Gaitonde | Drishyam

"I was here."

George pulls out a stack of printed photographs — CCTV stills, call logs, a bus ticket. gaitonde drishyam

"Cable junction. How can I help you?"

"How do you think like this?"

The room smells of whiskey, blood, and burnt wire. Gaitonde sits on a leather chair, knuckles split. Across him — a body. Not his kill. Someone else’s mess. A rival don’s nephew. Dead. In his house. "I was here