Q stood before the bathroom mirror, slowly lathering his face as he listened to the news broadcast.
"A murder has been reported near Shovabazar... The victim is Dinesh Chakraborty, the Pulitzer-nominated novelist, found dead in his lavish apartment with his fingers chopped off. This murder follows the same pattern seen in the recent killings of MP Vignesh Patil and French Ambassador Antoine Ferarra," the reporter announced.
The razor scraped along Q's stubble. "The police are perplexed, as the case was initially seen as a series of political murders. The death of Dinesh Chakraborty adds an unexpected twist to this disturbing investigation."
Q turned the tap on, drowning the TV as he rinsed his razor. He looked into the mirror, running a hand over his smooth cheeks, then splashed cold water on his face. Locking eyes with his reflection, he sighed, wrapped his shaving tools, and stored them in the locker behind the mirror.
"The series of murders has garnered—" Q switched off the TV and grabbed his phone from the countertop.
~Beep~. The phone vibrated. Unlocking it, he saw a message from an unknown number: "Come to the office, now." Q clenched his fists, slid open the closet, and pulled out a black shirt, trousers, shoes, and a white tie.
The time was 8:59 AM. Q boarded the metro coach, the air buzzing with chatter about the breaking news story.
"Did you hear about the murder?" one passenger asked.
"Yeah, another big name. Are the police even trying?" another replied.
Q ignored the opinions swirling around him and focused on the journey ahead. Ten minutes later, he stepped off at Park Street and headed toward Everest House, where his office occupied the 18th floor.
He nodded to the security guards and entered the office—a standard setup of cubicles under LED tube lights, with exotic plants in the corners and the steady clicking of keyboards. Smiling lightly, Q greeted his colleagues as he went to a painting near the break room, Birch in a Storm.
Sliding the painting aside, he revealed a metal door fitted with a combination lock, fingerprint scanner, and retina scanner. Q punched in "13104," pressed his thumb to the scanner, and peered into the retina scanner with his left eye. The 11-inch metal door rumbled open, revealing a secure passage.
Q stepped through, disinfectant mist spraying him as he passed a glass chamber. Beyond it, a reinforced glass door gleamed with four golden letters: S.I.L.O. Shaking his head, he pushed it open.
The S.I.L.O. office sprawled across the 18th floor, with some sections extending to the 19th. Rows of computers hummed, monitoring every citizen's activity. Dark, soundproofed walls lined with Acoustic Vinyl ensured no sound escaped. At the centre, a circular table was the hub for covert operations, surrounded by agents analysing data on glowing screens.
"Look who's finally here!" a grating voice called from the table. Officer L, a stocky man with a perpetual sneer, leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. Widely known as the precinct's most abrasive figure, L had a reputation for bullying new agents, and Q, reserved, competent, and his current target, was no exception.
Q's jaw tightened, but he kept his composure, striding toward the director's office. L had been a thorn in his side since day one, sneering, "Pretty boy, that face of yours is gonna get wrecked soon." During a high-stakes drug lord operation, L's cowardice under fire had nearly cost the team their lives, panicking as shots rang out. Q's quick thinking, alongside Officer J, had saved the day, but L's resentment only grew.
"You're late again, princess," L taunted, trailing Q. "This case is a mess because of your useless leads. The chief's gonna have your badge."
Q ignored him, pushing open the director's office door. L followed, oblivious to the shift in the air, still muttering.
"Three deaths are enough, don't you think? We don't need one of our agents adding to that count."
The chief's words cut through the room, silencing L's mid-rant. Q stood calmly, his face unreadable, while L's flushed with a mix of unavoidable embarrassment and resentment. The director leaned forward, his piercing gaze locking onto L.
"Officer L, your conduct has been unacceptable," the chief said, his voice steady but sharp. "This department runs on results, not rivalries. Q has been driving this investigation while you've done little but complain. That stops now."
L opened his mouth, but a glare from the chief silenced him. "Officer L, you are being warned for the final time. If I find any signs of misconduct, you'd be reassigned to desk duty, immediately."
L's jaw clenched. With a curt nod, he stormed out, the door slamming behind him. Q remained, awaiting orders.
The chief's tone softened slightly. "You've handled the pressure well, Q. That's not easy with L breathing down your neck. But this killer is getting bolder—Chakraborty's death feels like a taunt. I'm giving you full authority to restructure the team. Bring in who you need, and get me results."
Q nodded. "Thank you, sir. If his covert op allows, I'd like to request Officer J's return. His pattern analysis could break this case."
"I'll look into it," the chief replied. "For now, we've got a new lead—"
The Chief slid a manila folder across the desk, its edges worn but sealed with a bold red "CLASSIFIED" stamp. "This is everything the State Police gathered before we took over the case," he said, his voice steady but heavy with implication. Q picked it up, his fingers brushing the coarse paper as he opened it. Inside, grainy photographs and typed reports detailed the latest crime scene: Dinesh Chakraborty's apartment. The novelist's body lay in the bathtub, blood pooling around him in a gruesome tableau. A chilling detail caught Q's eye. "The fingers are cut off and placed near his writing desk, in front of his typewriter," he murmured, his brow furrowing.
"Is this all?" Q asked, looking up.
The Chief nodded. "Yes. Our forensic team and Doctor M are at the scene now. They're better equipped than the police. Get in touch with them and visit the crime scene for more details." He turned a stern gaze toward L, who stood nearby. "I trust L will be kind enough to accompany you."
L stammered, "Surely, sir, I'll be happy to."
"Dismissed," the Chief said curtly.
