Midnight in Kurla West

7440 words

The auto-rickshaw sputtered to a halt in the choking heat of Kurla West, engine coughing like a smoker on his last drag. Priya Kapoor slid out, boots hitting the uneven asphalt, the air thick with the stink of diesel and frying vada pav from a roadside stall. Midnight was still an hour away, but Mumbai didn’t wait for clocks—streetlights flickered, hawkers shouted over each other, and a temple bell clanged somewhere in the mess of narrow lanes. Her kurta stuck to her back, damp with sweat, as she scanned the crowd for Rohan. He’d texted her an hour ago, cryptic as always: Meet at Shree Ganesh, urgent. Big fish. No details, no time to prep, just the kind of bait she couldn’t ignore after what she’d seen in Dharavi. She adjusted the dupatta over her shoulder, fingers brushing the hidden Glock at her hip. Undercover meant no uniform, no backup, just her and the city’s underbelly. Her pulse ticked up as she spotted Rohan near the chai stall, leaning against a rusted lamppost, his bony frame half-lost in a faded hoodie. He looked jittery, eyes darting like a street dog waiting for a kick. Priya wove through a gaggle of late-night shoppers, ignoring a vendor’s yell about cheap bangles, and stopped a foot from him, close enough to smell the...