[POV: Divya]
Walking into the Delhi University of Design campus felt like putting on a costume that didn't fit anymore. The air smelled wrong—like coffee and ambition, not like grief and disinfectant. The sounds were all off—laughter bouncing off brutalist concrete, someone's obnoxious pop playlist leaking from headphones, the frantic scratch of charcoal on newsprint. It was a vibrant, living ecosystem, and I was a ghost drifting through it.
My backpack felt like it was full of rocks. Inside: Amit's sketchbook, my laptop, a protein bar Aunt Meera had forced into my hand, and the shears. I'd put them back in their leather case. A tool, not a weapon. A reminder.
People looked. Of course they looked. I was the girl whose boyfriend publicly yeeted himself off a building. The gossip had metastasized in the five days I'd been gone. I saw the whispers behind hands, the quick darting glances, the pitying smiles that weren't smiles at all.
"Divya! Oh my god!"
Priya descended on me like a brightly colored rescue helicopter, all flowing sleeves and concerned eyes. She engulfed me in a hug that smelled like vanilla perfume and fabric softener. My body went rigid. "We've been so worried! Your phone was dead! I must have called a hundred times! Are you okay? That's a stupid question, of course you're not, but like… how are you functioning?"
I peeled myself out of her arms. "I'm here," I said, my voice flat. It was all I could offer.
"The funeral… I wanted to come, but your aunt said family only. It's so messed up. He was so messed up. I mean, to do that? On your birthday? It's so selfish." She shook her head, her dangly earrings swinging.
A cold spike shot through my numbness. "Don't."
"What?"
"Don't call him selfish. You didn't know him."
Priya blinked, taking a half-step back. "I… I'm sorry, Divs. I just meant… it's a trauma for you. Everyone's talking about it. There's even this weird online forum thread about 'mysterious campus deaths.' It's gross."
Everyone's talking about it. Of course they were. Amit's death was the most interesting thing to happen since the library toilet flooded. A tragedy to be consumed, discussed, and filed away.
"I have to go to class," I mumbled, sidestepping her.
"Text me! We'll get bubble tea! We'll… I don't know, watch trashy TV and not talk!" she called after me.
I didn't look back. Bubble tea. As if sugar and tapioca could fill the crater in my chest.
Textiles 301 was my personal hell. The hum of industrial sewing machines, the smell of starch and dye, the racks of half-finished garments—it was my sanctuary. Now, it was a museum of a life I didn't get to live. My usual workstation, usually a beautiful chaos of swatches and thread, was eerily clean. Someone had cleared it. Out of respect, or because they thought I was never coming back.
Professor Nair, a man made entirely of tweed and disapproval, cleared his throat as I slid into a seat at the back. "Ah. Ms. Kapoor. We… weren't expecting you back so soon." The entire class went quiet, twenty heads swiveling to stare. "The module on structural embroidery is nearly complete. You have quite a lot to catch up on. The final project proposal is due Friday. It must be a fully realized concept, not just… aesthetic doodling."
Aesthetic doodling. His favorite dig at my "unfocused creativity." Last month, I would have fired back. Today, I just stared at the wood grain of the table. "Okay."
He seemed disappointed by my lack of fight. "See me after class about the missed work."
The lecture began. Words floated around me: "bias cut," "jacquard weave," "tensile integrity." They meant nothing. My brain was a broken search engine, only pulling up one result: Amit's list. Vikram. P.I. Arjun. Grey paint. Scrape.
I opened my notebook. Instead of lecture notes, I started writing my own list.
DIVYA'S MISSION LOG - DAY 1
1. Find P.I. Arjun. (Sketchbook lead.)
2. Research Vikram Sharma. (Ask Rajesh for his creepy intel.)
3. Figure out what grey paint means. (Car? Clothes? Tool?)
4. Do not cry in public. (Critical.)
"Ms. Kapoor! Are you documenting this, or are you composing a sonnet?"
Professor Nair was hovering over my desk. I quickly flipped the notebook page to a fake, half-hearted sketch of a sleeve. "Just brainstorming, professor."
He huffed and moved on.
The three-hour class was an eternity. When the bell finally rang, I fled like the building was on fire.
Stepping out into the main quad was like walking into a spotlight. The sun was too bright. I kept my head down, aiming for the library—a good place to be invisible and start research.
And then I saw him.
Rajesh.
He was cutting across the grass from the Business School side, a stark black blazer against the sea of colourful kurtas and ripped jeans. He moved like a shark—smooth, purposeful, cutting through the crowds that instinctively parted for him. He was talking to some guy in a polo shirt, his face in that familiar mask of polite, detached focus. The CEO.
