Chapter 1: The Morning of the City
It was 7 in the morning. The city hadn’t fully awakened yet, but its heartbeat had started ticking. Milkmen were already weaving through the narrow lanes on their bicycles. Smoke rose lazily from tea stalls, where a few early risers had gathered, sipping tea and flipping through the morning newspaper.
On one corner of the street, a small traffic jam had already begun—an auto driver and a biker arguing over a scratched side mirror. The chaos wasn’t loud yet, but the soft background symphony of honking, slippered footsteps, and the clink of teacups marked the start of a typical Mumbai morning.
Ravi stood in his fifth-floor balcony, one hand holding a cup of coffee, the other gripping the rusted railing. His eyes stared ahead blankly, but his mind wandered somewhere else—somewhere far from the city, far from the noise.
“This city never really sleeps,” he murmured to himself, as if replying to a thought that had been echoing in his mind.
Ravi was 21, a junior data analyst in a private IT firm. He wasn’t overly social, nor was he a recluse. People found him a bit strange—he noticed everything but said very little. His eyes were like scanners, capturing every detail of the world around him—the way a person walked, how someone hesitated before unlocking their door, or how silence could be louder than sound.
The building he lived in was called Ratan Heights. Old but sturdy, the five-storey structure stood among newer, shinier buildings like a piece of forgotten history. Each floor of Ratan Heights had a story of its own.
Ravi’s 2BHK apartment was modest but personal. It wasn’t fancy, but he had made it his own—bookshelves lined one wall, and on the other side sat a small desk with his work laptop. The balcony was his favorite spot—a quiet observation post from where he could read the city’s moods like a newspaper.
The residents were a mixed bunch. On the ground floor lived Mr. and Mrs. Ghosh, a retired Bengali couple who followed a strict routine like clockwork. On the second floor, three bachelors shared a flat—fellow IT guys, loud and always arguing over whose turn it was to do the dishes. On the third, lived Mrs. D’Souza, a single mother with a chirpy daughter who always greeted Ravi with, “Hi Bhaiya!” every time she saw him.
And then... there was the mysterious occupant of the fourth floor—Mr. Sinha.
Mr. Sinha was a man in his fifties. No one knew much about him. He didn’t attend society meetings. Never showed up at celebrations or festivals. Occasionally, he was spotted standing in his balcony, cigarette in hand, staring into nothingness with tired eyes. Rumors whispered that he had a dark past. But no one had any details—just gossip, like city smoke—rising and fading.
Ravi had seen him only a handful of times. Always alone. Always silent.
Once, they were in the lift together. Ravi had said, “Good morning.” Mr. Sinha merely glanced at him—expressionless, no reply. That was the moment Ravi felt something strange, like the man was hiding something. Not just pain, but a secret. Something that couldn’t be shared—or perhaps, shouldn’t.
That morning, Mr. Sinha’s balcony was empty. The cigarette pack still sat on the table outside, but he wasn’t there. The emptiness of that space felt unsettling—like silence was trying to say something.
Ravi took a sip of his now lukewarm coffee, but it tasted different—flavored with doubt.
Far below, the city was rising, shaking off its sleep. But inside this one building, something was off. Something was asleep—or maybe... something was hiding.
---
Chapter 2: A Strange Kind of Silence
Ravi jogged every morning. Behind the society, there was a small public garden with a walking track, a few worn-out benches, and an old banyan tree under which people gathered for yoga. His routine was always the same — leave at 6:30 AM, jog for half an hour, return by 7, and then make himself a strong cup of coffee before starting the day.
Unlike the city’s loud chaos, Ravi’s mornings were quiet, structured, and almost meditative.
That morning felt no different. A soft winter fog hugged the ground, and a chilly breeze made the air feel fresh. Ravi slipped in his Bluetooth earphones and played some light jazz music — his favorite companion during runs. The music’s rhythm synced with his pace as he jogged around the track, lost in thought, occasionally observing the regular faces: the old uncle doing stretching, the aunty doing slow laps in a tracksuit too big for her, the little kid chasing pigeons.