Q tucked the file under his arm and headed for the door, L trailing behind. Just as they reached the threshold, the Chief's voice cut through the air. "Q, Chakraborty's death wasn't just a murder." He leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing. "It's a statement. The killer isn't just targeting high-profile figures—they're staging this as a challenge. We need to find out why and for whom, as soon as possible. Tread carefully. The media's all over this, and the public's losing faith. We can't afford another body."
As Q stepped out of the office, he turned to L. "Get the team ready. We're leaving in five minutes."
L smirked, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Alright. At least we're not all as incompetent as you, or the whole force would be ruined."
Q ignored the jab, his focus unshaken. The hum of S.I.L.O.'s operations enveloped him as he moved through the bustling headquarters. Agents typed furiously, screens flickered with surveillance feeds, and the air buzzed with urgency. Q's gaze drifted to the window, where the Kolkata skyline sprawled beneath him. Somewhere out there, the killer was watching, waiting, plotting their next move.
And Q was ready to play their game.
Q approached the elevator and pressed each button on the keypad in a deliberate sequence. With a soft hum, the panel rotated, revealing the hidden keypad for S.I.L.O.'s secret floors. Q pressed G1, the garage level below the ground floor. The S.I.L.O. headquarters, disguised as an ordinary 18-story office building, concealed a total of 21 floors, each a labyrinth of covert operations.
As the lift descended, Q opened the manila folder once more, scanning the contents with a critical eye. The photographs of Dinesh Chakraborty's body troubled him—the head was oddly positioned against the bathtub's tap. He wanted a closer look, but the elevator reached G1, and the doors opened with a sigh. Q closed the file and stepped out toward the waiting car.
The glass doors slid shut behind him as he entered the underground garage, reserved exclusively for S.I.L.O.'s elite operatives. The air thrummed with the faint whine of idling engines, and under the cold LED lights, the organisation's fleet gleamed like a predator's arsenal. S.I.L.O.'s vehicles weren't mere machines—they were the pinnacle of engineering, each a masterpiece of speed, stealth, and raw power, designed to dominate any theatre of operation.
Q's gaze settled on his assigned vehicle, a matte-black Vanguard X-9. Its angular frame, sculpted from a carbon-titanium composite, seemed to absorb the light, its surface rippling with adaptive nano-coating that could mimic any environment or vanish into shadows. Bulletproof was an understatement—its reinforced chassis could shrug off a .50-calibre barrage, while its graphene-laced windows deflected laser-guided munitions. Under the hood, a hybrid fusion cell propelled it from 0 to 100 mph in 2.8 seconds, with a top speed classified even to most S.I.L.O. agents. Q smirked, recalling how it had once outrun a military-grade drone over the Hooghly River, dodging its relentless pursuit.
His team—L, D, and W—waited nearby, engaged in casual chatter. L was griping about the Chief and Q, while W countered his complaints. D, silent as ever, leaned against a wall, a cigarette dangling from his lips. Q approached and said, "Are we ready?"
D exhaled a plume of smoke, his tone laced with sarcasm. "As always, sir. Just waiting for you while watching this hardworking man and beautiful angel quarrel."
W's cheeks flushed red, but she quickly brushed off the embarrassment. "Don't listen to his nonsense. We've been briefed. Let's get going."
Q smiled. "I've told you both not to call me 'sir.' Anyway…" He opened the driver's door with a flourish. "Shall we?"
Q slid into the driver's seat, the biometric scanner confirming his identity with a soft chirp. L took the passenger seat, while D and W settled in the back. The dashboard lit up, a holographic interface projecting mission data, real-time traffic analysis, and a 360-degree feed from micro-drones embedded in the car's frame. A retractable panel revealed an arsenal of gadgets: EMP grenades, a compact railgun, and a quantum decryptor capable of cracking any network in seconds. The Vanguard wasn't just a car—it was a mobile command centre, built to hack, evade, or obliterate.
Beyond the Vanguard, the garage housed S.I.L.O.'s full spectrum of vehicles, which were secluded from the rest of the world, each as lethal and efficient as the last. Motorcycles, like the Spectre V-3, were sleek as knives, their electric thrusters silent yet capable of hitting 200 mph while weaving through Kolkata's chaotic streets. Armoured trucks, dubbed Ironclads, loomed like mobile fortresses, their modular turrets swapping between missile launchers and sonic disruptors in seconds. Overhead, a Phantom Z-12 helicopter hung in its bay, its stealth rotors and cloaking field rendering it invisible to radar and the naked eye. On the far side, a Triton-class speedboat bobbed in a concealed waterway, its hull bristling with torpedo tubes and sonar-jamming tech. Even the Aether-9 jets, stationed at a nearby airstrip, could scramble in minutes, armed with hypersonic missiles and AI co-pilots.
Every vehicle shared S.I.L.O.'s DNA: unmatched speed, impregnable armour, and a suite of gadgets that made James Bond's toys look quaint. Maintained by a cadre of engineers working in shifts, the fleet was always mission-ready, their systems synced for seamless coordination. Whether Q needed to infiltrate a high-security gala, pursue a suspect through monsoon-soaked alleys, or extract a team from a warzone, S.I.L.O.'s machines ensured he'd do it faster, smarter, and safer than anyone else on the planet, with unmatched precision and efficiency.
Q tapped the dashboard, and the Vanguard purred to life, its engine a low growl that vibrated through his bones. He glanced at the folder on the passenger seat, Chakraborty's case staring back at him. The killer was out there, taunting him, leaving clues to unravel, but with S.I.L.O.'s arsenal at his command, Q was ready to hunt. He shifted into gear, and the car surged forward. The Vanguard exited the garage through a secret passage, invisible to the public, emerging seamlessly onto the main road. A black streak vanishing into the city's pulse, their destination was the horrific crime scene, where answers awaited discovery.