A Glimpse Into My Novel: Scripted in Silence

This story has lived in my mind for quite some time, and though I don’t consider myself a writer by profession, I’ve felt a strong need to bring it to life in the form of a novel. This book is a passion project—born from a simple idea, nurtured over time, and now slowly making its way into the world.

I’m excited to share with you the first chapter of my book Scripted in Silence. It's not a finished product yet, but a raw and honest beginning—a glimpse into the world I’ve been building. I hope it draws you in, sparks your curiosity, and makes you want to read what comes next.

Feel free to share your thoughts in the comments. Your feedback, even the smallest one, will mean a lot to me.

Scripted in Silence by Shubham Raghuvanshi

Chapter 1: The Consultant's Game

The fluorescent lights of Mumbai Police Headquarters hummed with the same monotonous energy that had plagued Dr. Kabir Malhotra's morning since he'd stepped into the Bandra-Kurla Complex. The institutional green walls bore the weight of countless investigations, their paint chipped and faded like old hopes. He adjusted his crisp white shirt—Brooks Brothers, a small indulgence his forensic psychology practice afforded—and checked his watch. 9:47 AM. Punctuality was one of many tools in his arsenal of professional excellence.

"Dr. Malhotra, thank you for coming on such short notice." Inspector Meera Singh emerged from the maze of desks, her measured steps echoing against the concrete floor. At thirty-five, she carried herself with the controlled confidence of someone who had learned to command respect in a male-dominated force. Her pressed khaki uniform was immaculate, her dark hair pulled back in a regulation bun that somehow managed to look both professional and elegant.

Kabir rose from the plastic chair, extending his hand with the practiced warmth that had made him Mumbai's most sought-after forensic consultant. "Inspector Singh, the pleasure is mine. High-profile cases like this demand immediate attention."

Their handshake was brief but firm. Meera's eyes, sharp and calculating, studied him with the intensity he'd grown accustomed to from law enforcement. Trust, he'd learned, was something earned in increments in this profession.

"The crime scene photos are disturbing," she said, leading him through the bullpen where constables hunched over reports and phones rang incessantly. The familiar chaos of police work—the white noise that accompanied justice in its rawest form. "Raj Malhotra—no relation, I assume—found dead in his Bandra apartment yesterday morning. Forty-two years old, successful textile businessman, no obvious enemies."

Kabir's lips curved in a slight smile. "Inspector, in my experience, men like Raj Malhotra always have enemies. The question is whether they're obvious or hidden."

They entered the briefing room where a dozen officers sat around a scratched wooden table, manila folders and crime scene photographs spread like tarot cards predicting tragedy. The air conditioning wheezed against Mumbai's oppressive heat, creating a stale coolness that clung to everything. Sub-Inspector Rajesh Nair, a heavyset man in his forties with tired eyes, looked up as they entered.

"Doctor, we've been waiting," Rajesh said, gesturing to an empty chair. "This case has us stumped. On the surface, everything points to suicide—hanging, no signs of struggle, apartment locked from inside. But something feels wrong."

Kabir settled into the chair, his movements deliberate. He'd learned that authority came not just from credentials but from presence—the way one occupied space, the confidence with which one approached problems others found insurmountable. He picked up the first photograph, studying the image of Raj Malhotra suspended from a ceiling fan, his face contorted in death's final grimace.

"Tell me about the discovery," Kabir said, his voice measured and clinical. Around the table, the officers leaned forward slightly. In the months since he'd begun consulting for Mumbai Police, he'd developed a reputation for seeing what others missed.

Constable Priya Reddy, the youngest officer present, consulted her notebook with the nervousness of someone still proving herself. "Domestic help found him at 7:30 AM when she arrived for work. Door was locked from inside, chain engaged. She had to call the building supervisor to break it down."

Kabir studied the crime scene photos with the methodical precision of a scholar examining ancient manuscripts. The apartment was upscale—marble floors, expensive furniture, floor-to-ceiling windows offering a view of the Arabian Sea. But wealth couldn't buy innocence, and innocence rarely hung itself from ceiling fans.

"The positioning is wrong," Kabir said after several minutes of silence. "Look at his feet—see how they're angled? If someone suspends themselves, the body's weight distribution follows predictable patterns. This suggests external force applied post-mortem."

Inspector Meera Singh nodded slowly. "We suspected as much, but the locked room aspect threw us."

"Locked rooms are theater, Inspector. They're meant to distract from the real question—not how someone left, but who they trusted enough to let in." Kabir set the photos down, steepling his fingers. "Check his recent communications, financial records, business dealings. Someone had access to his apartment, his trust, and his vulnerability."

The room fell silent except for the scratch of pens on paper as officers took notes. Kabir had learned to savor these moments—the transition from confusion to clarity, the satisfaction of untangling knots others couldn't even see.

