He wrote it down, every detail, every revenge— The Killer’s Manuscript.

One page at a time.

Not for fame.

But because she had once said, “The world may forget the dead. But stories—they make people remember.”
-
Aditya Malhotra stood at the edge of the alleyway, hands in pockets, suit slightly rumpled from the humidity of a long August morning. The yellow tape flapped in the breeze like some half-hearted attempt to keep the horror boxed in. Another body. Fifth this year. Another gangster, another murder.

He squinted up at the sky, grey and dull. The kind of morning that made coffee taste like regret.

"Fifth body in ten months," he muttered.

"Fifth feud," Jadhav corrected him from behind, voice clipped and exact. Aditya turned his head. Jadhav crouched by the body—a man in his forties, face contorted mid-scream, a single bullet to the head, no signs of struggle. Clean. Surgical. Like the last four.

Aditya joined him, scanning the corpse. "That’s what I said."

Jadhav gave him a side glance that said: You never say what you mean.

Aditya ignored it. The camera crew was already gathering outside the cordon. He could hear their buzz. No doubt someone would soon ask him to give a soundbite. Charisma had its costs.

Jadhav stood up slowly. He was in his late thirties, tall, lean, weathered like someone carved from stone. In a city full of crooked cops and paid-off judges, Jadhav Sen still carried the weight of justice like it was sacred. It made Aditya twitch sometimes—how this man never bent.

But Aditya respected him in his way.

He walked off toward the waiting cameras, straightening his collar. The press adored him—the bold and charming detective who solved crimes like it was a chess game, always one move ahead. And today would be no different. Another dead gangster. Another win for the city. Another headline.

Jadhav remained still, looking at the blood pooling beneath the body, not with horror, but with quiet calculation. He made a note in his journal—August 6th, Tuesday. Same time. Same pattern. But he said nothing.

The world was too busy applauding a hero.

And heroes never looked behind the curtain.

Aditya gave his statement to the cameras, flashed a smile, quoted justice, and watched his image take flight across social media. Another chapter in his legacy, another evening of applause.

He didn’t notice how neat the evidence was. How well it tied up. How perfectly the trail pointed to another gangster, another scumbag with motive. He never stopped to wonder how lucky he was to always find the missing piece.

Jadhav watched from the edge, a faint glimmer of sadness in his eyes. Not pity. Not guilt. Just... distance.

He had waited a long time to make this happen. To deliver justice not through the courts, but through precision. Through fire. Through loss.

And Aditya? He was the perfect smokescreen.

The city's darling. The unwitting star in someone else's play.

And the curtain had only just begun to rise.

Rashi Malhotra stirred her tea, eyes flitting to the door every few seconds. She wasn’t usually this restless—but today, the fifth installment of 'The Killer's Manuscript' was due.

She hadn’t told Aditya. He’d only mock her again, call her a “murdertainment addict” with that smug grin. But this manuscript—it wasn’t like other thrillers.

It began a year ago, with a cryptic ad on a niche forum: a crime novel so immersive, it came in parts. Not digital. Not downloadable. Twenty pages, printed and bound, delivered bi-monthly. Just twenty-nine rupees. No catch—except that it felt like a secret.

The first copy hooked her. A killer who hunted monsters in suits. Each chapter: methodical stalking, cold execution, and a clever framing of another criminal. Two deaths, one plan.

She was addicted.

And somehow, each new installment landed exactly fifteen days after a real murder Aditya had solved. The resemblance wasn’t just uncanny—it was unsettling.
Now, fifteen days had passed since that fifth murder—the gangster Dey. Ten days since Aditya had executed the supposed killer on national television.

The doorbell rang.

Her breath caught.

She rushed to the door, heart fluttering. A plain brown envelope sat waiting on the mat. No sender. No postmark. Just her name.

She tore it open.

Inside, the fifth part. Chapter 5: The Screaming Corpse.

Her fingers trembled as she flipped to the first line:

"He screamed once before the bullet shut him up. I never liked talkers. He talked too much. Now, he’d talk no more."

Rashi sank into her chair, flipping page after page. Her tea went cold. Her heart did not.

