Flames. Blazing fire, swallowing everything.
A woman ran through it, her screams lost in the roar. A man—his body charred, blackened into ash—lay motionless on the floor.
Rohan's eyes snapped open. Sweat clung to his brow, his breath short and ragged. He looked around. The sterile white walls, the soft beeping of machines.
A bitter smile crept onto his face.
"Hospital... again," his inner voice sighed.
But then the fragments returned—last night's chaos in the jungle, the fight, the flickering image, the power in his hands.
And Shruti.
"Where is Shruti? Did I even see her?" he asked himself, heart heavy with dread.
A knock at the door broke the silence. He turned, expecting a nurse.
But it wasn't.
Inspector Suryavanshi stepped in, calm, composed, eyes unreadable.
"So finally," he said, voice low, "you found her."
Rohan's brows furrowed. "Who?"
Suryavanshi didn't meet his gaze. "Shruti."
The name hit like a hammer. Rohan sat up, eyes searching Suryavanshi's face.
"How is she?"
This time, Suryavanshi looked him straight in the eye.
"She's no more."
The words crashed through Rohan like a wave of ice. His chest tightened. He stared, numb, as the inspector walked closer.
"We've arrested two—Jiya and Yash. Three boys are still suspects. Shruti, her father, and Geeta... three murders."
Rohan's eyes dropped. Then slowly, he looked up, questions burning behind them.
Suryavanshi answered before he could speak.
"First was a one-sided love turned violent. Second—she carried evidence. Her father got in the way. Wrong place, wrong time."
Silence. The kind that weighs on skin like wet cloth.
Suryavanshi sat beside him, placing a hand gently on his shoulder.
"You did great, kid. Without you, we wouldn't have solved this. The Commissioner wants to meet you after discharge. Here's my number—call me if you ever need help."
But Rohan barely heard it. His thoughts were buried beneath the ashes of what could've been.
"I couldn't save her," his mind whispered.
"If I couldn't save anyone... then why do I have this power? What's the point?"
He lay back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, pain dull in his chest.
He knew one thing. He needed answers.
He needed to find the White Witch.
That night, he waited. Awake. Silent. Watching the clock.
12:00 AM. Nothing.
01:00. Silence.
03:00. Still nothing.
He wandered the hospital halls, searching, listening.
But the world stayed still. The voice did not return.
Eventually, at 4:00 AM, he collapsed into sleep.
By 9:00, the doctor visited. Cleared him for discharge.
At 3:00 PM, he was back home. Weary. Lost.
Then the phone rang.
A call center was hiring. The interview was scheduled for 9:00 AM the next day.
Rohan arrived early, suit freshly pressed, hair combed back, expression distant.
He was hired on the spot. Small company. Modest building.
But a solid package.
He joined immediately.
But in the corners of his mind, questions burned.
He wasn't done. Not yet.
Two months later
Smoke curled into the cold morning air as Inspector Suryavanshi stood by the river, his gaze locked on the dark waters below the Holkar Bridge. The uniform clung to him like a second skin—creased, weary, yet still commanding.
Behind him, a young photographer lowered his camera.
"Sir, we're done."
Suryavanshi took one last drag and flicked the cigarette over the railing.
"Take the body. Send it for postmortem."
The ambulance doors closed with a hollow thud. Sirens wailed briefly, then faded as the crew and police vehicles pulled away, leaving only Suryavanshi and a quiet constable behind—alone with the river and its silence.
---
The next morning, headlines ran wild:
"Holkar Bridge Claims Another Life—Third in 45 Days. Coincidence or Curse?"
The grainy image of the body being pulled from the water flashed across news channels. Conspiracy theories flared. Locals whispered stories again—of screams in the fog, of shadows that pushed.
Rohan had just returned from work, dropping his bag with a dull thud. He changed into a t-shirt, poured water, and glanced at the TV.
"...Holkar Bridge, once again, takes a life. Officials remain tight-lipped. Locals claim the bridge is haunted."
He froze. Glass halfway to lips.
Haunted...?
His mind stirred.
Is it the place? Could that really be true?
The power that once surged in his veins—it hadn't returned since that night in the jungle. No whispers. No visions.
Just silence.
He looked at the clock.
11:00 PM.
Almost on instinct, he slipped into his jacket, grabbed his keys, and started his bike.
---
The city dimmed behind him as the Holkar Bridge emerged, cloaked in quiet. No traffic. No dogs. No movement. Only the hum of his engine as he pulled to a stop and killed the lights.