"There's something else," Rajesh said, sliding another folder across the table. "We found this in his study—financial records showing large unexplained payments to various media companies over the past five years. Always cash transactions, always to different shell companies."

Kabir opened the folder, scanning the documents with interest that went beyond professional curiosity. The pattern was familiar—the systematic payments, the shell companies, the careful distance maintained between payer and recipient. It was the kind of financial behavior that suggested secrets worth killing for.

"Blackmail," he said simply. "Or its sophisticated cousin—influence peddling. These payments aren't random. They follow a pattern, probably corresponding to specific events or publications. Someone was either being paid to suppress information or Raj was buying favorable coverage."

Meera Singh's eyes sharpened. "Media manipulation?"

"It's more common than you might think, Inspector. Men with significant business interests often find themselves at the mercy of media narrative. A well-placed story can destroy reputations, tank stock prices, ruin political aspirations." Kabir paused, allowing the implication to sink in. "Of course, some media figures have made careers out of such arrangements."

He let his gaze drift toward the window, where Mumbai's skyline stretched toward the horizon in a maze of concrete and aspiration. Somewhere in those towers, powerful men made decisions that rippled through countless lives. The thought stirred something deep in his chest—not quite emotion, but its calculated shadow.

"Take Vikram Khanna, for instance," Kabir continued, his tone conversational but deliberate. "His empire wasn't built on journalism alone. There are whispers—unproven, of course—about his involvement in covering up inconvenient truths for the right price."

The mention of Khanna's name created a subtle shift in the room's atmosphere. Even in Mumbai Police circles, certain names carried weight—and risk.

"You think Khanna might be connected to this case?" Rajesh asked, his voice carefully neutral.

"I think powerful men often share similar methods," Kabir replied diplomatically. "The key is understanding which secrets were worth dying to protect, and which were worth killing to preserve."

Meera Singh studied him with renewed interest. "You seem unusually familiar with media manipulation, Doctor."

Kabir smiled—the expression warm and self-deprecating. "Occupational hazard, Inspector. Forensic psychology requires understanding all forms of human manipulation, whether in criminal behavior or corporate boardrooms. The techniques are remarkably similar."

He gathered the photographs, arranging them in a specific sequence that told a story of premeditated murder disguised as suicide. Each image was a piece of a larger puzzle—one that required not just investigative skill but psychological insight into the criminal mind.

"My recommendation," Kabir said, rising from his chair, "is to focus on those financial records. Cross-reference the payment dates with media coverage of Raj's business interests. Look for patterns in timing, amounts, and recipients. And most importantly—"

He paused, allowing silence to build the kind of dramatic tension that made his consultations memorable.

"Find out who knew about these payments. Murder often stems from exposure fears."

The officers exchanged glances, the kind of wordless communication that developed among colleagues who'd worked together through countless cases. They'd learned to recognize the moment when confusion began its transformation into clarity.

"We'll start with his business associates and family members," Meera Singh said, already mentally organizing the investigation's next phase. "Financial crimes often have intimate motivations."

Kabir nodded approvingly. "Excellent instinct, Inspector. Though I'd also suggest examining any unsolved cases involving media figures or business leaders over the past few years. Sometimes patterns emerge across seemingly unrelated incidents."

He moved toward the door, then paused as if struck by an afterthought. "Particularly hit-and-run cases. There's something about vehicular crimes that seems to attract media attention—or media suppression."

Meera Singh's expression sharpened almost imperceptibly. "Hit-and-run cases?"

"Just a thought," Kabir said with practiced casualness. "Media companies often have the resources to influence how such cases are reported—or whether they're reported at all. If Raj was involved in covering up vehicular crimes, it might explain the payments and provide motive for his murder."

The suggestion hung in the air like incense in a temple—present but not overwhelming, creating atmosphere without demanding immediate attention.

"Thank you, Doctor," Inspector Singh said, walking him toward the exit. "Your insights have been invaluable, as always."

They navigated the bullpen's controlled chaos, past officers juggling phone calls and paperwork, past the perpetual motion of justice grinding through its daily routines. At the main entrance, Kabir paused to shake hands with the inspector, their professional courtesy masking the deeper currents of mutual respect and wariness that defined their relationship.

"Inspector, may I ask about your caseload?" Kabir said, his tone casual but his attention focused. "I've been consulting on several investigations recently, and I'm beginning to notice patterns that might interest you."

"What kind of patterns?"

"Unsolved cases involving powerful figures. Hit-and-run accidents that never found their perpetrators. Suspicious suicides that were never fully investigated. Sometimes I wonder if there's a larger narrative connecting these seemingly random tragedies."

Meera Singh's eyes narrowed slightly—not with suspicion, but with the hunter's instinct that recognized potential prey. "You're suggesting systematic cover-ups?"

