Half Past 10-Look At My Gun

Ram stared at the hands, then at the gun, then at the man’s face, which had the smugness of someone who’d never been wrong in a courtroom. The gun was real. The way it sat in his palm was also real - too comfortable, too casual, like it was a pet that bit only when offended.

Leena’s eyes narrowed. “Sir, do you understand why we’re here?”

“Because it happened at 10:30!” the man blurted, then immediately corrected himself with a confident wave. “Or maybe 10:31. Time is - time is flexible. But the gun - my gun - misfired, right? That’s what people are saying!”

Ram leaned in. The corridor was loud with overlapping voices: someone insisting the shot echoed, someone else swearing it was a click, and a third person - an older constable with a face like a stapler - shouting that nobody was allowed near the evidence door until they finished “their drama.” The gunman’s fingers kept tapping the grip as if the weapon might hear and behave better if he was friendly.

“Misfire,” Ram repeated. “At 10:30. In a precinct hallway.”

The man’s smile flickered. “Not inside the hallway exactly. I was near it. And then - look! I told them to look at my gun, but no one wanted to see properly.”

Leena stepped closer, her tone turning official in the way a broom turns dust into a problem. “Sir, you’re going to hand it over. Quietly.”

“Quietly?” The man’s voice got louder like the word had insulted him personally. “My gun is not a toy. It is a - ”

Ram held up a hand. “Give it to us. Now.”

The man hesitated, then thrust the gun forward like he was passing a plate of food to a waiter. Ram took it carefully - he’d handled enough evidence to know the difference between a weapon and an argument, and this one was both. The metal felt warm, like it had been thinking about firing and couldn’t decide.

As Ram turned slightly toward the evidence door, there came a sound behind them: a loud, bratty “Ayyy!” followed by two quick footsteps that skidded on tile.

gopu and babu appeared like they’d been summoned by the word “gun.” gopu had a paper file folder in his hand and the expression of a man who’d just discovered a new flavor of trouble. babu wore a look that said he’d already decided who was guilty and was only waiting for the universe to confirm it.

“Look at my gun!” babu announced, immediately mimicking the gunman’s voice with such accuracy that even the gunman blinked.

Leena’s head snapped. “babu. gopu. Not now.”

gopu raised the folder like a shield. “We’re here for official work. We got the call too.”

Ram didn’t even turn fully. “What official work?”

gopu beamed. “Gun work.”

“Gun work,” Ram echoed, then looked at Leena, who looked back with the expression of a person trying to hold back a flood using paperwork. “Is this what your team does when there’s a misfire?”

Leena’s jaw tightened. “My team does not do - ”

babu cut in. “They do. They just do it with extra attitude.”

The gunman cleared his throat as if he was about to deliver a speech. “See? Even these boys understand. My gun - my gun only did what it was supposed to. It got startled. People were yelling.”

Ram checked the gun’s condition with the practiced speed of someone who didn’t want to spend his day in a hallway full of opinions. The corridor noise sharpened: a buzz of whispers, the squeak of someone’s shoe, the distant clank of a door somewhere else trying to pretend it wasn’t involved.

“What exactly happened at 10:30?” Leena demanded, already angling her body to block the gunman from moving again.

The man lifted his chin. “I was holding it. I said, ‘Look at my gun.’ Then someone said, ‘Don’t show it!’ And then - click. That’s all. A click. No bullet.”

Ram’s eyes flicked to the gunman’s hands. They were shaking now, just a little. “Where were you when you heard the click?”

“In front of the corridor,” the man said. “Near the - uh - near the evidence door. Like I’m standing now, exactly like this.”

Ram glanced at the location he stood in: same tiles, same direction, same bad lighting. He could almost see the minute hand of a clock rubbing its hands together.

Leena stepped closer, voice low and sharp. “So you’re telling us the gun misfired as you stood near the evidence door at 10:30.”

“Yes!” The man sounded relieved, like the word “yes” was a coupon. “And now everyone is acting like I’m trying to - ”

Ram interrupted, because the hallway was already turning into a circus and he’d rather herd chaos before it learned to juggle. “Leena, step back. I’m securing it.”

Leena didn’t step back. She stared at him. “Secure it where?”

Ram nodded toward the evidence door. “Near the evidence door. That’s where it belongs.”

Leena’s eyes narrowed again. “And how will you secure it with this crowd breathing down our necks?”

Ram opened his mouth to answer when gopu, with the helpful timing of a gremlin, slapped the folder into his own palm. “I’ll clear the crowd.”

babu immediately grabbed a bystander’s elbow and started pushing people aside with the confidence of a man who’d never been questioned by consequences. “Move, move! Evidence doesn’t like gossip!”

“Evidence doesn’t like gossip,” someone repeated, and the crowd laughed despite themselves, the sound bouncing down the corridor like it was trying to escape.

That laugh made the gunman’s anger spark. “Why are you laughing? My gun - my gun is being disrespected!”

Leena raised her voice to cut through the noise. “Your gun is being handled by police procedure.”