When Ravi finally reached Ratan Heights again, something immediately felt off.
The front gate of the building was open. Normally, Ram Singh — the society watchman — would be sitting right beside it, sipping tea or reading the newspaper. But today, his chair was empty. No sign of him. No tea kettle. No radio playing old Bollywood songs.
Ravi paused. “Maybe he went for a bathroom break,” he thought.
He walked through the gate and looked around. The building felt unusually silent. The kind of silence that doesn’t feel peaceful — it feels like a warning.
At the lift, Ravi pressed the button. The elevator made a weird mechanical groan. A metallic “grrr” echoed from inside as the doors creaked open. And then it hit him — a strong, foul stench.
It wasn’t just bad. It was... wrong.
It was the smell of something rotting. Mixed with metal. Mixed with something burnt.
Ravi instinctively stepped back, covering his nose. “What the hell is that?”
He cautiously leaned forward to peek inside.
In the back-left corner of the elevator lay a worn-out shoe — a man’s left-foot loafer. It was soaked in dried blood. Faded red patches turned nearly black. Ravi’s breath hitched.
Beside the shoe, on the floor, was a broken photo frame. The glass shattered, corners cracked. Inside the frame was a photograph — one Ravi recognized instantly.
It was Mr. Sinha. The mysterious man from the fourth floor. Standing in his balcony, cigarette in hand. His name was printed neatly on a small tag at the bottom: A.K. Sinha – Flat 402.
Time seemed to freeze. The jazz music still played faintly in Ravi’s ears, but it felt out of place now — like a horror film using cheerful music to make things even more unsettling.
His instincts screamed — don’t take the lift.
Without a second thought, Ravi turned toward the staircase and began climbing. Floor after floor, his mind raced with questions. The smell. The blood. The shoe. The photograph.
Something terrible had happened here.
By the time he reached his flat on the fifth floor, his legs were trembling. Not from fatigue — but from a creeping dread.
He rushed inside, placed the coffee mug aside, opened his laptop, but couldn’t focus on the screen. His brain was looping back to that bloody shoe.
"Mr. Sinha... where are you?" he whispered to himself.
It was 7:27 AM.
By 8:00, the building slowly started coming alive. The usual morning sounds returned — someone yelling on the phone downstairs, a kettle’s whistle, children crying, someone dragging a plastic chair across a balcony.
But none of that felt normal to Ravi anymore.
And then... he heard it.
A scream from the ground floor.
“THERE’S BLOOD! OH MY GOD!”
In a matter of minutes, the entire building was in panic mode. Doors flew open. Neighbors rushed out in pajamas and sandals. Ravi grabbed his phone and ran downstairs with a growing knot in his chest.
There, behind the lobby near the water tanks, lay Ram Singh — the watchman — unconscious. Blood trickled from a wound near his temple. His uniform was torn. His walkie-talkie broken in half.
Someone had already called the police.
The elevator had been taped off with yellow police ribbon. And now, Mr. Sinha’s name echoed through the crowd.
“That was his photo...”
“The shoe must be his...”
“Where’s Mr. Sinha? Is he... dead?”
Ravi stood quietly to one side. Observing. Listening. His brain began analyzing like a crime scene technician. Who entered the lift last? Whose shoe was that? Why only one shoe?
A police jeep arrived with two constables and a tall man in a blazer. The man’s voice was firm, and his presence silenced the crowd instantly.
“Inspector Sharma, Crime Branch,” he announced.
“Seal the lift. Break open Flat 402.”
Ram Singh was slowly gaining consciousness. Ravi caught a glimpse of the fear in his eyes. Whatever he had seen... it had shaken him to the core.
The cops made their way to the fourth floor. The door to Flat 402 was locked. It took them a few minutes to break it down.
When it finally swung open, people gasped.
There was blood. Everywhere.
