Mission Forensic
Part 21: Pharmacology Class and the Route Ahead
The storm had passed, but its memory lingered in the streets below—pavements slick, trees dripping, the faint scent of wet dust rising with the first warmth of the sun. From the small balcony of their flat, Edward leaned against the railing with his mug of tea, watching the city shake itself awake. Behind him, Catherine padded barefoot across the floor, her stole loose over her shoulders, still soft from sleep.
“You’re already dressed,” she said, half-accusing, as she reached for her own cup.
“Habit,” he murmured, without turning. “Besides, it’s Ruchika ma’am today. Better not risk walking in late.”
She smiled, brushing past him to lean against the railing. “You mean better not risk another of her stares. I still remember how she looked at you when you misplaced that definition in last week’s class.”
Edward chuckled. “Deadlier than half the toxins we study.”
Catherine’s laugh slipped into the morning air, warm and unhurried. For a moment, the world outside their balcony—the honk of a bus, the call of a Vegetable vendor—felt distant, replaced only by the quiet rhythm they had found together.
***
By mid-morning, the pharmacology lecture hall was awash in white light, tall windows spilling brightness across rows of students already settled with notebooks open. On the board, in clean handwriting, the day’s heading was waiting: Forensic Pharmacology — Routes of Drug Administration.
Dr. Ruchika stood poised at the front, her indigo saree catching the projector’s glow as she adjusted her spectacles. A slide illuminated the screen beside her, neatly ordered, precise.
“We’ve already explored the principles of drug absorption,” she began, her tone steady, assured. “Today, we focus on the routes—because in forensic pharmacology, the path a drug takes is as important as the drug itself.”
She let her gaze sweep the room before continuing.
“Oral. Intravenous. Intramuscular. Sublingual. Inhalational. Rectal. Each changes the drug’s story—the onset, the duration, the effect. And in court, those differences often mean everything: was it deliberate administration, accidental, or forced?”
Pens scratched softly over paper. Catherine’s notes were methodical, diagrams unfolding in graceful lines. Edward’s writing was quicker, leaner, but his attention lingered on her more than the board. When she caught him watching, she arched a brow, the smallest smile threatening her composure.
Behind them, Shawn whispered with uncontained amusement, “Rectal. She just—she says it like she’s reading a weather report.”
Catherine stifled a laugh into her notebook. Ahana’s elbow found Shawn’s ribs before she hissed, “Write, or I’ll make sure you regret this entire semester.”
“I was only—” he began, but the grin gave him away.
Edward, eyes on his page, allowed himself the faintest smile. Catherine’s hand brushed his under the desk—a fleeting, conspiratorial touch.
At the front, Dr. Ruchika clicked to the next slide.
“In forensic cases, remember—routes can prove intent. Was a drug inhaled, injected, swallowed? These details reconstruct the truth. Survival sometimes depends not on the medicine itself, but the seconds in which it was delivered, and the path it took.”
Her words hung in the air, their weight undeniable.
The class ended without a bell—just the hush of notebooks shutting, the scrape of chairs, and a low tide of voices spilling into the corridor.
“That line,” Catherine murmured as she and Edward stepped outside, their arms brushing. “‘Survival depends not on the medicine, but on the path it takes.’ She makes pharmacology sound almost poetic.”
“Or strategic,” Edward said quietly.
She tilted her head at him. “And what did you hear in it?”
“That details matter,” he replied. “The smallest choices—routes, doses, words. They shape everything.”
Behind them, Shawn’s dramatic groan filled the hall. “If I don’t borrow someone’s notes, this route leads directly to my academic death.”
Ahana followed close behind, her voice clipped but not unkind. “You’ll survive if you learn to take your own.”
“Tragedy,” Shawn sighed, clutching his chest. “Betrayed by the one person I trusted.”
Edward and Catherine exchanged a glance, their laughter folded between them as the four drifted toward the canteen. Outside, the lawns sparkled under the noon sun, alive with students and easy chatter.
For a while, life felt ordinary again—lectures, teasing, corridors bright with light. Ordinary, and somehow, all the more precious for it.
***
The canteen air was thick with warmth and chatter, the tables crowded with plates of pakoras and glasses of steaming tea. Shawn was in the middle of a theatrical retelling of how he’d narrowly escaped academic doom, punctuating every line with wild gestures. Ahana, across from him, stirred her tea in measured circles, her silence sharpening the comedy more than any rebuttal.
Catherine leaned closer to Edward, her voice lowered to a private thread. “If he doesn’t stop, one of us will end up choking on a samosa.”
Edward’s smile flickered, quiet and warm. “I’ll write the autopsy report myself.”
She laughed, the sound slipping easily into the din of the canteen. For a moment, the world seemed caught in a rare balance—light, untroubled, ordinary.
It was then his phone buzzed against the table. He glanced at the screen. A message, crisp and direct, from Dr. Ridhima:
Edward, come to my office after class today. We’re forming the committee for the upcoming 5-day Skill Development Workshop on campus. I’d like to discuss your role.
He read it twice, then set the phone down, the weight of the words settling between them.
“Something serious?” Catherine asked, her brows lifting slightly.
“Ridhima ma’am,” he said, keeping his voice low. “She wants me in her office. Committee work. A five-day workshop.”
Her expression softened into pride, though her smile carried a trace of mischief. “You can’t escape responsibility forever, Edward. They’ve caught you.”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Feels less like responsibility, more like conscription.”
Catherine’s hand brushed his under the table, a quiet reassurance that lingered longer than words.
Around them, the chatter carried on—students arguing over assignments, cups clinking, Shawn still weaving tragedy into comedy—but Edward’s thoughts had already shifted.
Workshops. Committees. Responsibilities. The ordinary was changing again, its edges taking shape into something that promised new demands, new challenges.
And as they stepped out of the canteen into the bright noon, Catherine’s shoulder brushing his, Edward felt the familiar undercurrent of their days—the quiet certainty that whatever came next, they would walk into it together.
Continue to Episode-22
