Chapter 4: Neha Sharma at 2AM

Block D, Kaveripur Residency—just five minutes away. I entered the lift, pressed 14, and when the doors opened, found a woman squatting in front of Flat 1404.

The security guard was missing, and the corridor had that faint hit of phenyl mixed with last night’s curry. The tube lights flickered overhead. The woman looked up, face pale under the harsh white glow, clutching her dupatta tighter, eyes darting to the lift as if expecting someone else. Her bare feet tapped nervously on the cold mosaic floor.

As soon as she saw me, she stood. "Are... are you the locksmith?"

Her voice quivered, almost lost. She looked thirtyish, hair pulled back with loose strands escaping. She seemed like the type who’d hesitate to call a stranger so late.

I nodded. "Yes, you just called me, right?"

"Yes. I don’t know what happened—the key just won’t turn. I used too much force and broke it inside."

She pointed at the lock. Half a key was stuck in the keyhole. She’d tried everything—scratches on the door, bits of paper wedged in, classic signs of desperation.

"Looks like the lock cylinder’s worn out, needs replacing," I said, flashing my business license and police verification—standard procedure. She fumbled in her purse for the Aadhaar, hands trembling. I held the torch steady, glancing at the photo—same hair, same shy smile. “Sab theek hai, madam,” I said, trying to sound reassuring. Neha Sharma, flat owner.

Strictly, there should be a witness—a guard or neighbour—but at 2AM, some rules are skipped. I looked around—no one awake, only a distant AC humming. No point waking neighbours for this.

Once registration was done, I spread my towel on the floor, torch in hand, and got to work. She hovered, eyes following every move, anxiety radiating off her in waves.