On the bedsheets. On the floor. A shattered glass vase. Curtains flying wildly as the window remained open. The room looked like it had been turned upside down in panic.
But the most terrifying detail wasn’t what was there...
It was what wasn’t.
There was no body.
Inspector Sharma stepped into the room, wearing gloves. His eyes scanned every corner.
“So the killer took the body? Why? To destroy evidence? Or... something more?”
Ravi remained in the background, silently watching. His sharp eyes took in the broken vase, the direction of the open window, the pattern of the bloodstains. The angles of the furniture. Nothing was random. Something was wrong — calculated wrong.
A woman behind him whispered, “Must be a robbery... gone wrong.”
Inspector Sharma turned around sharply. “There are expensive electronics here. Jewelry in the drawers. Even his phone. Nothing’s missing. This was no robbery.”
Another resident said, “I saw his balcony light on last night, around 11 PM.”
One of the bachelors from the second floor added, “He was fighting with someone on the phone two nights ago... but I don’t know who.”
Everyone was speculating. No one had answers.
Ravi stayed silent. But a single thought rang through his mind over and over:
“If this was a murder... where is the body?”
---
Chapter 3: Police, Panic, and Something Beyond
The building didn’t feel the same anymore.
Just yesterday, people were smiling in the elevator, chatting about grocery prices or office deadlines. Today, that same elevator stood sealed with yellow police tape. The lobby that echoed with the sounds of children and slippers was now drowned in a chilling silence—dense and watchful.
Ram Singh, the watchman, had been rushed to the hospital. The lift was shut off. Flat 402 was officially declared a crime scene.
Inspector Sharma, tall and sharply dressed, moved with calm precision. But Ravi, watching from his fifth-floor balcony, noticed something in his eyes—an unease. A quiet calculation.
“There’s blood, but no body,” Sharma muttered, scribbling notes in his diary. “A shattered frame, a bloody shoe, and not one single useful witness.”
Residents had gathered in small groups, whispering theories. Some believed Mr. Sinha was a criminal hiding from his past. Others said he was a victim of something bigger—something buried. Rumors swirled like cigarette smoke. A few even blamed suicide, as if that explained the missing body.
But the most bizarre part was this: no one had seen anything.
Ravi sat in his balcony, observing quietly, like he always did. A steaming cup of coffee rested in his palm, but its flavor was lost in the storm of questions swirling in his head.
He opened his laptop and started a random old true crime documentary on YouTube. It was a habit. Whenever he felt stuck, he turned to real-life cases—searching for patterns, hoping for some silent clue to whisper itself to him.
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.
Thud, thud.
He opened it. Two police constables stood there.
“Inspector Sharma wants to speak to all residents,” one of them said formally.
Ravi nodded. “Sure. I’ll come down.”
The common hall on the ground floor had been transformed into a temporary investigation room. Sharma sat at a table, calling each resident one by one. Notes, files, photos—everything laid out like a slow-burning mystery novel.
When Ravi’s name was called, he stepped forward.
Sharma looked him straight in the eye. “Name?”
“Ravi. Ravi Mehra.”
“Which floor?”
“Fifth. Flat 503.”
“Did you ever interact with Mr. Sinha?”
“Not really. Just saw him a few times in the elevator. He never spoke.”
Sharma leaned forward. “Anything unusual in the last few days?”
Ravi thought for a second.
“Once, I heard him arguing with someone on the phone. Loud, aggressive. After that, his balcony lights were always off. Never saw him again.”
Sharma made a note. “And this morning?”
Ravi told him everything—about the strange smell, the bloodied shoe, the broken photo frame.
Sharma paused his writing and looked at him carefully. “People like you help in cases like this. You notice things. You remember.”
Ravi offered a faint smile. “I try.”
---
That entire day, the building buzzed with police activity. A forensic team arrived with gloves, kits, evidence bags. Blood samples were collected. The broken vase was dusted for fingerprints. Strands of hair found in the lift were sealed in plastic pouches. Questions filled the air like smoke.
