The nightmare came without warning, sliding into Rahul's sleep like a knife between ribs.
He was standing in his childhood apartment—the walls were wrong. Too close. Breathing. The ceiling pressed down with every heartbeat, lowering inch by inch, slow enough that he couldn't tell if it was real or if his mind was inventing the terror.
Ananya's voice cut through the darkness.
"Useless."
Not angry. Worse. Disappointed. Final. Like she'd weighed him on some invisible scale and found him lacking in every possible way.
He turned, but she wasn't there. Just her voice, hanging in the air like smoke.
Then Niraj appeared—not walking, just there—leaning against a doorframe that hadn't existed a second ago. That smirk. That fucking smirk Rahul had seen a thousand times. The one that said I know something you don't, and it's going to destroy you.
Niraj laughed. Low. Mocking. The sound wrapped around Rahul's throat like wire.
The floor cracked.
Not metaphorically. Actually cracked. Spiderwebs of broken concrete spreading outward from his feet. The apartment tilted. Walls folded inward. Furniture slid toward gaping holes that opened in the foundation, swallowing everything—tables, chairs, his mother's old photographs—into darkness that had no bottom.
Rahul ran.
Suddenly he was in a forest. Dense. Ancient. Trees so tall their tops disappeared into blackness. No transition. No logic. One second collapsing apartment, next second forest floor covered in dead leaves that crunched too loudly under his feet.
Silence everywhere except his breathing.
Then—a child's laughter.
High-pitched. Wrong. The kind of sound that shouldn't exist in a place this dead.
Rahul's chest tightened. He moved forward, pushing through branches that grabbed at his clothes like skeletal fingers.
There.
A small boy. Maybe seven years old. Playing alone in a clearing. Crouched over something Rahul couldn't see. The boy's back was turned, shoulders hunched, completely absorbed in whatever game he was playing with himself.
"Hey," Rahul called out. His voice came out weak. Strangled.
The boy stopped moving.
Slowly—too slowly—the child stood up. Turned around.
His face was normal. Completely, horrifyingly normal. Round cheeks. Big eyes. The face of any child you'd see playing in any park in any city in India.
But his smile.
His smile was all wrong.
Too wide. Too knowing. Too empty. Like someone had carved the shape of happiness onto something that had never understood the concept.
The boy just stared at him. Smiling. Silent.
"Who are you?" Rahul's voice cracked. He took a step forward.
The boy didn't answer. Just kept smiling. That terrible, meaningless smile.
"Who the fuck are you?!"
Rahul ran toward him.
The boy turned and disappeared behind a massive tree trunk—moving too fast, too smoothly, like he was made of something lighter than flesh.
Rahul reached the tree, lungs burning, and looked around it.
Nothing.
Just empty forest stretching forever in every direction.
His heart hammered against his ribs. His breath came in short, desperate gasps. The silence pressed down on him like water, drowning him slowly—
—and then he woke up.
Rahul's eyes snapped open.
Darkness. His rented room. The single bulb hanging from the ceiling, unlit. The cracked paint on the walls. The smell of damp concrete and old sweat that never quite left no matter how many times he aired the place out.
His chest heaved. Sweat soaked through his shirt, cold against his skin. His hands gripped the thin mattress beneath him like he was afraid of falling through it.
Just a dream.
Just a fucking dream.
But his heart didn't believe it. His heart was still running through that forest, chasing something that wore the shape of a child but wasn't one.
He sat up slowly, rubbing his face with both hands. His fingers came away wet.
The room was still dark. Dawn hadn't even started yet. The window showed nothing but black sky and the faint glow of a distant streetlight.
He couldn't go back to sleep. Wouldn't. Not after that.
Rahul stood, legs shaky, and stumbled toward the small sink in the corner. He splashed cold water on his face—once, twice, three times—until the dream's grip loosened enough for him to breathe normally again.
He stared at his reflection in the cracked mirror above the sink.
Tired eyes. Hollow cheeks. The face of someone who'd been running for a long time and still hadn't figured out what he was running from.
Get it together.
By the time dawn actually arrived, Rahul was already dressed and walking toward the tea shop at the end of his street.
The city was waking up slowly. Shop shutters rattling open. Auto drivers warming up their engines. The smell of frying samosas mixing with exhaust fumes and open sewage. Ahmedabad in the morning—loud, chaotic, alive in all the worst ways.
The tea shop was empty except for the old man behind the counter who never spoke unless absolutely necessary. Rahul ordered chai and picked up the folded newspaper sitting on the stained wooden table near the window.
He scanned the front page mechanically.
Political nonsense. Cricket scores. A factory fire in Surat. Nothing about Malhotra. Nothing new about the murder.
He flipped through the inside pages anyway, more out of habit than hope.
Still nothing.
He folded the paper and set it down, staring out the window as he sipped his tea. Too sweet. Always too sweet. But it was hot, and it was cheap, and it kept him awake when his mind wanted to drag him back into sleep.
Yesterday's pub meeting replayed in fragments behind his eyes.
Ravi. The rich guy. Expensive watch, designer clothes, the kind of polish that came from money and connections. But underneath all that shine—fear. Real, bone-deep fear. The kind you couldn't fake.
He'd given them names. Kamat. Tiwari. People connected to Malhotra's web of debt and lies.
Rahul didn't trust him. Couldn't. Men like Ravi—men who dressed too well and smiled too easily—always had angles. Always had something to protect.
But Soma had handled it smoothly. Soma always did. Older. Calmer. Better at reading people. Better at talking without revealing too much.
Rahul wasn't good at that. Never had been. He spoke when necessary, kept his words short, avoided conversations that required charm or performance.
He finished his tea and left exact change on the table.
Soma was waiting outside the office when Rahul arrived.