"I'm suggesting that in a city like Mumbai, power and influence create their own ecology. Predators and prey, hunters and the hunted. Sometimes the relationships aren't immediately obvious."

He handed her his business card—not necessary, since they'd worked together multiple times, but the gesture provided natural closure to their conversation.

"If you ever want to discuss patterns across cases, Inspector, I'd be happy to share my observations. Sometimes an outside perspective can illuminate connections that might otherwise remain hidden."

The afternoon sun struck them as they stepped outside, Mumbai's heat hitting like a physical wall. Traffic honked in the distance, the city's perpetual symphony of motion and ambition. Kabir adjusted his sunglasses and walked toward his car—a black BMW sedan that spoke of success without ostentation.

As he drove through the city streets, Kabir's mind turned to the conversation's subtext. Meera Singh was intelligent, intuitive, dangerous in the way that truly competent investigators were dangerous. Her interest in hit-and-run cases had been noted, filed away for future reference. Every interaction was data, every response a piece of the larger puzzle he was constructing.

At a red light in Bandra, he pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts until he found the number he needed. The call connected after two rings.

"Phase one is complete," he said quietly, his voice barely audible over the air conditioning. "They trust me completely."

The person on the other end said something brief. Kabir nodded, though the gesture went unseen.

"Good. Begin monitoring communications as discussed. I want to know about any unusual patterns in their investigation protocols."

Another pause, another brief exchange.

"No, nothing that could be traced back to us. The beauty of the method is that they're solving legitimate crimes while unknowingly providing us with intelligence about their capabilities."

The light turned green. Kabir ended the call and accelerated through the intersection, his thoughts already moving to the evening's agenda. He had dinner plans with a colleague from the forensic psychology association—Dr. Shreya Kapoor, whose expertise in pharmaceutical psychology had proven unexpectedly relevant to his ongoing research.

But first, he had a stop to make.

Twenty minutes later, Kabir sat in his study, surrounded by the artifacts of his professional success. Diplomas from prestigious institutions, awards for contributions to forensic science, photographs of him consulting on high-profile cases. The walls told the story of a brilliant mind dedicated to justice—or at least, its appearance.

From a locked drawer in his desk, he retrieved a thick manila folder labeled "Project Mirror" in his precise handwriting. Inside were photographs of a young man—Aryan Sharma, 28, journalist, Delhi resident. The images had been taken with telephoto lenses over several weeks: Aryan leaving his apartment building, sitting alone in coffee shops, walking along the Yamuna River with the weight of unspoken trauma visible in his posture.

Beneath the photographs were detailed psychological profiles, compiled through careful research and observation. Childhood sexual abuse, documented in therapy records obtained through carefully cultivated sources. Economic struggles reflected in his freelance work patterns and modest lifestyle. Most importantly, a deep-seated hatred of media mogul Vikram Khanna that burned with the intensity of unresolved trauma.

Kabir studied the photographs with the detached interest of a scientist examining specimens. Aryan Sharma was perfect—vulnerable enough to be manipulated, damaged enough to be motivated, intelligent enough to be useful, and isolated enough to be expendable.

The young man had no idea that his life was about to intersect with forces beyond his comprehension. No idea that his pain was about to become a weapon in someone else's war.

Kabir closed the folder and returned it to the drawer, engaging the lock with a soft click that seemed to echo with finality. Outside his window, Mumbai pulsed with its eternal rhythm of ambition and desperation, millions of lives intersecting in patterns too complex for most minds to comprehend.

But Kabir wasn't most minds. He was the architect of coincidence, the choreographer of chaos, the puppet master who pulled strings so subtle that even the puppets believed they were dancing by choice.

Tomorrow, he would take the train to Delhi. Tomorrow, he would begin the careful work of introducing himself into Aryan Sharma's life. Tomorrow, phase two would begin.

But tonight, he would enjoy dinner with Dr. Shreya Kapoor, discussing pharmaceutical interventions for severe depression and their effectiveness in treating suicidal ideation. Research, after all, was the foundation of all successful practice.

The perfect murder wasn't about killing without being caught.

The perfect murder was about someone else paying for your crime while you helped convict them.

And Dr. Kabir Malhotra was about to commit the perfect murder.

🌟 What Did You Think?

Thank you for taking the time to read the first chapter of my novel. This is just the beginning of a story that’s very close to my heart, and your thoughts truly matter.

📩 If you enjoyed it, please consider sharing this page with your friends who love fiction—it’ll mean a lot to me.

💬 I’d love to hear what you think! Drop a comment below and let me know your honest impressions, favorite lines, or even questions you’re left with after reading this chapter.

Your feedback will help shape the journey ahead. Stay tuned for more. 😊