“My gun doesn’t need procedure!” the man snapped. “It needs proper attention. It needs a proper look again.”

Ram felt the temperature in the corridor shift - like everyone had leaned closer to see what would happen next. He moved toward the evidence door with the gun held steady, and his mind did the quick arithmetic: 10:30, witness report, misfire, corridor. Misfire meant no bullet - unless it meant something else. Unless the “click” was a lie, or unless the hallway had its own sense of humor.

He reached the threshold near the evidence door and paused. The gunman lunged forward as if he could stop time with his hands. “No! No! Give it back. I told them - look at my gun properly.”

Ram’s grip tightened. “Sir, back away.”

The gunman’s body angled toward the gun. His eyes were wide. “I’m the owner. I have the right to - ”

Leena grabbed his arm, firm and controlled. “You have the right to shut up and cooperate.”

“Leena!” Ram barked, because the hallway crowd had turned into a living wall and he couldn’t see what was happening to the gun without turning his whole body.

Leena didn’t let go. “Ram, he’s trying to reach the weapon again.”

That’s when everything went wrong in a way that felt both inevitable and specifically annoying.

Ram shifted his stance to block the gunman’s reach, and in the same motion, the gun made a tiny, sharp sound - like metal kissing metal in the wrong way. The corridor went silent for a heartbeat. Then came a louder “click” - but not the click of relief. This one had a different snap to it, like the gun had finally decided to be dramatic.

A thin puff of smoke escaped near the muzzle, immediately followed by a smell - gunpowder, hot and bitter, as if the air itself had been scorched.

The gunman yelped. “I didn’t -!”

babu, delighted by the spectacle, shouted, “It’s alive!”

gopu grabbed babu’s collar and hissed, “Stop making it worse!”

Ram’s eyes widened as he looked down. The gun was still in his hands, but now the cylinder area looked… off. Not broken. Not exploded. Just wrong in a way that made his stomach do a small, unprofessional somersault.

Leena’s voice cut through the smoke and crowd noise. “Ram! What did it do?”

Ram didn’t answer immediately because his brain was busy catching up to his hands. He checked the mechanism quickly, then glanced toward the floor near the evidence door. There was something small and shiny - something that hadn’t been there before, something that didn’t belong in the hallway except as evidence.

“A cartridge,” Ram muttered.

Leena stared at him. “So it wasn’t a misfire.”

The gunman’s face collapsed into offended disbelief. “But I said - there was a click. I heard a click!”

Ram looked at the gunman with the kind of patience you use on stubborn toddlers and violent customers. “A click can still be a bullet finding its way to the world.”

The gunman swallowed. “No. No bullet. It couldn’t - ”

Leena tightened her grip on his arm. “You’re going to explain why your ‘proper look’ turned into a smell of gunpowder in a precinct hallway.”

The crowd started murmuring again. Someone pointed at the tiny shiny thing on the floor. Someone else insisted it was “definitely planted.” Another person loudly claimed the evidence door “was cursed.” gopu and babu were too busy heckling each other to notice the seriousness, but their heckling didn’t help - every joke made the gunman more defensive, and every defensive statement made the hallway more combustible.

Ram crouched, careful to keep the gun angled away, and picked up the cartridge evidence with a cloth. It left a faint smear of soot on his fingers. He stood and turned toward Leena.

“10:30,” Ram said. “It’s not just a rumor. It fired. Or it tried again.”

Leena’s eyes flicked to the gun. “Then the witness report becomes… complicated.”

The gunman started talking fast, like speed could undo the smoke. “It fired once because the gun got stuck. But listen - listen, I’m missing something. A holster tag.”

Ram blinked. “A holster tag?”

The gunman nodded vigorously. “Yes! That distinctive tag. I had it on the holster. The one with the - uh - the special marking. When I came in, it was gone. And people were touching things.”

Leena stared at him. “You’re saying the holster tag is missing.”

“I’m saying it was with my gear. And now it’s not.” He pointed wildly, as if the corridor itself could be indicted. “So if anyone found something, they found it. Maybe that’s why the gun - maybe it was tampered with!”

Ram’s mind clicked into a new shape. The cartridge meant the gun had done something at 10:30. The missing holster tag meant someone had handled the gun setup beyond what they were admitting. And now the evidence door area was a mess of people, jokes, and soot.

Ram lifted the gun slightly and checked around the grip and holster attachment points. “Where is your holster?”

The gunman’s shoulders sagged. “I - left it in the car. But the tag - my tag - was on it. Distinctive. Like - like a little metal label, you know? You can’t miss it.”

Leena’s voice sharpened again. “Then we find it.”

gopu suddenly spoke, bright and annoying. “Find it? Easy. It might be in one of the files.”

“What?” Ram and Leena said at the same time.

gopu patted his folder. “I told you. We got official work. I brought the paperwork. Maybe the tag is in there.”

babu clapped his hands. “Tag in the folder! Like a snack in a lunchbox!”

Leena looked like she wanted to arrest the concept of enthusiasm. “gopu. Open the folder.”

gopu opened it with dramatic flair. A few papers slid out. Then a small metal tag clinked softly onto the corridor tile.

