Rish.P, a seasoned detective, had been haunted by the inexplicable disappearances plaguing the city for two years. People vanished without a trace, leaving behind only the chilling silence of their absence. And then, just as mysteriously, a handful reappeared, broken and battered, their memories fragmented and shrouded in a veil of fear.

The why remained unanswered, a taunting question mark hanging in the air. Were these abductions random, or was there a twisted pattern at play? Whispers of otherworldly forces and hidden dimensions swirled through the city, fueled by the victims' mumbling of strange symbols and whispered warnings.

Rish refused to succumb to the whispers. Armed with his unwavering logic and a simmering frustration, he delved deeper into the cases, dissecting every detail, every inconsistency. He interviewed the survivors, their broken narratives forming a fractured mosaic of the unknown. They spoke of chilling whispers in the night, of blinding light engulfing them, and then... nothing.

His investigation led him down a labyrinth of cryptic clues – strange symbols painted on abandoned houses, coded messages hidden in seemingly mundane news reports, and whispered rumors of a clandestine group obsessed with the unknown. As he navigated this shadowy path, Rish couldn't help but feel a growing sense of unease. Was he merely chasing shadows, or was he on the verge of uncovering a truth far more unsettling than he could imagine?

The pressure mounted with each new disappearance. The city held its breath, waiting for the next victim, the next clue. And Rish, driven by a burning desire for justice and fueled by the whispers of the survivors, vowed to unravel the mystery, to bring back the vanished, and to confront the darkness that had taken them.

Detective Rish.P surveyed the abandoned campsite, a knot of unease tightening in his gut. Two years of these disappearances, and the pattern remained chillingly consistent. They vanished without a trace, leaving behind only the unsettling silence of their absence. This one, however, was different. Unlike the others, who'd been found wandering, dazed but seemingly unharmed, this one lay sprawled beneath a half-pitched tent, eyes vacant, unresponsive even to the flashing sirens that had torn through the dusk.

"Another coma victim," a young officer muttered, her voice heavy with despair. "Tried everything, Doc says it's like their minds are locked away." Rish knelt beside the figure, a woman no older than thirty, her face pale and drawn. A half-eaten granola bar lay beside her, a forgotten book open to a page about ancient star constellations. What had brought her here, and where had she gone?

The evidence was scattered around the campsite: a crumpled map leading deeper into the woods, a discarded phone with a cracked screen, and a single, cryptic symbol etched into a nearby tree trunk. It was the same symbol found at every other scene, its meaning as elusive as the vanished souls themselves. Rish traced the symbol with his finger, a cold certainty settling over him. This wasn't some random act of nature. This was something far more deliberate, far more unsettling. And he was determined to unravel the mystery, even if it meant venturing into the same darkness that had swallowed the others whole.

Rish.P. slammed his fist on the desk, scattering the case files across the already cluttered surface. This one, like so many others, was a maddening puzzle. Officially classified a suicide, the evidence painted a different story – a staged scene, cryptic symbols etched on the walls, and a chilling absence of struggle. But the victim, like all the others who'd returned from that vacant, unresponsive state, had no memory of the act or the time spent "missing." Suicide? Homicide? Missing person? Each case seemed to mock him with its shifting identities, leaving him grasping at straws in a sea of uncertainty.

The most frustrating part was the silence. The silence of their minds, wiped clean of any trace of the events leading up to their disappearance. Were they truly comatose, or was it something else, something darker, lurking beneath the surface? Were their memories stolen, or simply locked away, inaccessible to even the most advanced technology? The questions gnawed at him, each unanswered one a festering wound in his relentless pursuit of the truth.

Sweat beaded on Rishang's forehead as he crumpled another theory in frustration. The remote disappearances, meticulously planned and executed, had made sense. But the outlier cases, 25% nestled in bustling cityscapes, shattered his carefully constructed narrative. Sleep eluded him, replaced by a relentless loop of the baffling inconsistencies. "They were planned, not coincidences," he muttered, pacing the dimly lit room, the words echoing his father's famed deduction style. But the shadow of Mohan Patel, the legendary detective, felt both inspiring and suffocating. Was he Rishang Patel, merely echoing past brilliance, or could he forge his own path, one that could explain the inexplicable?