As Isarish walked through the streets of Calcutta, the city's usual vibrance felt hollow. The air was thick with the scent of incense and fresh blood. Temples were crowded, not with devotion, but with desperation. Fish, goats—sacrifices of all kinds were being made. But this wasn't faith.
This was fear.
The expressions on people's faces were tense, their voices hushed. It was as if they were trying to appease something unseen, something they dared not name.
Something was wrong.
Isarish's sharp gaze scanned the scene, his mind already piecing together possibilities. But before he could approach someone to ask, a loud, familiar voice cut through the murmurs.
"Ah-ha! The legend himself! The gifted genius of mankind! The man with a mind sharper than a blade and a face that could make angels jealous!"
Isarish sighed.
Here we go again.
He turned just in time to see a man pushing through the crowd, arms wide open, grinning like a fool. Subhash Banerjee.
Dressed in a white kurta that looked like he had slept in it, his hair was a mess, but his eyes gleamed with mischief. He stopped a few feet away, dramatically placing his hands on his hips.
"I knew it," Subhash declared. "The moment I heard about Dhaka, I knew it could only be you. Solving the unsolvable, charming the uncharmable, walking through fire and coming out looking even better than before—tell me, Isarish, do you even try, or does it just happen naturally?"
Isarish gave him a deadpan look.
"Subhash."
"Yes, my dear friend?"
"Get to the point."
Subhash sighed, placing a hand over his chest. "So impatient. So serious. So devastatingly handsome with those dark brown, almond-shaped eyes, that perfectly trimmed full beard, those waves of midnight hair that—"
"Subhash."
"Fine, fine! You wound me, Isarish." Subhash leaned in, lowering his voice. "It's urgent."
For a moment, Isarish's gaze sharpened. Was Subhash actually serious for once?
Then—
"She's missing."
Isarish stared. "…Who?"
"My cat."
Silence.
A long, heavy silence.
"…Not again," Isarish muttered, rubbing his temple.
"Yes, again!" Subhash grabbed his arm, eyes pleading. "I swear she's playing mind games with me, but you're the only one who can outthink her! You must help me!"
"You're telling me that with the entire city acting like it's cursed; this is your emergency?"
"Don't be so cold, my friend! Even a genius needs to perform small acts of heroism."
Isarish exhaled, staring up at the darkening sky. "I have important things to do, Subhash."
Subhash clutched his hands together as if in prayer. "Help me find her, and then I'll tell you what's going on in Calcutta."
Isarish narrowed his eyes.
That was a bribe.
And a damn good one.
Isarish's fingers twitched slightly as he processed Subhash's words.
Help him find the damn cat, and he'd tell him what was happening in Calcutta?
A part of him wanted to walk away, to leave Subhash to his ridiculous dramatics. But another part—his sharper, more calculating side—knew better.
Subhash was many things: a fool, an overgrown child, a man whose priorities were so twisted they somehow made sense. But he wasn't stupid. If he was dangling information in front of Isarish like this, it meant he truly knew something.
And that meant this wasn't just about a missing cat.
Isarish sighed, finally meeting Subhash's eager gaze.
"Fine," he muttered. "Let's find your cat."
Subhash lit up, throwing an arm around Isarish's shoulders. "I knew I could count on you, my dear friend! The great Isarish, solver of mysteries, master of minds, and—"
"Subhash."
"—saviour of distressed felines!"
Isarish pinched the bridge of his nose but didn't shake him off. Instead, he let his thoughts settle, piecing together what he had ignored for too long.
This wasn't coincidence.
Subhash was dragging him toward some alley, babbling about the cat's usual hiding places, but Isarish barely listened. His mind was elsewhere.
He wanted me here.
The sacrifices, the hushed whispers, the air heavy with fear—none of it was random. Someone had carefully crafted a scenario, a pattern of breadcrumbs leading to this very moment.
First, a man no one would care about. A disposable pawn. A death meant to draw his attention without causing too much noise.
Then, someone important. Someone tied to the law. A friend of Mr. Carlson.
That was no accident. That was a message.
And then… that note.
It hadn't been a simple taunt. It had been designed for him. The words, the symbol on the victims—it had all been tailored to his understanding. The biggest clue, hidden in plain sight.
The warehouse.
Isarish clenched his jaw.
I was just a puppet being played.
The realization sent a cold shiver down his spine. Someone had been moving him like a piece on a board, predicting every step, every reaction. They knew his mind, his methods.
Whoever it was they wanted me
But who?
And more importantly—why?
A low chuckle pulled him from his thoughts.
"You look like you're thinking too much," Subhash teased. "Let me guess. You're wondering how someone as charming as me could possibly lose a cat twice in one month?"
Isarish exhaled through his nose. "No. I'm wondering how you're still alive despite being this insufferable."
Subhash grinned. "Ah, because I have you, my dear friend. A man with a mind that could outwit the gods, a face sculpted by the heavens, and a presence so commanding it—"
Isarish shot him a look.
Subhash raised his hands in surrender. "Fine, fine. But let's find my cat first, and then we talk."
Isarish nodded, though his mind was still elsewhere.
Whoever was playing this game with him…
They had made their first move.
Now, it was his turn.