Not inside. Outside. Leaning against the wall near the entrance, smoking a beedi, eyes scanning the street like he was expecting someone.
Rahul approached slowly.
Soma saw him and straightened. "Rajesh."
Rahul nodded. Waited.
"That man Ravi," Soma said, crushing the beedi under his heel. "He called me. Wants to meet again. Same pub. Tonight."
Rahul's stomach tightened. "Now? Why?"
"He said he found something new." Soma's tone was careful. Neutral. "Didn't say what. Just said we should come."
"Tonight?"
"Yes."
Rahul stared at him, trying to read between the words. Soma was thinking something he wasn't saying. Planning. Calculating.
"You think it's real?" Rahul asked.
"I think Ravi is scared," Soma said quietly. "Scared men either run or talk. He's talking. That means he thinks we're safer than whoever else he's afraid of."
Rahul didn't like it. Too fast. Too convenient. But they didn't have many other leads.
"Fine," he muttered. "Tonight then."
Soma nodded once. "Stay sharp. Something about this feels off."
Night came too quickly.
The pub looked worse in the dark. More dangerous. The kind of place where bad things happened and nobody asked questions afterward.
Rahul and Soma pushed through the warped wooden door. The same stale smell hit them immediately—cigarettes, rum, sweat, desperation.
The bartender glanced at them once and went back to polishing glasses.
Ravi wasn't there yet.
They took seats near the back, away from the few other patrons scattered around the room. Old men nursing drinks. A couple arguing in low, vicious whispers. Nobody looked at them.
Soma ordered two whiskeys. They sat in silence, waiting.
Twenty minutes passed.
Then Ravi walked in.
He looked worse than yesterday. Still wearing expensive clothes—pressed shirt, gold watch glinting under the dim lights—but his hands shook slightly as he adjusted his collar. His eyes darted around the room, checking faces, checking exits.
He spotted them and walked over, movements too quick, too nervous.
"Sorry," he muttered, sliding into the seat across from them.
Bullshit. Soma's face said it clearly without speaking.
Ravi ordered a drink without waiting. When it arrived, he downed half of it immediately.
Soma leaned forward. "You called. What's about our plan?"
Ravi glanced around again. His knee bounced under the table. "Not here. Too open."
"Then why meet here?" Rahul asked quietly.
Ravi's eyes flicked to him, then away. "Because it's public. Crowded. Safer."
"Safer than what?" Soma pressed.
Ravi didn't answer. He finished his drink and stood abruptly. "Let me get a smoke. Washroom. You two stay here. I'll explain when I come back."
Before either of them could respond, he was already walking toward the narrow hallway at the back of the pub.
Soma watched him go, face unreadable.
Rahul felt something cold settle in his stomach.
The washroom was exactly what you'd expect. Cracked tiles. Flickering yellow light. A sink with rust stains and a dripping faucet that sounded too loud in the silence.
Ravi locked himself in, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it with shaking hands.
He inhaled deeply, holding the smoke in his lungs longer than necessary. His reflection stared back at him from the dirty mirror above the sink—pale, sweating, terrified.
Get it together. Just tell them what you know and get out. That's it. Simple.
He exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl upward toward the broken vent in the ceiling.
The door opened behind him.
Ravi's entire body went rigid.
A man stepped inside. Casual. Calm. He glanced at Ravi once, then moved toward the urinal like this was completely normal.
But it wasn't normal.
Something about the way he moved. The way he didn't look directly at Ravi but was clearly aware of every inch of space between them.
Ravi's instincts screamed.
He dropped the cigarette into the sink and started moving toward the door.
The man moved faster.
One second he was across the room. The next he was right there—hand clamping over Ravi's mouth, arm wrapping around his chest, yanking him backward.
Ravi tried to scream. The sound died against the man's palm.
A knife flashed.
Ravi's eyes went wide. He thrashed, panic overriding everything, expensive watch scraping against tile as he clawed uselessly at the arm crushing his ribs.
The man was stronger. So much stronger.
Ravi's gaze caught the reflection in the mirror—and he saw the face.
Recognition hit like ice water.
"Y—you…" His voice came out muffled, broken. "You killed Malhotra…"
The man smiled.
Not angry. Not triumphant. Just… empty. A smile that meant nothing. Felt nothing.
The knife moved.
One clean motion across Ravi's throat.
Deep. Brutal. Final.
Blood erupted—hot, thick, spraying across the sink, the mirror, the cracked tiles.
Ravi's hands flew to his neck, trying desperately to hold the wound closed, but blood poured through his fingers in pulsing streams. His legs gave out. He collapsed against the sink, sliding down slowly, leaving a red smear across the porcelain.
His mouth opened. Tried to form words.
Only blood came out.
His expensive watch caught the light one last time as his arm dropped limply to his side.
The cigarette he'd dropped earlier floated in the bloody water pooling in the sink.
Then his eyes stopped moving.
"He's taking forever," Soma muttered.
Rahul had been thinking the same thing. Too long. Way too long for a cigarette.
They stood simultaneously.
No discussion. Just movement.
The hallway leading to the washroom was narrow, dark, lit by a single buzzing fluorescent tube that flickered every few seconds.
Rahul's heart pounded harder with each step.
The washroom door was slightly open. Just a crack. Enough to see the yellow light spilling out.
Soma reached it first. Pushed it wider.
They both froze.
Ravi lay crumpled on the floor, throat opened wide, blood pooled around him in a dark, spreading lake. His eyes stared at nothing. His mouth hung open in a silent scream that never came.
And standing over him, knife still dripping in his hand—
The killer.
He turned slowly. No rush. No panic. No surprise.
Just calm, cold acknowledgment.
His eyes met theirs.
And for one terrible, frozen moment, nobody moved.