11:49 PM.
He stepped onto the bridge, boots echoing on the concrete. Wind slid past him, whispering low.
"How do I trigger it again...?" he wondered.
"That force… is it bound to death? To pain? Or to something else?"
Then—
"So... what's interesting here tonight?"
The deep voice jolted him. Rohan turned fast.
It was Inspector Suryavanshi, leaning against a railing, arms folded.
"Nothing," Rohan said, trying to sound casual. "Just... looking for peace."
Suryavanshi exhaled.
"This bridge isn't where you find peace. It's where peace ends. People die here. Random accidents. No proper reports. CCTV always fails. I'd say... leave."
Rohan smirked faintly.
"You're worried about my safety... but are you safe?"
The inspector's jaw clenched.
"It's not about safety. It's about duty."
Neither said anything more.
Rohan walked back to his bike, kicked it alive, and drove home.
---
1:00 AM
He parked his bike. The apartment block stood still.
Then, every light went out.
Silence.
Then—cold.
A wind rolled in from nowhere. The air thickened. Fog spread across the parking lot like a living thing.
Rohan paused. A shiver crawled up his spine.
It's happening.
A whisper of fear... and thrill.
Then—
"We want revenge."
A chilling chorus. Heavy. Inhuman. Right beside his ear.
Rohan spun—no one.
A sharp crack behind him. He turned again—
A motorbike flew at him, flung like a toy.
He dived. It missed by inches, crashing into the wall.
Pain lanced through his ribs as he rolled to a stop.
"From... who?" he coughed.
Another whisper. Darker.
"We are waiting."
Rohan staggered upright.
"Tell me! If you need help—I can!"
The voice laughed—cold and cruel.
"They killed us. Now we kill them."
Crash!
A side mirror flew through the air and struck his forehead. Blood spilled as he hit the ground, vision swimming.
"No... wait. You can't just do this!" Rohan screamed.
"Tell me who you are!"
Then—another voice. Softer. Younger.
" please help... release me..."
Rohan blinked.
Wait. Two voices? Two souls? One vengeful. One crying?
He leaned against a pillar. Breathing hard.
Then—light.
Parking lamps flickered back on.
The fog vanished like smoke pulled into a vacuum.
Rohan stood there, dazed, bleeding. Slowly, he looked at a nearby car window.
His reflection stared back at him.
But it wasn't just him.
His eyes. The way they shimmered faintly.
Something—or someone—was with him now.
Still trembling from the whispers and the assault in the parking lot, Rohan pulled out his phone. Blood dripped from his temple, but he barely noticed. His fingers dialed the one number that mattered.
It rang once. Then—
"Hello."
"Hello, sir. It's Rohan."
"Who?" The voice was distant, distracted.
"Rohan. We just met at the bridge!"
A pause. Then recognition.
"Oh, yeah... say."
Rohan didn't waste time.
"Sir, your life is in danger. Right now. Where are you?"
A tired chuckle.
"I just crossed Phoenix Mall, on the highway. Don't worry about me, kid."
But Rohan was already moving.
"Don't hang up—"
The line went dead.
Rohan shoved the phone into his pocket, jumped on his bike, and twisted the throttle. The engine roared to life, tires screeching as he took the side route that cut through the old industrial yard. Fog still lingered faintly along the edges of the road, and for a moment, Rohan thought he saw a face in the mist.
He didn't blink.
---
Minutes later – Highway Near Phoenix Mall
Rohan skidded to a stop.
A car ahead had slammed into the divider. Its hood crumpled like paper. Airbags fully deployed. Smoke leaked from under the engine. One hand—bloodied, limp—hung out of the shattered driver-side window.
"No..."
Rohan bolted toward the wreckage.
"Sir! Inspector Suryavanshi!"
He reached the door, yanked it open with effort. Blood smeared the seat. The man slumped forward, unconscious, head tilted at an unnatural angle.
Rohan's hands shook as he checked for a pulse.
Faint—but there.
He called the ambulance, yelling coordinates, voice sharp and panicked.
Then he gritted his teeth and began pulling Suryavanshi out, careful not to injure him more. The inspector's blood stained Rohan's clothes, hot and heavy.
"Hold on... Please hold on..."
The wind whispered again, faintly—just a hiss. Then silence.
Rohan looked up at the sky.
The stars had vanished behind clouds.