It wasn’t the first time Ranveer Chaudhry had walked into a police station.
But it was the first time he wasn’t offered a chair before anyone else.
The holding cell was barely lit, its fan creaking like it had better things to do. A rust‑stained calendar from 2016 still hung on the wall—a forgotten promise, like so many others in buildings like this.
Ranveer sat on the cold bench with the poise of a man used to velvet sofas and security briefings. His fingers were loosely interlocked on his lap. No twitch, no tremble, no trace of the chaos storming outside these iron bars. His kurta remained spotless, sleeves still crisp, and yet the quiet fury of a man wrongly accused seemed to wrap around him like a second skin.
A young constable, barely in his twenties and clearly high on adrenaline and borrowed authority, sauntered toward the cell. He paused dramatically, his key ring spinning on one finger like a fidget toy.
“Feeling okay, sir?” he asked, voice soaked in sarcasm. “Need anything? A cushion for that royal spine? Your driver, maybe? Or should I send for some chai and sympathy?”
Ranveer looked up—not insulted, not angry. Just… bored.
“Beta,” he said, his voice soft, almost indulgent, “does your mouth run faster than your brain in all situations, or just when the cameras are off?”
The constable blinked, caught off guard.
Ranveer smiled faintly.
“Use the silence while you still have it. After all, there won’t be much left when you’re asked to repeat your statements under oath.”
The constable stiffened. The keys stopped spinning.
“You talk big for someone locked up.”
“And you talk bravely for someone who doesn’t know how fast the tide turns.”
Before the constable could find a snarky comeback, the door burst open with a metallic clatter.
Samar Chaddha, Deputy Commissioner, strode in like he hadn’t taken a breath in hours. His uniform was slightly creased—something that never happened. His forehead glistened with sweat. His phone was buzzing in his pocket, but he ignored it. His eyes were fixed on one man.
“Everyone out,” Samar snapped. “NOW.”
The constable scrambled without argument, shutting the door behind him like he couldn’t escape fast enough.
Samar approached the cell, every movement tightly wound.
“Sir,” he said, almost in a whisper, “what the hell is happening?”
Ranveer didn’t reply immediately. He leaned back against the concrete wall, the way some men recline in boardrooms.
“They picked you up in the middle of the night,” Samar continued, low and panicked. “There was no warning. No warrants made it past my desk. They went directly to the media. There’s footage everywhere—YouTube, Insta reels, even bloody TikTok’s back for this. Every second channel is running the same narrative: ‘Chief Minister’s Involvement in Minor’s Murder.’”
Ranveer exhaled once, slowly. Measured.
“The body,” Samar went on, pacing, “was in your car, parked outside a qabristan. And she was seen—on camera—entering your residence three days ago. You gave her a scholarship last year. That’s four points of contact.”
Ranveer didn’t even blink. “If you’re going to panic, at least get the math right.”
Samar ran a hand through his hair.
“This is serious.”
“I know,” Ranveer said. “That’s why I’m sitting down.”
“I need a plan,” Samar pressed, leaning close to the bars. “Do I issue a statement? Does Rohit? Should Atharva—?”
“Don’t give any of them a script,” Ranveer interrupted.
Samar frowned.
“They need to sound unscripted,” Ranveer clarified, “especially Atharva. The people won’t believe calm right now. They’ll believe fire. Let him burn.”
Samar hesitated. “You trust him to hold?”
Ranveer gave him a look like he’d just asked if the sun remembered to rise.
“He’s not just holding. He’s climbing.”
“And you?” Samar asked. “How long do you plan to stay in here?”
Ranveer stood, the chains on his wrist barely making a sound as he stepped forward.
“This jail is not the best place for giving orders,” he said, low and level. “But it’s the perfect place to watch which rats start crawling toward the exit... and which snakes start whispering in the dark.”
Samar’s eyes narrowed. “So what do we do in the meantime?”
Ranveer looked at him steadily.
“We stop performing damage control, and we start a real investigation.”
“You want me to dig into the girl’s case?”
“I want you to dig into the truth,” Ranveer said, voice like flint. “Forget politics, forget optics. The media will say what it wants. But if that girl’s death was staged, if someone’s trying to use her as a chess piece—they’ve made it personal.”
He paused.
“And I don’t forgive personal.”
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