Prologue

The city of Mumbai thrummed with secrets, stitched between neon-lit streets and rain-slicked avenues—a living, breathing colossus fuelled by chai, whispers, and the ceaseless shrill of sirens. Somewhere in its concrete veins, someone was rewriting the anatomy of fear. Dr. Tanvi Rawal, forensic pathologist, profiler, and lifelong overachiever, had seen the worst that humanity had to offer, one autopsy at a time.

She stood in the sterile chill of the morgue, hands folded, lips pursed in concentration. Her hair—mid-shoulder length, always annoyingly in the way—was twisted into a clumsy knot. Tanvi was not the kind of woman who feared the dark. No, she catalogued it, named its bones, mapped its secrets. Fear, in Tanvi's world, was a body on her table, waiting to be explained. Shame was a thing left at the door.

A scuffed ID card dangled from her neck. A crescent-shaped coffee stain marred her lab coat pocket—a bitter trophy from the 'caffeine forensics' war she waged daily. She was focused, precise, and supremely annoyed that the new case had forced her to skip lunch. The corpse, of course, did not care.

Just as Tanvi bent to examine a peculiar wound, a measured footstep echoed against linoleum. Not heavy. Not hesitant. Authority, with a side of brooding moral fibre.

"Dr. Rawal?" The voice was low, sand-paper smooth, rich with that Marathi lilt she'd always secretly admired. A voice that probably made suspects wish they'd never heard of crime.

She didn't turn right away, "If you're here to complain about the AC, join the queue," she shot back, scalpel held like an accusing finger, "The dead don't feel it, and neither do I." Her wit was as dry as the bone she'd extracted, and twice as likely to offend.

He stepped into her peripheral vision: tall, sharp, impeccably dressed in tactical formals that Tanvi suspected cost more than her rent. DCP Vedant Jadhav—Mumbai's golden boy with a jawline sharp enough to cut through bureaucratic red tape.

Vedant's eyes—dark, with unfamiliar flecks of gold—assessed the scene with unflinching calm, "I'd appreciate a briefing, Doctor. Preferably one that doesn't involve AC complaints or body parts thrown at my head."

Tanvi grinned, surprised by the spark of humour in his voice. It was enough to make a corpse smirk, if corpses were so inclined, "I only throw body parts before the second cup of coffee, DCP Jadhav. You're safe for now."

He didn't smile—his version of approval, she supposed—but he didn't reprimand her either. Instead, he turned to the evidence with a deliberation that said, 'I see everything, miss nothing, trust no one.' For a second, Tanvi almost felt seen. Almost. Then she remembered she didn't believe in soulmates—especially not ones wearing badge numbers.

Their dance was just beginning, blade and shield, logic and discipline, sunshine meeting granite.

Outside, monsoon thunder rattled the city. Inside, two minds tangled—defiant, wounded, wary. Trust, she suspected, would be the real autopsy here. And if Mumbai's newest killer had a message, it was this: to solve the crime, they would first have to survive each other.

With a city full of secrets, two stubborn hearts, and a case that will demand more than intellect—Mumbai is about to learn that even silence, someday, must be undone.

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Hey everyone, as I promised, I'm sharing the prologue of Her Undone Silence. The other prologues will be updated soon as well. I hope you enjoy it, and I'd love to hear your feedback!

Lots of Love.