The News That Shattered Breakfast

The toast had just popped when the television’s tone shifted—sharp, urgent, and utterly out of place. I glanced up, still buttering the bread, when the words echoed from the screen with icy precision.

“…a 45-year-old man, Santosh Bhat, was found murdered in his own car late last night while returning from a restaurant.”

The knife slipped from my fingers and clattered onto the counter. My breath hitched. For a second, I stood completely still, the words taking a moment too long to register.

Santosh Bhat.

My manager.

No—this couldn’t be happening.

I reached instinctively for the coffee mug beside me, trying to steady myself, but my grip faltered. It slipped from my hand and crashed to the floor, shattering into jagged ceramic pieces. The sound echoed through the apartment, sharp and violent—but I didn’t even flinch.

My heart pounded wildly, panic flooding every nerve. Why him? Why now? And how?

I crouched down to pick up the shards, but my hands trembled too badly to continue. I froze there, half-bent, when the shrill ring of the doorbell sliced through the silence.

The sound pulled me back to reality.

I wiped my hands on a kitchen towel and walked stiffly to the door, my mind racing with possibilities I didn’t want to name.

Two men stood outside.

They weren’t in uniform, but I didn’t need one to tell me who they were. One flashed a badge. The other simply nodded, his expression unreadable.

They were here because of Santosh.

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