The sound was tiny, but the hallway reacted like it had heard a siren. The gunman stared at the tag as if it had betrayed him personally. Ram stared too, because the tag’s marking was exactly the kind of distinctive detail that didn’t belong in a random folder.

“See?” gopu said, smug now. “It was right here. Official.”

babu leaned in close and squinted. “That looks like a tag. Like, a tag tag.”

Leena’s eyes turned to ice. “Why was it in your folder?”

gopu blinked. “Because… I collected things. During the crowd. Someone handed it to me. Or I grabbed it. Or - ”

Ram watched Leena’s expression tighten into something dangerous. “Or you grabbed it.”

gopu’s smile faltered. “I grabbed it fast. For safety.”

Leena took a step closer to gopu. “For safety.”

gopu swallowed. “Yes. Safety. Like when you hide biscuits from cats.”

The gunman jerked his arm against Leena’s grip. “You see! Tampering! They’re stealing my - my tag!”

Ram turned toward him, holding the cartridge in one hand and the gun in the other, trying to keep three separate problems from tangling. “Sir. Your holster tag was in gopu’s folder. That means either it was handled by your side, by someone near you, or by someone in this mess.”

The gunman’s eyes darted around. “I didn’t touch that folder.”

Ram nodded slowly. “Good. Then we can focus on who did.”

Leena looked at the crowd, then back at the gunman. “You’re going to tell us who had access to your holster tag before 10:30.”

“I already told you,” the gunman snapped. “It was missing. And my gun misfired. And now you’ve ruined - ”

Ram cut him off, because his patience was a thin rope and the hallway was yanking it. “Your ‘misfire’ fired a cartridge at 10:30. That’s not ruined. That’s facts.”

The gunman’s anger shifted into panic, and then - because comedy thrives on stubbornness - he found his last defense: being difficult in a way that sounded like principle.

He pointed at the gun in Ram’s hands. “Then prove it. Properly. Properly look at my gun again.”

Leena’s eyes flashed. “No.”

“Proper look!” the gunman insisted, louder now, like the hallway was a stage and he was auditioning for attention. “You didn’t check it right. You didn’t see what I saw. You didn’t - ”

Ram stared at him for a second, then glanced at Leena, who looked ready to argue with the gunman until the precinct ran out of chairs.

Ram lifted the gun slightly, just enough for the gunman to see. “I checked the mechanism.”

The gunman shook his head. “Not like me. You need a proper look. Like this.”

He leaned forward as if he could take the gun’s identity personally. Leena tightened her grip again, and this time the gunman didn’t lunge - he just stared, eyes wide, as though the gun might suddenly confess.

Ram’s jaw set. If the owner demanded a “proper look” again, it meant he believed there was something else at play - something he wasn’t saying clearly. And if gopu had grabbed the tag in the middle of the crowd, then the evidence wasn’t just a gun problem. It was a place problem. A hallway problem. A precinct corridor with too many feet and too many mouths.

The smoke had mostly vanished, leaving the corridor smelling like burnt metal and bad decisions. The cartridge sat in Ram’s cloth-wrapped hand like a tiny, smug trophy.

Leena exhaled. “Ram. Identify him. Who exactly is he?”

Ram looked at the gunman’s face, the moustache, the frantic hands, the way he demanded “proper look” like it was a magic spell. Then it clicked - the owner, the pattern of complaints, the name that would match the earlier call.

Ram leaned closer and said it plainly, voice low enough to cut through the noise without cutting the moment in half. “I know you.”

The gunman froze. His eyes flicked toward the crowd, then back to Ram, and the confidence drained out of him like water from a leaky bucket.

“I’m innocent,” he blurted immediately, as if innocence could be declared fast enough to outrun evidence.

Leena raised her eyebrows. “Innocent people don’t shout ‘look at my gun’ in a precinct hallway.”

The gunman swallowed hard, then tried to recover with stubborn pride. “I only said it because - because the gun deserves respect. And because someone stole my holster tag.”

Ram glanced at gopu’s folder, at the tag, at the cartridge, and at the evidence door that had become the center of the world’s worst magic trick. His goal had been to secure the scene and confirm what the gun did at 10:30.

He’d done that. Sort of.

But now he’d also confirmed something else: the gun was tied to a missing tag, the tag had somehow ended up in gopu’s hands, and the owner was demanding a “proper look” again like the gun might agree to behave if addressed politely.

Behind them, babu whispered something to gopu that made gopu smirk despite everything. Leena’s gaze flicked to them, warning and impatient.

Ram looked back at the gunman. “You want a proper look again? Fine.”

He didn’t hand the gun back. He just turned it slightly toward the evidence door’s light, letting the corridor glare show what his eyes had already started to suspect.

The owner’s expression tightened, and in that tightening Ram saw the cost of the chaos: this wasn’t just a misfire story. It was a setup story wearing the costume of bad luck.

And the hallway, full of witnesses and hecklers and too-bright floor tiles, was already preparing the next punchline.

End of chapter one. 4 more chapters in the full book.