Because on page eight, the killer described how he had planted fabricated documents linking the victim to another gangster, knowing full well it would land in the hands of a detective.

A detective who solved murders too fast.

A detective with a name never mentioned in the manuscript, but whose shadow hung over every page.

That was the trick, she now realized. The names of the victims always changed—fictionalized, cleverly masked—but the murders, the methods, the sequence... it was all real. And the detectives?

They were never named.

But this chapter felt... familiar. Too familiar.

She flipped back, reading slower, more carefully. A quiet, unreadable man who took notes. A charming one who gave interviews.

Her breath caught.

Could it be?

She suddenly felt as if she were reading about her husband. And someone else.

And for the first time since the first chapter arrived, Rashi began to wonder if The Killer's Manuscript was just fiction after all.

Aditya returned home late that evening, the day's exhaustion heavy on his shoulders. He barely made it through the door before Rashi caught his attention, holding a paperback in her hands with a focused look on her face. It was The Killer’s Manuscript—the latest installment.

"Adi," Rashi said, her voice a mix of excitement and concern, "you need to read this. There’s something you need to see."

Aditya dropped his briefcase, grinning. "Another crime novel? You spend more time with killers than me."

She didn’t laugh. She handed him the book, eyes serious. "It’s not just a novel. It’s describing your cases. The murders. The setups. The way you solve them."

He rolled his eyes but flipped it open. A few paragraphs in, he froze. The killer's method—the framing, the patterns—it was all too familiar.

"This... this is just a coincidence," he muttered, uneasy now.

"No, Adi. It’s you. The detective. And the killer—he’s watching."

Aditya ran a hand through his hair, his confidence slipping. "I’ll show this to Jadhav. He’ll know."

"Jadhav’s on vacation," Rashi said softly. "For the first time in years."

"It’s only been a few days," he said, glancing at his watch. "I’ll show it to him when he gets back. He’ll probably laugh it off, but I just want to get his thoughts. He has always been sharp. If anyone can make sense of this, it’s him."

Rashi nodded, though she wasn’t entirely convinced. "I don’t know... something about it feels off. Please... just be careful."

But he was already lost in his own thoughts, his eyes returning to the pages of the book. The killer, the detective, the methodical nature of the crimes—it all seemed too precise, too perfect to be just a coincidence.

And yet, something about it felt like he was still missing the bigger picture.

But as he closed the manuscript, one thought lingered in the back of his mind. Was it really just a coincidence?

Victim 1: 5 Dec 2023. Tuesday. Method matched. Evidence planted.
Chapter 1: Identical.
Details not in public record: the cigarette burn on the left index finger. Mentioned in the manuscript. Never reported in the press. How?

Chapter Two. Another gangster. Acid poured into drink. A poisoned toast. Aditya had barely cracked that case before another body turned up. The manuscript had written about the killer hiding a vial of acid in a fountain pen—an object never mentioned publicly.

Chapter Three. Two members dead in the same house. One the murderer, the other the framed target. The manuscript had recreated the house layout. Even the painting on the hallway wall.

How did they know?
Who had this access?

Five days had passed since Jadhav went on his uncharacteristic vacation. Aditya hadn’t called him yet. Something inside told him not to—not yet.

He buried himself in work. He revisited every crime scene, one by one. Each time, he brought the chapter with him, cross-referencing paragraphs with real-life locations. It was horrifying. The language may have been fictionalized, names changed, but the pattern was exact. Even the smallest details—like the streetlight that flickered near victim three’s hideout, or the half-smoked cigar found outside the victim’s window in case two—they were all there.

Then he checked his own news clippings.

He pulled up the videos, the press conferences. There he was—Detective Aditya Malhotra. Always standing tall, always confident. Always wearing a navy-blue shirt. Every single time. He never noticed it before. But the manuscript? It described the “charming detective in blue, a creature of habit with a smile made for cameras.”

His blood ran cold.

He started tracing the origin of the manuscript. Who published it? Where was it being printed? Delivered from where?

The courier company? No record. The payment? Routed through a dead end. A digital wallet opened with forged documents. Even the ad that had caught Rashi’s attention? A targeted campaign. Only shown to her. Not a single trace elsewhere. Not online. Not archived.

