Evening had quietly draped itself over Deepak's hostel room. The fan spun above with a slow, steady rhythm, and his phone rested on the desk beside him, glowing softly with a new notification. Curious, he picked it up.
A message from an unknown account stared back at him:
"Hi, my dear innocent Deepak. I want to show you something."
Before he could process the strange greeting, several images followed.
His heart skipped a beat.
They were screenshots—captured moments of his private chats with Sahasra. Every word, every smiley, every innocent line laid bare without his consent. The world seemed to freeze around him as his fingers trembled, scrolling through the unfamiliar images. Panic surged like a tidal wave.
Inside his mind, chaos erupted.
His heart tried to reason, whispering for calm. But fear had already planted its claws deep. Overthinking—the oldest, cruelest voice in his mind—began its tirade, roaring blame and shame. Deepak clutched his head, his breath unsteady. The room spun around him.
He could hear his own thoughts shouting, accusing.
Why had he opened up? Why had he trusted anyone?
In that moment of inner war, Overthinking seized control. It pushed away every logic, every drop of courage. With numbed fingers, Deepak navigated to his settings and deleted Instagram.
A hollow silence followed.
His heartbeat thundered in his ears. Sweat clung to his brow. Then, slowly, his body gave in. His head dropped to the desk, and the world slipped away into black.
---
The Dream
Darkness.
It surrounded him, endless and suffocating. Deepak called out for help, his voice echoing into nothing. He ran—feet pounding against an invisible floor—fleeing from something he couldn't name. But suddenly, the ground vanished beneath him, and he fell.
He hit the floor hard. Cold. Lifeless.
His limbs refused to move. A strange weakness pinned him down.
Silence.
Then came a voice—gentle, distant, yet familiar.
"Come on, Deepak. You can do it. Just believe in yourself. You are capable."
The words wrapped around him like a lifeline. Strength stirred in his muscles. Slowly, he pushed himself up. With a long, deliberate breath, he looked around.
In the distance, a light shimmered through the shadows. He stepped toward it.
With each step, the darkness peeled away. Color returned. Trees appeared. Flowers bloomed. The void transformed into a lush garden, vibrant and peaceful. A breeze touched his face, and the same voice returned.
"Don't feel nervous to ask for help."
This time, he recognized the voice.
Chaitanya.
Then came the soft vibration of a notification.
---
Reawakening
Deepak's eyes shot open. He gasped for air, drenched in sweat, still slouched over the desk. The dream clung to his thoughts like morning fog.
His phone buzzed again. A message—this time from Chaitanya, sent via SMS.
He sat upright in alarm, glancing at the time.
4:00 p.m.
He'd been unconscious for hours.
Without wasting a second, he unlocked his phone and began reinstalling Instagram. The gears in his mind were already turning.
He replied quickly to Chaitanya, explaining everything. To his shock, Chaitanya had also been hacked. The same fear they'd both laughed off days ago had become real.
But Deepak was no longer that timid boy from school.
"I'm a coder," he thought to himself, tightening his grip on the phone. "I can find the person behind this."
He promised Chaitanya he would take care of it. And he meant it.
With Instagram reinstalled, he opened the app and went straight to the message from the unknown account.
He didn't hesitate.
He typed a single line.
"Who are you?"
The reply came instantly.
Took you long enough, the hacker wrote. What happened? Poor network?
Deepak didn't rise to the bait. He pressed again, demanding to know what the stranger wanted.
The response sent a chill through him.
You want to know who I am, or would you rather see your screenshots posted on every story page in your college?
Deepak's fingers trembled slightly.
No... please don't do that. Tell me what you want.
The reply was swift.
*You have two options:
1. Pay me ₹5000
2. Delete Instagram permanently.*
A moment later, a QR code appeared on the screen, glowing like a threat.
Use PhonePe. You've got three days. Either send the money and leave Instagram for good... or your little chats become public.
Deepak stared at the code, his chest tight.
Three days.
That was all he had.
But what the hacker didn't know—what he couldn't possibly understand—was that Deepak was no longer a victim. Not anymore.
....