Three Shadows

The room reeked of antiseptic, despair, and an eerie stillness punctuated by the faint, rhythmic beeps of the machines which were keeping her alive. Raagini Arora, once the epitome of grace and ambition, lay motionless on the hospital bed. Her pale face contrasted sharply with the bruises and bandages that marred her delicate features. The bullet wounds told a tale of violence—a tale no one could yet piece together.

Inspector Kadam lit a cigarette just outside the hospital doors, his furrowed brow signaling the importance of the case. Sub-inspectors Mhatre and Desai hovered nearby, eager to impress their senior but riddled with their own biases.

“It’s always the husband,” Kadam muttered, blowing a thin stream of smoke into the crisp evening air.

“Absconding too,” Mhatre added with a smirk. “That’s a clear admission of guilt.”

Desai, never one to miss an opportunity to flaunt his reasoning, chimed in, “What about the lover? There’s always a third angle, sir. Cause or effect.” He said it with the kind of pride reserved for those who’d just discovered a clever turn of phrase.

Inside their apartment, the crime scene unfolded like a macabre painting. A shattered glass table glistened with droplets of dried blood. The cops rifled through drawers, closets, and personal belongings, piecing together fragments of lives that once appeared perfect. Framed pictures of Ashish and Raagini in happier times hung on the walls, their smiles now a chilling reminder of how quickly things could crumble.

Far away, Ashish sat slumped in a third-class train compartment. His stubble-covered face bore the haunted look of a man running—not just from the police, but from himself. The rhythmic clatter of the train wheels matched the disarray of his thoughts. Each mile added distance from the city, but it brought no solace.

He kept replaying the events in his mind: Raagini’s shocked scream, the crash of her body hitting the glass table, the deafening sound of gunshots that echoed long after they had stopped. His hands trembled as he clenched them into fists. The gun—was it in his hand, but how had it come to this?

He hadn’t planned for violence. He had only intended to confront her, to demand answers about the man who had stolen the intimacy they once shared. But rage, betrayal, and adrenaline had turned the confrontation into a nightmare. Or maybe it hadn’t been him. The memory was a haze—a chaotic swirl of shouting, accusations, and a sudden eruption of violence. There had been a scuffle… someone else had been there. 

Rajat.

Now, every newspaper and television channel called Ashish a fugitive, a murderer. He couldn’t think clearly, couldn’t even remember if he had pulled the trigger.

Rajat hadn’t stepped out of his flat since that fateful day. The weight of guilt and fear pressed on him like an iron brick. Every sound—a creaking door, a passing car—felt like the cops closing in. The sight of Raagini’s lifeless body falling onto the table replayed incessantly in his mind.

The gun had been on the floor. He remembered that much. Or had it been in Ashish’s hand? The events were a blur: the shouting, the shattering glass, Raagini’s scream, and then the sharp crack of gunfire. It all came back to him in disjointed flashes. One moment, Ashish was yelling; the next, Raagini was bleeding. Rajat’s own hands had trembled as he stood frozen in the corner.

He had made a grave mistake getting involved with a married woman. What started as a fleeting affair—a distraction from his own lonely existence—had spiralled into something uncontrollable. He should have walked away the moment Ashish began suspecting, but Raagini had been adamant. She promised they’d find a way out.

Now, she lay between life and death, and Ashish was on the run. The tangled mess of emotions—love, guilt, and fear—threatened to consume Rajat entirely.

The media thrived on the chaos. DCP Sharma stood confidently before the cameras, announcing Ashish as the prime suspect. It didn’t matter that the evidence was circumstantial. A high-profile case involving infidelity, corporate drama, and gunshots was exactly the kind of scandal that would dominate headlines for weeks.

Ashish Arora, the successful corporate executive, had become a man on the run. Raagini Arora, the glamorous socialite, had become the victim of a love triangle gone wrong. And Rajat…he was a ghost, invisible to the prying eyes of the media, but haunted by his role in the tragedy.

As the city buzzed with speculation and judgment, three lives lay shattered. One was fighting for survival, another was fleeing from justice, and the third was drowning in guilt. But the truth—a dangerous, elusive beast—was still hidden in the shadows.

And those shadows were growing darker with each passing day.

(To be continued…)

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