“How the hell...?” he whispered.

Whoever wrote this knew her. Knew she loved crime fiction. Knew she wouldn’t resist a paperback deal with a fresh twist. They’d used her as a delivery method—for him.

Now, he looked at everyone with suspicious eyes. The interns. The forensics team. His officers. Anyone with access. Anyone who might’ve known enough about his habits and her tastes. But it wasn’t just anyone.

It was someone who knew him intimately. Someone who watched him, worked alongside him, maybe even admired him—or manipulated him.

He stared at the timeline on his board.

5 Dec 2023 — Murder One — Case solved in three weeks
6 Feb 2024 — Murder Two — Case solved in two and a half weeks
2 April 2024 — Double Murder Three — Case solved in one week
4 June 2024 — Murder Four — Case solved in two weeks
6 Aug 2024 — Murder Five — Case solved in less than two weeks

He stood back, breathing hard. He hadn’t solved these cases. Not really. He’d just... cleaned up after the killer. The real mastermind had guided him all along. Manipulated him like a marionette. He was no Sherlock Holmes—he was the damn Watson being handed answers in secret.

And now?

Now, he had no idea whom to trust.

He checked the calendar. Jadhav would be back in two days.

Maybe he’d know what to do.

Maybe he'd see what Aditya was seeing.

Maybe he was the only one Aditya could trust.

Or maybe—

Maybe the killer already knew that too.

He reread the final paragraph of the fifth chapter.

"The detective was always a step behind. Not because he wasn’t smart, but because the game was never his. The rules were laid out before he walked in. The victories were illusions. The strings were invisible. But not to the puppeteer."

He slammed the book shut.

“How do they know this much?” he muttered, staring at the board he had set up. A spider web of red strings, photos, dates, crime scenes, newspaper headlines—and now, pages from the manuscript. The same board he once used to hunt criminals was now a mirror reflecting his failure.

Was someone watching him? Feeding him?

He pulled up the video on his phone—News18 Exclusive: DCP Aditya Malhotra Cracks Fifth High-Profile Gangster Case in a Row!

He watched himself speak. Confident. Charismatic. His statements calculated. "Justice served," he’d said. The crowd behind the cameras had cheered.

But had it been?

He paused the video, eyes narrowing. Behind him, slightly out of frame, was Jadhav—hands folded behind his back, silent as always, eyes calm.

Riyaan swallowed. No. Jadhav was the only one who didn’t lap up the media attention. The only one who didn’t bask in the praise. Too quiet. Too composed.

He shook his head.

No, it can’t be him. He’s the one who noticed the pattern of the murders. He’s the one who always found the lead when no one else could. He even gave him the tip that led to the fifth killer’s execution. If Jadhav hadn’t pointed that out—

His hands trembled slightly.

Why did he point it out?

He stood up abruptly, walking to the window. The city was dark, asleep. Somewhere out there was the person who wrote the manuscript. Someone who had been playing this game all along.

He picked up his phone and called the lab.

“Run another check on the fiber sample we found in the second case. And this time... compare it to the third case. Yeah. I know it’s already been closed. Just do it.”

Click.

His team would think he was overthinking. Maybe he was. But that manuscript was real. The coincidences were too perfect. Each detail was carved into reality like a prophecy fulfilled.

He reached into the drawer and pulled out the first four parts of the manuscript. He laid them out on the floor. All 80 pages. Written in the same tone. Same rhythm. Cold. Precise. Beautifully structured.

He suddenly recalled something—Rashi had once called Jadhav a “walking plotline.” Said he had a mind made for fiction. “If he ever wrote a novel,” she had giggled, “I’d read it in one sitting.”

The thought hit Aditya hard.

His heart pounded. Could he... no. No, don’t go there.

But who else could know these details?

The way the manuscript mirrored his thoughts? His words? Even the media’s perception of him?

He checked his laptop browser history. Looked into metadata of the scanned copies. Tried tracing the font, the formatting, anything unique. He even emailed a digital forensics friend under a fake name, asking if handwriting recognition could match typed words to previous notes written by someone.

He was spiraling. He knew it.

But the worst part?

He was starting to suspect everyone.

