a stone in Priya’s chest. She’d heard whispers of him before, an old-school gangster, Marathi through and through, the kind of man who’d ruled parts of Mumbai before the new money and the cartels took over. She’d thought he was a relic, a ghost from the ‘80s, not someone still pulling strings. But the way Arjun said it, the way his voice shook, told her this wasn’t just a name. It was a warning.
“Midnight market,” she repeated, testing the words, her mind already spinning. The docks at night were a maze, a warren of warehouses and narrow alleys, the kind of place where the city’s underbelly didn’t just hide—it thrived. She’d raided spots like that before, for heroin, for guns, but never for something as intangible as this. Memories. The thought made her skin crawl, the cut on her arm pulsing in time with her heartbeat.
She glanced at Rani, still on the floor, her breathing steadier now but her eyes still vacant, staring at nothing. Priya’s chest tightened. She couldn’t leave her here, not like this, not with Arjun and whatever this place was. But dragging her to the station meant questions, paperwork, explanations she didn’t have yet. And the knife-man—he was stirring now, groaning, his hand twitching toward the blade a few feet away.
“Get up,” Priya said to Arjun, her voice clipped, nodding at Rani. “Help her. You’re coming with me. Both of you. And him—” She kicked the knife away from the man on the ground, the metal scraping loud in the quiet. “—he stays. Cuff him to something if you’ve got anything. I’ll send someone for him later.”
Arjun nodded, jerky and quick, moving to Rani’s side. He crouched, his hands hesitant as he touched her shoulder, murmuring something soft, maybe her name, maybe an apology. Priya didn’t care. She kept the pistol ready, her eyes scanning the basement, the corners still dark, still hiding who-knew-what. The air was damp, clinging to her skin, the smell of blood—her blood—mixing with the rust and grime. Outside, she could hear the faint roar of Mumbai at night, the horns of autos, the distant shout of a street vendor, the city that never stopped, never slept. It was waiting for her, and now, so was this midnight market.
They moved slowly, Arjun half-carrying Rani, her feet dragging as they climbed the narrow, creaking stairs out of the basement. Priya’s arm ached, the cut still bleeding, but she didn’t stop, didn’t let herself think about the pain. Not yet. Not until she had answers. The stairwell smelled of mildew and stale cigarette smoke, the walls streaked with damp, and every step echoed, too loud in the tight space. At the top, the door to the alley was still cracked open, the neon glow of a nearby sign leaking in, painting the ground in sickly green.
Outside, the air hit her like a wave, humid and heavy, carrying the salt of the nearby sea and the sharp bite of diesel from the road. A rickshaw rattled past, its driver shouting something in Marathi, the words lost in the noise. Priya’s eyes scanned the alley, the shadows between the crumbling buildings, her grip on the pistol steady even as her arm screamed. She didn’t trust this quiet, not after what she’d seen below.
“Station,” she said to Arjun, her voice firm, no room for argument. “We’re not done. You’ve got a lot more to say, and I’ve got time to listen.”
He didn’t protest, just nodded, his face drawn, Rani’s weight pulling at his shoulder. But as they started toward the main road, Priya’s mind wasn’t on him, or on the station, or even on the cut burning her arm. It was on Nana, on the docks, on a market that traded in pieces of people’s souls. She’d thought she’d seen the worst of Mumbai in her years with narcotics—addicts hollowed out by smack, kids turned into mules, families broken by the trade. But this was different. This was personal in a way she couldn’t name yet, a violation that went deeper than flesh.
The city pulsed around her, alive and restless, the neon flickering, the air thick with the promise of rain. She could feel it in her bones, the weight of what she’d stumbled into. A trap, yes, but also a door. And as she stepped into the glare of the streetlights, the blood drying sticky on her skin, she knew she’d walk through it, no matter what it cost. Because somewhere in that midnight market, there was a truth waiting—a truth about Meera, about Rani, about how much of a person you could lose before you weren’t a person at all.