The knock came at 2:47 a.m.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Rahul stirred, fogged with exhaustion. The last few weeks had leeched him—exams, bruised ribs, a dull ache that reminded him with every breath what betrayal felt like. Sleep had been mercy. Then the second sound hit—harder, angrier.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
His eyes snapped open. Darkness filled the room except for a weak orange halo from the streetlamp. The ceiling fan turned as if time itself had grown bored. For a second he thought he'd dreamed it.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
"Rahul Kumar!" The voice outside was sharp, official, impatient. "Open the door! Police!"
He froze. Heart stuttered. Police? Why? What did I do?
He stumbled out of bed, legs heavy, breath uneven. His hand hovered over the latch, instincts screaming—don't open. The pounding came again, harder.
"Open up! Now!"
He unlocked the door.
Sleep vaporised.
Two constables stood in the narrow hallway, uniforms creased under the dim yellow light. Behind them, the stairwell of his building in TT Nagar yawned into shadow. One of them—a thickset man with a drooping mustache—stepped forward, scanning Rahul like inventory.
"You're Rahul Kumar?" It wasn't a question.
Rahul nodded. "Yes… but what's—"
"You need to come with us," said the younger constable, lean and dead-eyed, as if night arrests were just another shift. "Inspector sahab has called you."
"Inspector?" His voice cracked. "Why? It's the middle of the night—"
"Don't ask questions," the older one cut in. "Get dressed. Jaldi."
Rahul's pulse hammered. His thoughts spun—Is this about Niraj? The fight? That was weeks ago. Why now?
A voice slipped through his head—cold, familiar: Don't go. This is a trap.
He knew the rule. You don't say no to police. Not here. Not anywhere.
He pulled on a shirt, jeans, chappals. The constables watched with bored control. Within minutes he was outside. Night air bit his skin.
They led him down the lane: silent shops, a stray dog riffling through trash. A truck rumbled on Kolar Road, headlights sweeping shuttered storefronts—medical stores, chai stalls, coaching ads peeling off cracked plaster.
A police jeep waited at the corner, headlights carving the dark. The constables nudged him inside—not violent, but not gentle. The door slammed. The engine growled.
Rahul sat between them, gripping his knees, watching the city blur: closed tea shops, flickering streetlights, the New Market sign fading behind them. Where are they taking me?
The jeep turned toward Bhopal Central Police Station near the old market. He had passed it by day—peeling paint, rusted iron gates, tedious bureaucracy. Tonight it looked like a mouth.
They pulled in. Fluorescent tubes buzzed overhead. The air smelled of sweat, stale chai, and the kind of fear that accumulates in too many small lives.
Down the corridor, past corkboards and dusty files, they stopped at a door with a brass plate: INSPECTOR ANUJ KUMAR.
The older constable knocked once and opened without waiting.
Rahul stepped inside—and his stomach dropped.
Niraj was there.
He looked wrecked: sunken eyes, uncombed hair. The same boy Rahul had once called a friend sat across the inspector's desk like grief itself. Or a well-rehearsed show of it.
Inspector Anuj Kumar sat behind the desk, uniform crisp, mustache trimmed. His nameplate gleamed.
"So," he said, without warmth, "you're Rahul Kumar."
Rahul opened his mouth—but Niraj exploded out of his chair.
"Where is she?!" Niraj grabbed Rahul by the collar and slammed him against the wall. "Tell me, where did you take her?!"
Rahul choked. "What—who—?"
"Ananya!" Niraj's voice shredded the room. "Where is Ananya? What did you do to her?!"
The constables yanked Niraj back, forcing him into his chair. He collapsed, shaking, tears streaming. His chest heaved like a wounded animal's.
To anyone else, it looked real.
Rahul stared, mind blank. "I—I don't know what you mean. I haven't seen Ananya since—"
"Enough." Inspector Kumar's voice cut through. "Sit down."
Rahul obeyed, trembling.
"Ananya Sharma," the inspector said slowly, "has been missing for three days. Her parents filed a report yesterday. And according to Mr. Niraj here"—he gestured lazily—"you're the one who took her."
"What?" Rahul's throat closed. "That's insane—I didn't— I would never—"
"You had a relationship with her. She broke up with you. You were angry. There were fights in college. Witnesses say you threatened her."
"I didn't threaten anyone!"
Niraj's voice dropped to a raw whisper. "You told her you'd kill her… Main tumhe maar dunga." He said the words like a blade.
They hit like a blade.
He had said them. In the alley—rage and humiliation bleeding into a sentence. Not a promise—pain. But try explaining that now.
Rahul tried to speak. No words came.
Inspector Kumar tapped his pen. "Niraj filed a complaint. Kidnapping. Motive, witnesses, you. That's enough."
Rahul looked at Niraj—really looked. Tears. The quivering lip. Under it, a flicker of something like satisfaction. A ghost of a smile.
He's lying. He's framing me.
The inner voice hissed: You're finished. They already wrote your ending.
"I want to call my family," Rahul said, desperate. "Or a lawyer. I have rights—"
"Rights?" The inspector smirked. "This is a kidnapping case, beta. Rights come later. First, tell us where she is."
"I don't know! I haven't seen her since the exams!"
The inspector sighed, bored. "Take him to interrogation. Maybe memory improves."
The constables grabbed him. "Wait! Please!" His plea vanished into footsteps and metal doors.
As they dragged him away, he caught Niraj's eyes one last time. Tears still there. Eyes colder than death.
The interrogation room was a box—concrete, no windows, no clock. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, its light twitching like an insect trapped in glass. The stench of sweat and disinfectant stuck to his throat.
They shoved him into a metal chair and cuffed him to the table; the steel bit into his wrists.
Inspector Kumar entered as if this were routine. He opened a notebook.
"Let's try again," he said softly. "Where is Ananya Sharma?"
"I don't know."
"When did you last see her?"
"At the exam hall. Two weeks ago."
"Did you follow her?"
"No."
"Message her? Call her?"
"No."
"You're lying."
"I'm not—"
"You threatened to kill her. You wanted revenge."
"I was angry, yes! But I didn't touch her!"
The inspector stared, then stood and circled behind Rahul. His voice dropped low, venomous.
"Niraj's father is an important man here. If he says you did it, you did it. Samjha?" The word cut like a small warning.
Rahul's stomach knotted. His pulse roared.
The inspector stepped outside. "I'll be back. Maybe you'll remember something before I return."
The lock clicked. Silence hummed.
This is insane. This can't be real.
The inner voice whispered, patient and cruel: They don't want the truth. They want a story. And Niraj just wrote yours.
Minutes stretched—five, ten, twenty. Time thinned.
Then muffled voices beyond the door.
"—urgent call from Kolar Road station—"
"—they found something—"
And just like that, the city of Bhopal was about to wake to a nightmare.
They'd found something on Kolar Road.