CHAPTER 25: "THE GHOST"

  Three months after Rakesh Khanna's death, Vikram received a phone call that brought the past crashing back. It was Inspector Rajveer Singh, now promoted to Deputy Commissioner of Police.

  "Vikram, we need to talk. Not on the phone. Can you meet me at India Gate? Tomorrow, 7 PM."

  Singh's voice had that old edge—the one that meant trouble. Vikram felt his stomach tighten. He had spent five years building a normal life. He had a routine. He had peace.

  "What's this about?"

  "Just... meet me. Come alone."

  The next evening, Vikram walked through the crowds at India Gate. Families picnicked on the lawns. Children chased each other around the war memorial. Ice cream vendors rang their bells. It was all so normal, so innocent.

  Singh stood near the fountain, dressed in civilian clothes—jeans and a leather jacket. He looked older, grayer. The job had aged him.

  "Sir," Vikram greeted him. Old habits died hard.

  "Don't call me that. We're past formalities." Singh gestured to a bench away from the crowds. They sat.

  "I'll get straight to it," Singh said. "There have been three murders in the past six weeks. All connected to the remnants of the Khanna gang."

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  Vikram felt ice in his veins. "I thought the gang collapsed after Khanna was arrested."

  "It fractured. But a lieutenant named Vishal 'Toofan' Yadav has been

  consolidating power. He's rebuilt the protection rackets in East Delhi. He's brutal, Vikram. Makes Khanna look civilized."

  "What does this have to do with me?"

  Singh pulled out his phone and showed Vikram a crime scene photo. A man's body, dumped in a construction site. Multiple stab wounds. Vikram's breath caught.

  "Recognize the pattern?" Singh asked.

  Vikram did. Eight stab wounds. Kidney first. Just like Salim.

  "This isn't me," Vikram said, his voice shaking. "I've been clean. I have a job, a family—"

  "I know it's not you. But someone is copying your methods. And they're targeting Khanna's old gang. The second victim was killed with a screwdriver to the neck. The third was beaten to death with improvised weapons. Sound familiar?"

  Vikram felt sick. Someone was using his kills as a blueprint. "Who?"

  "We don't know. No witnesses. No evidence. Whoever this is, they're careful. Professional, almost. But here's the thing—Toofan thinks it's you. He's putting out feelers. Asking about your location, your family."

  Vikram's blood turned cold. "My family is safe. They have to be safe.

  That was the deal. I did my time. It's over."

  Singh's face was grim. "In this city, nothing is ever over. Toofan has a memory like an elephant. His brother was one of the men you killed in the home invasion. He wants revenge."

  "Then arrest him."

  "On what charge? Thinking about revenge? He's too smart to make

  a move yet. But Vikram, you need to be careful. I can offer limited protection, but—"

  "No." Vikram stood up. "No protection. No involvement. I'm out. I'm done with this world."

  "You were never in this world, Vikram. That's what made you dangerous. You're the ordinary man who crossed the line. That makes you a symbol. And symbols attract attention."

  Vikram walked away, his mind racing. He had thought Khanna's death meant freedom. But violence had a long tail. It echoed through years, through generations.

  When he got home, Priya immediately sensed something was wrong. "What happened?"

  He told her everything. She listened, her face growing paler with each word.

  "So we're not safe. We never were."

  "We're as safe as we can be. Singh will keep an eye on Toofan. We just... we stay vigilant."

  That night, Vikram couldn't sleep. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the city. Somewhere out there, a copycat was killing in his name. Somewhere out there, a gang leader was plotting revenge.

  The ghost of his past had returned.