The night was more than cold.
It was the kind of cold that felt intentional—as if the blood of the dead had seeped into the air and made a home there.
Even the shadows looked like they were shivering.
Above the trees, bats danced under a dying moon, their wings slicing the sky like scripture torn in mid-flight.
As Isarish approached the colonial department building, something caught his eye.
A garden.
Quiet. Small. Tucked to the side like a secret.
And in its center stood a plant. Thin, crooked.
Its leaves were a deep, defiant red, like dried blood learning how to bloom.
Several petals had already fallen—resting gently on the earth as if they had seen something they shouldn't.
A cold wind rolled in.
Not violent—selective.
It lifted the petals softly… and carried them away.
As if the night itself was trying to erase what remained.
Isarish didn't chase them. He didn't bend.
He just gave a faint smirk, the kind that feels like a whispered memory.
Then he stepped inside.
---
Carlson's Office
The room was dim, carved in wood and power.
Thick smoke curled above the chandelier like a ghost with nowhere left to haunt.
Behind a large desk sat Carlson, hands folded, eyes already watching the door.
He was leaned back in his chair—relaxed, unreadable.
In one hand, he held a thick cigar, the tip glowing faintly orange.
The scent lingered in the air—strong, rare, imported.
A smell Isarish had already memorized earlier that night.
"Isarish," Carlson said, voice smooth but coiled tight.
"I have a big task for you."
Isarish stepped in slowly, removing his gloves, each movement exact.
"No need to worry, sir."
"The case is already solved."
Carlson didn't reply.
He simply flicked a folded newspaper from his desk.
It spun once, fell to the floor like it had chosen its side.
"I need you there," he said again.
"It's important."
Isarish didn't move.
The silence sat between them like a third presence in the room.
Only after a moment did he crouch, pick up the paper.
His eyes stayed on the headline, but his words… were pointed elsewhere.
"He died quickly. But not without intention."
"A man like General Hall wouldn't take poison by mistake.
But he would accept a gift. Especially from someone he trusted."
He turned the page.
"Cyanide, inhaled. Not ingested.
That much is clear."
"The dose was precise. Measured. Timed.
Not enough to collapse him immediately…
but just enough to end his story in your party."
The cigar in Carlson's hand glowed quietly.
Isarish's eyes didn't move from the print.
"You were smoking your favourite cigar tonight.
Strong scent. Rare leaf.
He was, too. His fingers still carry it."
"The same ash marked his shoes.
Mixed with soot.
And red leaves."
He paused.
Then reached into his coat.
A ribbon. Crimson. Gold-threaded. Folded like a whisper.
"El Rey del Mundo – Habana, 1899 – Edición Privada."
He placed it on the table—gently. Almost respectfully.
Carlson exhaled smoke. Unshaken.
Then pointed to the newspaper.
"A village is burning in Banaras."
"A cult is involved. Rituals. Fire. Blood.
Thirty-three Indians dead. Seven British. Thirteen wounded."
"The land belongs to Henry Birmingham.
His daughter—my fiancée—is stationed nearby."
"I want you on a train by sunrise."
"Find the cult. Burn the root. No headlines."
Carlson stood. The chair creaked like a spine giving out.
He walked past Isarish, voice now colder.
"As for Hall…"
"You solved it. Of course you did."
"But I know you. You don't care about justice.
You only listen when God's voice gets loud."
He took another drag.
"So if your faith needs peace…"
"Let me give it to you."
"Hall raped two teenage girls in Barrackpore.
I didn't kill a friend.
I killed a debt."
---
Isarish didn't speak.
The wind tapped at the glass again.
Almost… waiting.
Then he laughed.
Soft. Sharp. Empty.
"I'm not a saint..."
He left the rest unsaid.
Some truths don't belong to air.
He folded the paper. Tucked the ribbon back inside his coat.
And walked away.
Outside
The night greeted him like an old acquaintance.
He lit a cigarette—not for warmth, not for clarity.
But because fire, even in small doses, is honest.
The ember glowed.
The shadows swallowed him.
And Isarish disappeared into the haunted dark of the first day of the 20th century.
Not just a man walking away…
But a verdict in motion.