Inside Flat 402, every corner was searched. But something unexpected came up—Mr. Sinha’s wallet.
It had cash, ID cards, even an old local train ticket.
But no mobile phone.
And no diary.
Near the bed, a rectangular patch of clean dust-free space hinted at something that used to be there. Possibly a diary, maybe important.
Inspector Sharma walked out of the flat, eyes cold.
“This wasn’t random. This was planned. The killer knew how to disturb the CCTV feed. Taking the body with them—without leaving any trace—that’s not beginner’s work.”
Back in his flat, Ravi pulled out his phone and messaged Naresh, the building electrician.
> “Can I get the CCTV footage? I need it. Emergency. I’ll add some drama if required.”
Naresh wasn’t hard to convince. Greedy and easygoing, he agreed for ₹500. An hour later, Ravi had a USB in hand—last 48 hours of footage.
He plugged it in and started scanning. Frame by frame. Floor by floor. He checked every entry, every shadow.
And then... it happened.
A few seconds of corrupted footage.
Exactly at the time the crime likely happened.
The elevator’s video feed glitched. Blurred. Distorted like someone had tampered with it. Ravi’s heart thudded louder.
But just before the distortion — one frame was clear.
A shadow.
Someone—some figure—was walking from Mr. Sinha’s flat into the lift.
But that person... never came back up.
Ravi paused the screen. Rewound. Paused again.
The shadow was barely visible—tall, average build, possibly wearing a hoodie. But the face... was hidden completely.
“Who the hell are you?” Ravi whispered to his screen.
His eyes locked on the shadow.
His fingers curled around the coffee cup.
And in that quiet room... a new fire had lit in his eyes.
This was just the beginning.
---
Chapter 4: Ravi’s First Suspicion
That night, Ravi didn’t sleep.
Not because of fear, but because of curiosity — the kind of curiosity that doesn’t let you breathe until you’ve found an answer. He sat in his dimly lit balcony, staring out at the half-asleep city. The coffee in his hand had gone cold, but he hadn’t taken a sip in over an hour.
In his head, everything played on loop.
The bloody shoe in the lift.
The shattered frame.
The distorted CCTV footage.
The shadow that never returned.
And the one big question — Where was the body?
The city looked normal. Far away, he could still hear the occasional honk of a taxi, the last train rumbling in the distance, a dog barking at nothing. But the building… Ratan Heights… felt like it was holding its breath.
It was too quiet.
His fingers drummed against the mug. “If this was a robbery... why would the killer take the body? If this was suicide... where’s the weapon? And who deleted the footage?”
His questions were growing. And so was something else — suspicion.
The kind that starts small. A crack in a wall. A shadow in a lighted room. An itch in the back of your mind that refuses to go away.
He went inside and opened his laptop. He replayed the footage — again. And again. And again.
He paused at the same frame. That distorted shadow walking into the lift. Ravi tried to enhance it using some basic video software — he wasn’t an expert, but he was curious enough to learn.
Still no face.
But he noticed something.
The person had a slight limp.
It wasn’t obvious at first, but now that he looked closer — the way the figure moved was off-balance. The left foot dragged just a little more than the right. Maybe an injury. Maybe something else.
It clicked.
Earlier that week, he had seen someone limping near the water tank. He didn’t remember the face, but he remembered the sound — tap... thud... tap... thud... — uneven footsteps.
“Who was that?” he whispered.
Ravi opened his notes — a private document he kept titled “Unsaid Things”. A weird habit, but he wrote down things most people ignored. Strange behavior, arguments, odd timings.
He scrolled back.
Three days ago:
“Mr. Sinha was on a call — loud, angry. Something about betrayal. Ended with him throwing something against the wall.”
Two weeks ago:
“Saw a man with a limp near the building stairs. Didn’t live here. Had a long coat. Entered quickly. Left just as fast.”
One month ago:
“Mr. Sinha stared too long at the main gate one evening. As if waiting for someone. Never saw them come.”