A junior officer who always offered him coffee—what if he bugged his office?
His assistant—she handled all his files. What if she leaked his notes?
Even Rashi—she loved the manuscript too much. What if she wasn’t chosen randomly? What if she was part of it?

“No,” he whispered to himself, gripping the edge of the table. “Stop thinking like that. She wouldn’t.”

But the fear wouldn’t leave.

Not when the killer seemed too close.

Not when every time he closed his eyes, he could hear the rustle of the manuscript pages whispering—you never solved anything.

~~

[Eight Years ago]

It rained the night Shanvi died.

Jadhav had always hated rain after that.

He remembered her voice over the phone—hurried, hushed, and trembling with a thrill only a true journalist could understand.

“Jadhav, I have something. I have everything. Names, accounts, photos—proof. These bastards won’t escape this time.”

Her voice was alive, burning with righteous fire. She always chased danger like it was her destiny to expose it. And he, the then plain IT guy, with a stable job and mundane salary, had always walked a few steps behind her, steadying her flame, praying she never burned out.

He should’ve stopped her. God, he should’ve stopped her.

Three hours later, her body was found in a ditch off of a highway.

Stripped of everything—her voice, her pride, her soul. They had broken her spine. The coroner said she was tortured for hours before she died. Her nails were torn, her lips cracked, and her eyes… they were open.

Frozen in fear.

Jadhav hadn’t cried at the funeral. Not because he didn’t want to, but because Shanvi hated tears. She used to say, “Tears are useless if they don’t turn into fire.”

So he burned. Quietly.

Two weeks after the funeral

He walked into the courtroom with trembling hands— inside his pocket was a pendrive carrying her evidence, which she hid in a secret place only known to the two, still believing there would be justice. Shanvi’s files had been mysteriously wiped. Her editor denied knowledge of any “investigation.” The police called it a “random robbery gone wrong.”

The prime suspects? Gangster-politicians with three layers of immunity and a dozen bought testimonies.

The case was closed.

No arrests.

No trial.

No justice.

That night, Jadhav sat alone in the apartment that would have been their newlywed home in six months' time but now was impossible.

He spent a few weeks studying her previous investigations and other articles on the people mentioned in the evidence.
Looking at her smiling picture he whispered to the frame, “I’m sorry.”

“I’ll finish what you started.”
That day, not only did Shanvi die but he also died that day.

Since then, his sole objective has become to bring her justice. After quitting his work, he committed his five years training and becoming fit to join the detective department.

Shanvi was only alive in his heart and thoughts, and he perpetually maintained his background plain. She was forgotten. As she would have wanted, he carried out revenge for her. He began his quest for justice when his reputation and position were secure and essential to the squad.

He began devising the plan to carry out the killing spree; The Justice, as he calls it.

He began murder after murder.
Criminal after criminal.

The newspapers called it a gang war.

Aditya took the credit.

More like Jadhav gave him. Let the world look there.

He wrote it all down, every detail, every revenge—The Killer’s Manuscript.

One page at a time.

One chapter per murder.

Not for fame.

But because Shanvi had once said, “The world may forget the dead. But stories—they make people remember.”

So when he killed the first person from his bucket list.

Aditya, the golden young boy of the department, his charming junior, was called to “investigate the escalation.” He came in his lucky navy blue shirt, chewing gum, and swearing by the hour.

“They’re just killing each other now. Makes my job easier,” Aditya had smirked.

Jadhav had stood silently at the edge of the crime scene, taking notes.

No one noticed his eyes — the only part of him burning.
Not with rage.

With satisfaction.

That night, he wrote the first chapter of The Killer’s Manuscript.
He described the kill in cold precision — the stalking, the routine, the psychology.
He changed the names. Masked every clue.
But the emotions? They were raw. Almost poetic.

Shanvi would’ve been proud.

He mailed the first paperback to his junior's wife — the crime story connoisseur. Someone with a hidden appetite for justice.

Her name?
Rashi Malhotra.

She didn’t know it yet, but she had just become his puppet, a bait.

September 1, 2024.
The sun had barely dipped below the horizon when Jadhav walked into the bureau.