Isarish barely had time to process Subhash's endless chatter when the air around them shifted.
A scream—raw, trembling, filled with something beyond grief—ripped through the streets.
People turned, heads snapping in the direction of the sound. A British woman stood at the centre of the growing crowd, her hands clutched over her mouth, eyes wide with terror.
She wasn't just crying. She was wailing.
Isarish's sharp gaze darted around. The way the people gathered, whispering, watching from a distance instead of stepping forward—it wasn't just sympathy. It was fear.
"What the hell is going on in my city?" Isarish muttered under his breath.
Before Subhash could respond, another voice cut through the noise.
"This is the eighth death in Calcutta," Mr. Carlson said as he approached, his face grim. "And there have been more. Fourteen in Ambika Kalna. Seven in Howrah."
Isarish turned fully to him, his expression sharpening. "And?"
"At first, we thought it was suicide," Carlson continued, lowering his voice. "Even though the patterns were strange. Children killing themselves. Some people found dead without a single wound on them, their hearts just… stopping." His jaw clenched. "Others were found clawing at their own faces, as if trying to rip something away."
Subhash let out a low breath, any trace of his usual humour gone.
Carlson's voice turned quieter. "Some of us thought maybe this was some kind of… strategy."
"Strategy?" Isarish echoed.
Carlson nodded. "A way for the Indians to create hysteria, to make us think there's something supernatural at play. But then our own people started dying, too. Some the same way. Some even worse. Some—" he hesitated, "—some were found with smiles carved into their faces. Their own hands gripping the blades."
Isarish's mind was already racing. "Last words?"
Carlson's face darkened. "All of them—the ones found alive just before they died, the ones who left messages, even the ones who spoke their last words in front of witnesses—said the same thing."
The crowd around them seemed to shrink, as if the weight of his words was pressing the air itself.
"He is watching…" Carlson said slowly.
"He sees me…"
"I see… myself."
The words sent a ripple of something cold down Isarish's spine.
And then Carlson added, "And there was always a mirror nearby."
Silence.
A silence so thick it felt like the city itself had held its breath.
Isarish's gaze sharpened. "Where?"
"Every single crime scene," Carlson murmured. "No matter where or how the person died… there was always a mirror facing them."
Isarish exhaled slowly.
A pattern. A deliberate one.
And all of this… had started when he was in Dhaka and Assam, tied up with other cases.
Subhash shifted uncomfortably. "We didn't print this in the papers yet," he admitted. "If people find out, the panic will be worse than the deaths themselves."
Isarish didn't answer immediately. His mind was elsewhere, his thoughts like puzzle pieces flipping over, forming an image he couldn't yet see.
A mirror. A reflection.
He is watching.
Something—someone—had started this game while he was away.
And now, they had his full attention.
Isarish exhaled sharply, his gaze drifting toward the temples overflowing with desperate worshippers.
"So that's why they're full…" he murmured. His eyes flicked back to the crying woman. "And her? I don't see a body here."
Carlson stepped forward, adjusting his stance. "Her husband," he said, his voice carrying the weight of yet another tragedy. "Last night, while returning from work near the forest, he… took his own life."
"With what?" Isarish asked, though he already had a feeling.
Carlson's lips pressed into a thin line. "A shard of a mirror."
A flicker of something unreadable passed through Isarish's dark brown eyes. "A mirror again…"
There was a pattern. A sick, deliberate pattern.
His fingers unconsciously traced the edge of his coat, his mind sharpening as he connected the pieces.
"Any idea who 'he' is?" Isarish finally asked.
Subhash hesitated before answering. "The people are calling him Ishvarashapa."
The Curse of God.
A heavy silence followed.
Carlson, watching Isarish carefully, added, "And while the public fears him… there are others who don't."
Isarish's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"
Carlson sighed. "The criminals—the ones already locked up in our cells. The moment the rumours spread; they started crying out."
He paused, as if the next words were almost too absurd to speak.
"They screamed that The Blessing of God has arrived."
Subhash inhaled sharply. "The blessing of God?"
Carlson nodded grimly. "They claimed their god is here. That he will save everyone."
The weight of it hung in the air.
"And then," Carlson continued, lowering his voice, "one of them—" He hesitated before finishing. "One of them was so overwhelmed with excitement that he smashed his head against the cell wall repeatedly."
Subhash's face twisted in disgust.
Carlson's expression was unreadable. "We had to admit him to our special British hospital. He's on the verge of death. But we believe he might still tell us something."
A stillness settled over Isarish.
His mind, razor-sharp, cut through the noise, connecting every clue.
The words. The mirrors. The deaths.
And then—
A name.
A name growled in the back of his mind like a storm rising from the past.
Veer.
His breath hitched.
A flash of memory—
A child, his own reflection staring back at him. A voice he hadn't heard in years.
Veer.
Then—
A sudden sound snapped him back to reality.
The Azaan.
The call to prayer echoed from a nearby masjid, pulling him from his thoughts, grounding him in the present.
Isarish closed his eyes for a brief moment, then exhaled.
He didn't say anything. Didn't explain the storm raging in his mind.
All he said was—
"Time to pray."
Without another word, he turned and walked toward the masjid.
Leaving behind a silence that held more questions than answers.