It wasn’t much. But Ravi believed in dots. And he knew — if you found the right way to connect them, the full picture would appear.
He took a deep breath.
“Police will do their job,” he said to himself.
“But I will do mine.”
He wasn’t trying to be a hero. Or Sherlock Holmes. Ravi just couldn’t let go of the feeling that something was being missed.
People had already moved on. The police had sealed Flat 402, collected evidence, and left one constable behind for monitoring. The residents had returned to their routines. The society WhatsApp group had gone from discussing the “murder” to talking about parking slots again.
But Ravi couldn’t forget.
He couldn’t unsee what he saw.
At 2:13 AM, he received a message from Naresh, the electrician.
> “Bhai... ek baat bolu? Kal raat kisi ne CCTV wiring ke peechhe kuch chipkaya tha. Jam jaisa. Maine nikal diya. Lagta hai kisi ne camera ko intentionally blur kiya tha. CCTV recording ka system crack karna aasan nahi hota bina andar ke access ke.”
Ravi’s eyes widened.
So it was true.
Someone inside the building had done it. Or someone with access.
He quickly asked:
> “Wiring pe koi naam, glove, kuch mark?”
Naresh replied:
> “Nahi bhai. Glove tha. Clean kaam. Par chipkaane ke liye chewing gum use kiya tha.”
Chewing gum?
His mind went racing again.
The bachelor boys on the 2nd floor always chewed gum. But then again, so did the delivery boys. The kids. Even Sharma, the inspector, had one during questioning.
Too many suspects. Too little clarity.
Still... the limp. That was rare.
He closed his laptop. Looked out of the window once more. A thought landed in his mind like a drop of ink in water.
What if this wasn’t about Mr. Sinha at all?
What if Mr. Sinha had something... someone wanted?
---
At 4 AM, Ravi finally dozed off on his balcony chair, the cold air brushing against his face, the mug still in his hand.
And in that silence — that dangerous, eerie silence — one thing was certain.
Ravi Mehra wasn’t just a witness anymore.
He had become... part of the mystery.
---
Chapter 5: The First Clue
The morning sun rose late, hiding behind thick clouds, as if even the sky didn’t want to look at what had happened inside Ratan Heights.
Ravi sat at his desk, eyes fixed on the laptop screen, as he replayed the CCTV footage for what must have been the twentieth time. He was exhausted, unshaven, still in his nightshirt, and running on less than three hours of sleep. But he didn’t care. Something was still off, something in the footage that he couldn’t ignore.
The image of the shadowed figure entering the lift had burned itself into his mind.
But what bothered him more... was what came after.
There was no exit.
No one came back up from that lift. No person matching that shape. No similar movement. And Mr. Sinha’s flat had been locked from inside when the police broke in.
“How did the killer get out?” Ravi murmured. “And more importantly… who was he?”
It wasn’t just about curiosity anymore. It felt personal now — like the mystery was staring him in the face and waiting to see if he would blink.
He took a breath and pulled out a notebook. Not digital this time — real paper. He scribbled four words in the center of the page and circled them:
"No Body. No Exit."
He looked up again. The sky outside was darkening even more, threatening rain. Somewhere far off, thunder rumbled like a warning.
Then his phone buzzed.
It was Naresh — the electrician again.
> “Bhai, ek important baat mili. Store room ka back CCTV ek alag angle se lift dikhata hai. Most log us footage ko ignore karte hain. Main USB me bhej raha hoon.”
Ravi’s eyes widened. Another angle.
He immediately messaged back:
> “Send it. I’ll check right now.”
Fifteen minutes later, a second USB drive was plugged into his laptop. New footage, different view. The camera was old, and the quality grainy, but it showed the backside of the lobby — a partial view of the lift from the opposite end of the corridor.
Ravi fast-forwarded to the blurred moment. Just as he’d seen before, there was the same distortion. But in this angle… something new appeared.
A second figure.
