The word hung in the air like a death sentence.
Ananya Sharma.
Rahul's legs gave out. The cuffs caught him mid-fall, metal biting into his wrists. His knees hit the floor. The room tilted, edges blurring like melting glass. His ears rang until the inspector's voice became a dull hum.
Dead. She's dead.
Inspector Anuj Kumar's face was unreadable, carved from exhaustion and stone. "The organs in that doll—heart, kidneys, part of the liver—all belong to her. DNA confirmed."
Rahul's lips moved, but no sound came out. His mind clawed for logic, reason, anything that could rewrite this reality.
I didn't do this. I didn't kill her.
But the darker voice—the one that lived somewhere deep inside, the one MC had planted years ago—whispered coldly: It doesn't matter. They think you did. And that's all that matters.
"Inspector saab," Rahul finally gasped, "I swear… I didn't—"
"Save it." Kumar turned away, walking back to his desk. "You threatened her. You had motive. And now she's dead—cut into pieces and stuffed into a puppet." His tone didn't rise, but the disgust in his eyes was louder than a scream. He picked up the landline. "I'm calling the magistrate. You'll be formally charged with kidnapping and murder by morning."
Murder.
The word struck like a blow to the skull. Rahul's breath came in short, frantic bursts. The room shrank. The walls leaned inward, the flickering tube lights buzzing like hornets, drilling into his brain.
And then—
The voice inside screamed.
RUN.
It wasn't a whisper anymore. It was a roar. It burned through every nerve, every thought.
RUN. NOW. OR YOU DIE HERE.
Rahul's head jerked up. His pupils widened. Everything slowed. The world turned cold and sharp, every sound amplified—the ticking clock, the soft scrape of a chair, the inspector's voice murmuring into the receiver.
Anuj Kumar's back was turned. Two constables near the door were chatting lazily, half-asleep. The rest of the station buzzed with night fatigue—papers rustling, phones ringing, rain tapping against the windows.
No one was watching him.
You have ten seconds, the voice hissed. Maybe less.
Rahul's gaze fell on a desk nearby. A constable had left his keyring there—half a dozen metal keys glinting under the light.
Do it.
His fingers trembled as he reached out, stretching the chain between his cuffs. Closer. Closer. The cold metal brushed his fingertips.
The keys clinked softly.
No one turned.
He fumbled with the cuffs, shaking so badly he nearly dropped them. First key—no. Second—no.
Faster. Faster.
Third key.
Click.
Freedom.
The cuff popped open, falling to the floor with a tiny, treacherous sound. Rahul froze, heart slamming against his ribs. No one looked up.
He stood slowly, muscles coiled tight. Kumar was still on the phone, his back still turned.
Now.
One step. Another.
The voice screamed inside him: GO! GO! GO!
He ran.
The room exploded behind him.
"OYE!" someone shouted.
Rahul burst through the front door, slamming it so hard the frame shuddered. The night air hit him like ice—cool, wet, alive.
Boots thundered behind him. Whistles pierced the air.
"RUKK! STOP!" ("STOP!")
Rahul ran.
His lungs burned. His legs pumped like pistons. The street outside the station was dim—flickering sodium lights, puddles glinting like shards of glass. He turned left, sprinting past shuttered paan shops and sleeping houses, the whole city wrapped in the heavy silence of 2 AM.
Behind him, a jeep engine roared.
"Stop him! He's escaping!"
Headlights cut through the rain-streaked darkness, pinning him like prey.
Rahul veered right, diving into a narrow alley. Garbage bags burst under his feet. A stray dog barked and bolted.
The jeep screeched to a halt. Doors slammed.
"There! I see him!"
Rahul's lungs screamed. His vision tunneled. The alley opened onto a wider road—Kolar Road, empty, endless.
He turned left. Past a shuttered dhaba, the faint smell of stale samosas and petrol hanging in the air.
Then—
CRACK.
The gunshot ripped through the night.
Pain exploded in his shoulder—white-hot, burning. He stumbled, gasping, but his legs refused to stop.
"STOP OR I'LL SHOOT AGAIN!"
Kumar's voice echoed behind him.
Rahul gritted his teeth and pushed harder. Blood soaked through his shirt, warm and slick.
Another gunshot. The bullet smashed into the wall beside him, spraying concrete.
He cut sharply into another lane—darker, narrower. Trash bins, hanging wires, dripping pipes. His footsteps splashed through puddles as his vision blurred.
The shouts behind him grew fainter.
He didn't look back.
Five minutes later, the sky cracked open.
Rain poured down—thick, heavy, relentless. The kind that drowned noise and washed away footprints.
Rahul stumbled into an empty lane near the old market, collapsing against a wall. His shoulder burned like fire. Rain mixed with blood, tracing thin red lines down his arm.
He sat there, gasping. Every breath was a knife.
I escaped.
The thought landed slow, unreal.
I escaped the police. I'm a fugitive now.
Thunder rolled over the city. The neon glow from a distant sign flickered weakly through the downpour.
Rahul stared at the rainwater pooling by his feet—pink with blood, rippling with each drop.
Ananya is dead. Murdered. Cut apart. Put inside a doll.
His stomach twisted.
And everyone thinks I did it.
The inner voice was silent now, watching. Patient.
Rahul pressed his good hand to his wound, teeth clenched.
What do I do? Where do I go?
He couldn't go home—they'd be waiting. Couldn't go to friends—who'd hide a murderer?
Why is this happening to me?
His vision blurred again. He didn't know if it was rain or tears.
I didn't do anything. I just failed an exam. I lost her. And now I'm—
He stopped.
A single thought sliced through the chaos.
Someone did this. Someone killed Ananya and framed me.
His hands curled into fists.
Niraj.
The memory flashed—Niraj's smirk, his calm accusation, the quiet venom in his words.
It made sense. Too much sense.
But… why? Just revenge? Or something else?
Something darker.
Rahul leaned back against the wall, rainwater dripping from his hair. Somewhere, a siren wailed—low, distant.
He was alone. Hunted.
And the real killer was still out there.
He shut his eyes, feeling the blood pulse in his shoulder, the exhaustion weighing on his bones.
I have to find who did this.
The voice stirred again. You're a fugitive now. No badge. No help. Just the rain and your own madness.
Rahul opened his eyes.
"Then I'll do it alone."
He pushed himself up, groaning, clutching the wound. His shadow stretched long under the dim streetlight. The rain fell harder. The city lay before him—wet, dark, and merciless.
Somewhere in that darkness, someone had killed Ananya. Someone had built the puppet. Someone had destroyed his life.
And Rahul Kumar—failed candidate, accused killer, desperate survivor—was going to find them.
Even if it killed him.