A week off. Seven long days that seemed out of character for the most dedicated man on the force. Even Aditya had joked—half surprised, half suspicious—when he requested time off.

Now, Jadhav was back. A fresh shave. Shirt crisp. Calm eyes.

And Aditya? A mess.

Files scattered. Eye bags heavy. The fifth manuscript lay open on his desk. Notes scribbled along its margins. He looked up the moment Jadhav entered.

“You’re finally back,” Aditya said, his voice laced with a strange relief. “We need to talk.”

Aarav tilted his head slightly. “About?”

“A book. A manuscript. Rashi’s reading it. It’s... eerie. Too detailed. Too real.”

Jadhav stepped closer, picked up the booklet, and leafed through the pages slowly—like he was reading poetry over coffee. His expression didn’t flicker once.

“What’s this supposed to be?” he asked evenly.

Riyaan leaned forward, voice urgent. “It’s fiction. But it’s following our cases. The fifth murder? It's here. The setup, the execution, the framing. Everything. Even the timing. It’s like someone’s using my investigations as inspiration. No—worse. It’s like they’re happening before my investigations. The author knows what’s going to happen.”

Jadhav paused at a sentence. Smiled softly to himself. Then looked up.

“That’s a dangerous assumption, Malhotra. You think someone’s predicting murder scenes and writing them down before they happen?”

“No, not predicting. Directing. Someone’s behind this. Every page is too clean. Too perfect. Whoever wrote this knows us. Knows me. They even described the goddamn color of my shirt at the crime scene.”

Jadhav walked to the window and stared out at the city, still glowing with the chaos of traffic and late-night chai stalls.

“So… what do you want from me?”

“Your opinion. Your mind.” He stood, restless. “You're the only one who might see what I can't.”

There it was—the admittance. That deep-rooted, reluctant respect. That belief Jadhav always had the answers. Aditya, the golden boy, the media darling, finally admitting someone might be smarter. Might be better.

Jadhav turned back, measured, calm.

“You’ve built quite the reputation, Aditya. Solving five murders in under a year. The public’s loving it. Headlines, awards, your wife on prime time talking about justice being served.”

Aditya frowned, catching something cold in Jadhav’s tone. “What are you trying to say?”

What he didn't know it was envy. Jadhav sometimes envied how his junior has a family and he lost his.

Jadhav smiled, gently, almost sympathetically.

“Just… don’t let fiction get to your head. You’re a detective, not a reader.”

He placed the manuscript back on the desk. “But yes, I’ll read it. All five chapters. Word for word.”

“Something tells me you’ve already read it,” Aditya said, eyes narrowing.

Jadhav gave a short, silent chuckle.

“Then something tells me you’re finally starting to think like a real detective.”

And with that, he walked out of the office.
Slow. Composed. Leaving Aditya in a storm of questions.

In his pocket, Jadhav clutched the sixth chapter of The Killer’s Manuscript.
Untouched.
Unpublished.
Unread.
Waiting.

Because now… the game had truly begun.

The air was unusually crisp on the 4th September's evening, the kind of unsettling calm that comes before a storm. Aditya had arranged everything — a rare home-cooked dinner, soft music humming in the background, and the warmth of familiarity. He’d insisted Jadhav join them.

Since Jadhav returned four days ago, Aditya has been feeling a rare calm as if the manuscript won't haunt him now that Jadhav his senior his mentor had returned.

“You're like family, Sen,” Riyaan had said. “Come over. Rashi's making biryani. Let’s talk. About things.”

Jadhav had hesitated over the phone. Then, quietly, “Dinner sounds nice.”

By 8 PM, he was at the door, wearing a calm smile and carrying a small bouquet of white lilies.

“For Rashi,” he said.

Rashi smiled and accepted them with a warm nod. “That’s sweet of you. But you didn’t have to.”

Dinner was pleasant. Too pleasant.

Jadhav laughed, complimented the food, even teased Aditya about his childhood photos that Rashi kept framed by the shelf. He avoided the manuscript entirely. Every time Aditya tried to steer the conversation toward the case, toward the strange parallels, Jadhav waved it off gently.

“Let’s not talk shop tonight,” he said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Just food and family.”

