Shadow Case: Vishal Chronicles

The old warehouse sat like a dead elephant massive, dusty and ignored by everyone who didn't know better. It was the kind of place where even the echoes seemed afraid to come back.

Vishal parked the Bolero two lanes down. Shilpa followed, visibly nervous.

"This looks... too quiet," she muttered.

"Quiet's good," Vishal said, adjusting his collar. "Loud warehouses mean honest business. Quiet ones? Secrets."

"Why are we here again? Manek came here last night, and?"

"And his friends keep dying, or vanishing. You think that's just coincidence?"

Shilpa didn't respond. Instead, she scanned the building — broken windows, rusty shutter half-pulled down, and a dog sleeping by the door like it had retired from barking.

"Let's just peek," Vishal said.

"You always say that before getting punched."

They walked in casually, like they were lost delivery guys. The inside smelled of iron and mold — not strong, but old. Two men sat on a stool near a half-open crate, drinking tea and scrolling through their phones.

One looked up. "Who are you?"

Vishal pulled out something from his wallet — a faded plastic card with a worn barcode. It used to be a Metro supermarket loyalty card.

"Routine stock check. Just ten minutes."

The guy squinted. "We didn't get any update."

"You ever get an update when your boss orders lunch? But it still comes, right?"

The man blinked. Not convinced, but not bothered enough to argue. He waved them through with a shrug.

Shilpa leaned in close. "What if they call someone?"

"Then we run," Vishal said, smiling. "You know cardio, right?"

"I do. But I prefer not dying."

They moved past a stack of cement bags and bent metal racks. A corner of the warehouse had crates labelled "Construction Material – North Zone."

Vishal cracked one open.

Shilpa peeked in.

"What is that?" Vishal asked.

"Gun parts," she said quietly. "Imported maybe. Or locally fabricated. These can be assembled into working rifles."

Vishal stared for a second, then closed the crate like he hadn't seen it. "Right. So Manek isn't just rich, he's very prepared."

"I thought he just sold real estate."

"Apparently he's investing in 'urban safety'."

Footsteps echoed suddenly — heavy and fast. Vishal grabbed Shilpa and ducked behind a tall steel cabinet covered with a dirty tarp. Dust puffed up into their faces.

They crouched. Breathing slow.

Two men walked into the room, talking fast.

"…judge shouldn't have gotten involved," one muttered.

"He asked too many questions. He always did."

"You think Manek will cover it up?"

"He better. We've done our part."

Their voices faded as they moved deeper into the warehouse.

Vishal and Shilpa stayed still for a moment longer. Then, slowly, they stood up.

"He was asking questions," Shilpa whispered. "That's why they killed him."

"And now," Vishal added, "his name is on a flash drive only I was meant to find. Which means he knew something they didn't want recorded."

They didn't speak for a moment.

Then Vishal looked at her. "We need to talk to Manek."

"Won't he just lie?"

"I don't want his truth. I want his tells."

They left quickly, heading back to the Bolero before anyone noticed.

As they reached the main road, Shilpa looked at him.

"So… where are we going now?"

"Manek's daughter's school."

Shilpa frowned. "Wait, what?"

"Parent-teacher meeting today. Saw it on his calendar last year when I fixed his printer."

"You fixed his printer?"

"I made it worse. But I memorized his appointments."

She stared. "You're insane."

"Insane enough to survive this long," Vishal said, starting the engine.