The rain hadn't stopped since evening. Not heavy, not gentle either... Just that irritating kind of drizzle that sneaks into collars, clings to skin, and makes everything smell faintly of wet socks. Hyderabad was unusually quiet for a Friday night. Shops had to shut early, the steets were mostly empty, and the occasional auto rickshaw splashed by like a ghost with a yellow roof.
Tucked between an old optician's shop and a shuttered internet cafe was a narrow staircase that led to the first floor of a crumbling building. The paint had long since surrendered moss had claimed the cracks like it owned them the flickering tube light above the door wasn't doing anyone any favors. The signboard above read or tried to.
"Vishal Claydetive Agency"We Find What They Miss.
The spelling had been wrong for years. Vishal said it gave the place character. He also said fixing it was "on the list," though no one knew where this list was or if it existed at all.
Inside the office, a man snored loudly on a brown, lumpy sofa that looked like it had been rescued from a junk sale. A ceiling fan creaked above him, spinning as lazily as the man sleeping underneath. He wore a half-buttoned shirt, a lungi with a tear near the knee, and a pair of socks that didn't match one green, one with Apples.
The TV in the corner was playing Mahesh babu's Aatthadu movie where it is in land scene. Nobody was listening. The man on the couch --- Vishal was fast asleep, mouth slightly open, one hand over his stomach and other holding a half eaten bun he'd forgotten to finish.
Then the bell rang
It wasn't a polite ding dong. It buzzed long and hard, The kind of ring that immediately tells you someone is either desperate or very angry.
Vishal stirred.
The bell rang again.
he grunted, turned over, and tried to pull a cushion over his ears. The bell rang a third time.
"God save this city," he muttered under his breath, dragging himself up. He shuffled to the door, looked through the peephole, and opened it without saying word.
Outside stood an Old man, drenched from head to toe. His white kurta was soaked, his hands trembled slightly, and the broken umbrella at his feet looked more symbolic than useful. He must've been standing there a while.
"You Vishal?" the man asked, His voice quite but firm.
Vishal stared for a second, eyes stgill adjusting to the hallway light. "Ig you're from SBI asking about my credit card bill. I'm already dead."
The man didn't react. His expression didn't change. Just repeated, calmly, "You're the detective?"
Vishal nodded slowly, scratching the back of his head. "Technically , Yes practically.... depends. What happened?"
The man looked him in the eye.
"My employer is dead. Justice Raghu Nandan. They say heart attack. I say Murder."
Ten minutes later, they sat across from each other in the small, dimly lit office. A kettle hissed somewhere in the background. Rain tapped lightly on the window panes, steady and relentless.
The old man's name was Sridhar. He'd been the judge's housekeeper, cook, errand boy.... Practically family. Said he'dworked with the man for over 20 years. Never saw him sick. Never mised a routine. But tonight, something had changed.
"He wrapped around a hot steel tumbler of tea. " Always on the left. But tonight, he was lying wrong. His eyes were wide open, like he'd
seen something terrible. And yesterday evening… he said something strange."
Vishal listened, expression unreadable.
"He said, 'It's time I tell the truth, Sridhar. I've carried it for too long.'"
Vishal leaned back in his chair, the fake leather squeaking under him. For the first time since the conversation began, something in his posture shifted.
"Raghunandan," he said slowly, "wasn't he the one who gave the verdict in the Black Gate case?"
Sridhar nodded.
"Also handled that hawala scandal. And the Charminar arms trial."
Again, a nod.
"Big names. Bigger enemies."
Sridhar met his gaze. "And now he's dead. Just before telling the truth."
Vishal stood up and walked to the cluttered shelf in the corner. It was covered in dusty files, snack wrappers, and a framed photo he always kept facing the wall. He turned it around — two boys, smiling, covered in mud. One of them was him. The other was his younger brother.
He stared at it for a few seconds, then turned it back and faced Sridhar.
"I'll take the case," he said, voice calm.
Sridhar looked relieved, but said nothing.
"One last thing," Vishal added, leaning forward slightly. "If your judge really was about to speak up… who had the most to lose?"
Sridhar didn't blink.
"Everyone." He said