ayurvi

Part 1

The smoke still lingered in the air like a bitter accusation, thick and acrid, even days after the explosion that had torn through the heart of the Bureau.

The once-unshakable CID headquarters bore the scars—shattered glass swept into corners, charred walls patched hastily, and an eerie silence where laughter and barked orders used to echo.

ACP Pradyuman was gone.

The bomb, meticulously planted by the elusive criminal mastermind **Barboza**, had been no random act of violence. It was surgical, personal—a final, ruthless checkmate in a decades-long game of cat and mouse. The man who had mentored generations, whose sharp gaze could unravel the most tangled lies, whose voice had commanded, “Daya, darwaza tod do!” with legendary authority, had been reduced to ashes in an instant.

The unbreakable duo—Daya and Abhijeet had always been the bureau’s iron pillars, but today those pillars trembled.

In the forensic lab, Dr. Salunkhe and Dr Tarika worked in grim silence. Inspector Pankaj and  Inspector Avni became quite with the weight of loss pressing down like never before.

The bureau had lost its leader. Its mentor. Its strength.

A week later, the higher-ups wasted no time. A new ACP was appointed to take command—a young man in his early thirties, sharp-eyed and unyielding, with a reputation that preceded him.

ACP Ayushmaan stepped into the role with the quiet precision of a blade sliding into its sheath. Cold, disciplined, ruthless when it came to criminals. he was everything the bureau needed in this hour of vulnerability. Yet the team watched him warily, unsure if anyone could truly fill the void left by Pradyuman.

....

At the same time, miles away in a quiet, well-kept home on the outskirts of the city, another storm brewed in silence.

ACP  Raghav Arora sat alone in his study, the room lit only by the dim glow of a table lamp. Files lay scattered on the desk—old case reports, surveillance photos, faded academy pictures but his gaze was fixed on none of them. His mind replayed the same loop: the blast, the news, the unbearable finality.

Raghav and Pradyuman had been batchmates in the academy, friends forged in the fire of training drills and late-night case discussions. That bond had endured nearly thirty years of service, through triumphs and near-misses, always chasing the same shadow—**Barboza**.

In their younger days, the two ACPs had thwarted the criminal’s plans time and again, forcing him into the shadows, making him pay dearly for every move. Barboza never forgave. Vengeance had simmered for decades, and now it had claimed one of them.

Pradyuman was dead. Raghav knew he was next.

Death itself did not frighten him. He had stared it down too many times. But as he sat there, fingers tracing the edge of an old photograph of himself and Pradyuman, young and fierce, arms slung around each other’s shoulders, his only true fear surfaced.

**Purvi**.

His daughter. His princess. A doctor in her late twenties, sweet and mature, with a bubbly laugh that could light up the darkest room. Innocent in ways the world had not yet tainted, she was still very much her papa’s girl. After her mother’s death when Purvi was barely a child, Raghav had raised her alone, shielding her from the ugliness of his world as best he could. She knew he was a police officer, of course, but the dangers, the vendettas those he had kept locked away.