For just two seconds — right before the camera blurred — another shape appeared near the fire exit stairs. Not walking into the lift. Not running. Just standing.
And then... gone.
Ravi froze the frame.
The second person was wearing something light-colored. A white shirt, or maybe a uniform? Hard to say. But one detail stood out — a keychain hanging from their belt. Long and metallic. Almost like a watchman’s.
Ram Singh?
No... Ravi shook his head. “He was unconscious during the incident. Or was he?”
Ravi reached for his phone and called the hospital where Ram Singh had been admitted. Using a slightly emotional voice and pretending to be his nephew, he got through to the ward.
“Sir, Ram Singh is stable now,” the nurse informed. “He had a mild concussion. No internal bleeding. But… he’s not talking much.”
Not talking.
Or not able to talk?
Or… not willing?
Ravi closed his laptop and stood up.
---
By noon, he was standing outside the hospital gate, holding a packet of oranges and a lie prepared in his head.
He entered the ward where Ram Singh was resting — one arm bandaged, his face pale. The man looked older, tired. But the moment he saw Ravi, something shifted in his eyes. Fear. Recognition. Guilt?
Ravi forced a warm smile. “Ram Singh ji... aap thik ho?”
The old watchman didn’t respond.
“I’m Ravi. From Ratan Heights. Fifth floor.”
Still nothing.
“I just wanted to ask… do you remember anything from that night?”
Ram Singh looked away, swallowing hard.
Ravi lowered his voice.
“Look, I’m not the police. I’m not here to trap you. But if you know something — even a small detail — please tell me. Mr. Sinha is missing. The police have no clue. You might be the only one who saw what really happened.”
Silence.
Then finally — a whisper.
“There was... another man.”
Ravi leaned forward. “Who?”
“I don’t know his name,” Ram Singh said slowly. “But he came to the building before. Quiet man. Long coat. Limped slightly. Mr. Sinha used to meet him sometimes.”
Limp. There it was again.
Ravi felt adrenaline spike.
“Did you see him that night?”
Ram Singh nodded.
“I was locking the gate when I saw him enter. He didn’t say a word. Just walked straight toward the lift. Few minutes later… I went to check the basement power because some lights were flickering. And then... something hit me. I blacked out.”
Ravi’s hands clenched.
This wasn’t just an accidental murder.
This was a plan.
“Thank you,” he said softly, and placed the oranges by Ram Singh’s bed. “If you remember anything else, tell the police. Or me.”
As he stepped out of the hospital, the first drops of rain began to fall.
---
Back in his apartment, Ravi reviewed the notes again.
A limping man. Seen more than once. Knew Mr. Sinha. Possibly entered the building that night. Possibly disabled the CCTV. Possibly took the body.
But why?
Who was he?
And what did he want from Mr. Sinha?
Ravi paced the room, thinking. He opened his drawer, pulled out a map he had once made of the building — a personal sketch just for fun. He stared at Flat 402.
There was only one door.
One main window — too narrow for a body to be taken through.
But... what about the old maintenance duct?
His eyes widened.
On the far side of the kitchen, each flat had a sealed access duct for pipe cleaning — most people didn’t even know it existed. It connected down to the garbage chute and then to a rarely used basement corridor.
He picked up his phone.
“Naresh...”
“Haan bhai?”
“Flat 402 ka kitchen duct abhi bhi openable hai kya?”
Naresh paused. “Technically yes. But wo toh koi use nahi karta.”
Ravi whispered, almost to himself, “But someone could have used it.”
He hung up.
It all made sense now.
The killer didn’t leave through the lift.
The body wasn’t taken through the main entrance.
It went down through the duct.
It was risky. Dangerous. But also… invisible.
And in crime, invisibility was power.
---
That evening, Ravi sat in the same chair on his balcony. Rain fell hard, drenching the city in grey.
But his eyes weren’t tired anymore.
They were sharp. Alive.
He had found the first real clue.
And he wasn’t going to stop now.
---