Rashi whispered to Aitya later, “He’s not himself tonight. It’s like… he’s trying too hard to be normal.”

Aditya nodded. Something gnawed at the back of his mind.

After dinner, Jadhav politely excused himself to use the washroom. But he didn’t go there.

Instead, he quietly slipped into Aditya’s home office, the space he’d been in countless times before. Everything was familiar — except the envelope he now placed on the desk, marked only with one line in crisp black ink:

“The Final Chapter.”

Inside: Fifty pages. The complete sixth installment of The Killer’s Manuscript.

Jadhav took one last look around the room. A small smile touched his lips. Then he left, after his goodbye.

September 5, 2024 — 4:30 AM

Aditya jolted awake. A strange chill ran through him. He wandered into his office, rubbing sleep from his eyes — and froze.

There it was.

The envelope.

His name not on it, but the weight unmistakably his.

He tore it open, heart pounding.

As he read the first few pages, his face turned pale.

The plan. The location. The time. The bomb.

The truth.

The sixth chapter wasn’t just another fictional entry.

It was Jadhav’s confession. His goodbye.

The real names were all there. The gangsters. The places. Shanvi. Her murder. Her hidden evidence — now public, uploaded across anonymous forums, emails sent to every news outlet and law enforcement office in the country, like a floodgate unleashed.

The manuscript didn’t ask for forgiveness.

It asked for understanding.

And it asked Aditya… to let it happen.

At 6 Aditya was already in the car, racing through the city, dialing every number, alerting every team he could.

But he knew.

He knew it was too late.

Jadhav had been too precise, too thorough. Every second had been accounted for. Every variable controlled.

He arrived at the edge of the warehouse district — the gang’s HQ — only in time to see smoke curling into the sky. Flames roaring. Sirens screaming.

Everything… gone.

He staggered forward, but was held back.

Then he saw it. A charred ID badge. The faintest imprint of a photo.

Jadhav Sen.

September 10, 2024

The manuscript was everywhere.

'The Killer’s Manuscript' was now a global phenomenon. It bore no aliases anymore. Names were real. Crimes were detailed. And motivations were human.

Some called it fiction. Some knew it was fact.

Aditya sat in his office, the full manuscript in his hands, tears in his eyes, and a message on the last page:

To Aditya,
You were always the hero they needed.
I just filled in the shadows.
Live cleaner. Be better. For her. For me. For you.

— Jadhav

The auditorium was quiet, filled with journalists, officers, civilians, and reporters. Cameras were rolling. 'The Killer’s Manuscript' had shaken the nation, and now, five days after its release, the government had arranged a memorial service for those who died in the explosion — and for the man once known as Detective Jadhav Sen.

But for Aditya, this wasn’t about damage control.

This was about a friend.

He stepped up to the podium, straightened the notes he never intended to read from, and looked up. His voice, when it came, was raw but steady.

“Eight years ago, a woman named Shanvi tried to speak the truth.
But the world wasn’t ready to listen.

So a man who loved her — more than anything — decided to make the world listen.
His name was Jadhav Sen.

To the public, he was a calm, composed, morally upright detective. To me, he was frustrating. Too perfect. Too sharp. Too principled. I always felt like I was trying to catch up to him.

But I didn’t know… he was always ahead. Because while I was chasing glory, he was chasing justice.

We served on the same team. We worked the same cases. But only now do I realize, I never really saw him.

The truth is, Jadhav wasn’t a monster. He wasn’t a criminal.

He was a man broken by grief.
A man who believed in justice when the system failed him.
A man who turned his pain into poetry… into a story the world couldn’t ignore.

Yes, he took matters into his own hands.
Yes, he crossed lines.
But let me ask you — if you lost the love of your life, saw her tortured, murdered, and buried by corruption… would you still believe in mercy?

I didn’t see it then. But I see it now.
Jadhav wasn’t trying to be a hero.

He just wanted the world to remember Shanvi.
And now we do.

He wanted me to live cleaner. To be better. I intend to.
I will not let the system sleep while good people bleed.

And I hope wherever he is, he knows…

I’m listening now.”

The crowd didn’t clap.

They stood in silence.

Because some stories don’t need applause.

They just need to be remembered.