He must have felt my stare. His head turned. Our eyes locked across thirty meters of bustling campus.
Time didn't stop. The world didn't go quiet. A girl shrieked with laughter. A guy yelled about cricket scores. But in that slice of a second, it was like a private, silent channel opened between us.
No words. Just a look.
His mask didn't exactly slip. It… recalibrated. The polite focus sharpened into a different intensity. He gave me a single, grave nod. It wasn't a greeting. It was a status check. You still in?
I gave the smallest, barely perceptible nod back. I'm in.
He held my gaze for a second longer, a silent communication flashing between us: This is the battlefield now. Act normal.
Then he turned back to the polo-shirt guy, said something that made the guy laugh, and kept walking, disappearing into the stream of students.
The interaction lasted three seconds. Nobody around us noticed a thing.
But my heart was hammering. It was the first real, solid thing I'd felt all day. Not sadness. Not numbness. Adrenaline. We had a secret. A terrible, furious secret that set us apart from every single person laughing and stressing about grades on this quad.
"Divya? Hey, wait up!"
I turned. It was Hitesh from my sustainable materials class. Nice guy. Bad timing. He jogged up, his face soft with concern. "I just wanted to say… I'm really sorry about Amit. He was a great guy. Always made our critique sessions less painful, you know?"
"Yeah," I managed. "Thanks."
"Listen, a bunch of us are going to that new café off-campus later. You should come. Get out of your head for a bit."
A café. Small talk. Pretending to be a person.
"I can't. I'm… swamped. Missed a lot of work."
"Oh. Right. Sure." He shifted awkwardly. "Well, the offer stands. And… if you need to talk or anything…"
"I'm good," I said, the lie automatic. "Thanks, Hitesh."
He gave me a sympathetic pat on the shoulder that made my skin crawl, and walked away.
I finally made it to the library, claimed a carrel in a dark corner, and pulled out my laptop. My hands were steady as I typed.
Search: Private Investigator Arjun Delhi.
The results were a mix of corporate investigation firms and shady "matrimonial detective" ads. Nothing that felt right.
I tried Arjun Detective Agency fraud investigation.
Bingo. Third result: Arjun Basu & Associates – Discreet Financial & Personal Investigations. A bare-bones website with a PO Box number and a burner-style email address. Discretion Guaranteed.
This was it. The P.I. Amit hired.
I copied the email. Opened a new, anonymous browser window. Created a dummy email account: [email protected].
My fingers hovered over the keys. What was the play? I couldn't say "Hi, my dead boyfriend hired you, what did you find?"
I channeled Rajesh. Be direct. Business-like.
Subject: Inquiry Regarding Amit Sharma Case
Message: Mr. Basu. I am a friend of Amit Sharma's. I am aware he retained your services prior to his death. I am continuing his inquiry. I need the information he paid for. Name your price for a meet. Discretion non-negotiable.
I hit send before I could overthink it.
A notification popped up on my screen. A message from an unknown number. My pulse spiked until I saw the first words.
Unknown: Quad nod confirmed. Status?
A tiny, almost-hysterical laugh bubbled in my throat. Rajesh. Of course he'd text. He probably had my number from Amit's phone years ago.
Me: In library. Found P.I. website. Sent feeler email. Awaiting reply. You?
Rajesh: Vikram's shell company leads to a Cayman Islands bank. Digging deeper. Have a finance bro "source" I'm leveraging for info. Painful.
Me: Leveraging? Sounds sinister.
Rajesh: It's just blackmail with better branding. Eat the protein bar.
I glanced at my backpack. How did he know?
Me: Are you tracking my lunch?
Rajesh: I'm tracking the asset. The asset needs fuel. Eat.
I pulled out the stupid chocolate-chip protein bar. Took a bite. It tasted like sadness and peanuts. I texted him a photo of the half-eaten bar.
Rajesh: Good. First briefing. Tonight. 7 PM. Neutral location. I'll send coordinates. Don't be late.
Me: I'm never late. You're pathologically early.
Rajesh: 7 PM means 6:45. Wear something that doesn't look like you're attending your own funeral.
I looked down at my outfit—all black, Amit's band tee. Guilty as charged.
Me: Fine. Don't wear something that looks like you're auditing the location.
I put my phone away. The ghost in the machine wasn't floating anymore. She had a mission. She had a partner. And she had a protein bar to finish.
Outside the library window, the sun-drenched quad continued its normal, noisy life. But I was no longer just a ghost moving through it.
I was a spy in enemy territory. And my first day back had just begun.