The world didn't move.
Rahul stood frozen in the doorway of the washroom, his eyes locked on the scene before him—Ravi's body crumpled against the blood-streaked tiles, throat opened wide, dark red pooling beneath him.
The blood dripped steadily. Drip. Drip. Drip. Each drop hit the tile with a soft sound that seemed impossibly loud in the silence.
Standing over the corpse, knife still in his hand, was the killer.
He turned slowly toward them.
Rahul's breath caught in his throat. His chest felt tight, compressed. His fingers trembled against the doorframe. The metallic smell of blood hit his nose—thick, nauseating.
This isn't real. This can't be real.
Soma stood beside him, body rigid. His hand moved slightly toward his waist—instinct, not action. His eyes never left the killer, already calculating, already assessing.
The killer's face shifted.
That smile.
It stretched across his features—too wide, too empty, completely wrong. Not happiness. Not cruelty. Nothing. A smile carved into a face that didn't understand what smiling meant.
Rahul felt his stomach twist. His vision blurred at the edges. The nightmare from this morning flooded back—that child's smile in the forest, wrong in exactly the same way.
The killer lifted the knife slowly. Blood dripped from the blade. First, he pointed it at Soma. Then he shifted, angling toward Rahul.
Claiming them.
Soma's voice cut through the silence. Low. Steady.
"Who are you?"
The killer didn't answer . He tilted his head slightly, studying them.
Soma's jaw tightened. His body shifted slightly, angling in front of Rahul without making it obvious.
The killer took a step forward.
His shoe squelched softly in Ravi's blood.
Rahul's mind went blank. Completely blank. His ears filled with a high-pitched ringing, drowning out everything except his own heartbeat pounding in his skull. His legs felt heavy, useless.
Move. Move. MOVE.
He couldn't.
The killer's weight shifted. His shoulders dropped. His knees bent slightly.
Time stretched. Rahul's vision sharpened—he saw the killer's foot pivot, saw the muscles in his legs tense, saw the exact moment before—
The killer sprinted.
Too fast. Too smooth. The knife came up in a clean arc toward Rahul's throat.
Rahul saw it. Every detail. The angle of the blade. The trajectory. The space between them collapsing.
But his body wouldn't move.
Soma's body did.
He slammed into the killer from the side, shoulder connecting hard. The knife veered off course, slicing across Soma's upper arm instead. Blood bloomed through his shirt instantly.
Soma grunted, teeth gritted, and used his momentum to shove the killer backward.
The killer's feet slid on the wet tile but he caught himself immediately, weight redistributing with practiced ease.
Soma grabbed Rahul by the front of his shirt and yanked hard.
"Move!"
Rahul's legs obeyed.
They burst out of the washroom, stumbling into the narrow hallway. Soma didn't let go, dragging Rahul forward. Blood dripped from his arm, leaving dark drops on the floor.
Behind them, the killer stepped into the hallway.
Calm. Unhurried. His breathing was silent—no gasping, no exertion. Just steady, controlled movement.
He slid the knife into his hoodie pocket, hiding it. His smile was gone. His eyes were cold, focused.
They burst into the main pub area.
An old man at the bar glanced up, glass halfway to his lips. His eyes widened.
A woman near the back booth leaned forward, squinting. "Is that—"
The couple arguing in the corner stopped mid-sentence, both turning.
"What the hell is going on?" someone muttered.
A chair scraped loudly. Glass clinked. Conversations died one by one as heads turned.
Soma didn't stop. Just kept moving toward the door, pulling Rahul with him.
The killer stepped into the pub.
The bartender's hand froze on a bottle. The old man set his glass down slowly.
No one tried to stop him. He walked past them like they were furniture, gaze locked on Rahul and Soma.
"Someone call—" a voice started, but didn't finish.
They hit the door hard, wood groaning. Night air slapped Rahul's face as they stumbled outside.
The street was quiet—fewer lights, fewer people. Empty pavement stretching into darkness.
Soma glanced back. Saw the killer emerge from the pub, stepping into the street with that same unnatural calm.
"Run!"
They ran.
Rahul's lungs burned almost immediately. Each breath felt like dragging glass through his throat. His shoes—cheap, worn—slipped on loose gravel, nearly sending him sprawling. He caught himself, kept moving.
Behind them, footsteps.
Steady. Rhythmic. Not frantic. The sound of someone who wasn't desperate, just patient. Efficient.
Rahul glanced over his shoulder.
The killer was gaining. His body leaned forward slightly, legs stretching in long, loping strides. His weight shifted smoothly with each step—no wasted movement, no excess effort. Like a machine designed for exactly this.
And he was smiling again.
He's enjoying this.
"Left!"
Soma grabbed Rahul's arm and yanked him sideways into a narrow galli—an alleyway squeezed between buildings. Garbage bins. Wooden crates. Stray dogs barking somewhere in the darkness.
A single flickering bulb cast weak yellow light. Their shadows stretched long and distorted.
Soma's breathing was harsh now, ragged. Blood still dripped from his arm, soaking through his sleeve.
Rahul's heart hammered against his ribs. His legs felt weak, unsteady.
They ran deeper.
Behind them, footsteps. Slow. Deliberate.
The killer entered the alley.
He walked. Hands in pockets. Head tilted slightly. His breathing was still silent—no heavy gasps, no signs of exertion.
His voice echoed off the walls.
"Tonight is your end , reporters."
Reporters.
Rahul stumbled, shoe catching on broken pavement. Soma caught him, steadied him.
He knows. He knows what we've been doing.
Soma pulled Rahul forward, moving faster now, desperation creeping into his movements.
They ran.
And then—
Dead end.
A tall metal gate blocked the far end, locked with a chain and padlock. No way through. Brick walls on either side.
Trapped.
The killer's footsteps grew louder.
Soma turned, positioning himself between Rahul and the approaching figure. His injured arm hung at his side, blood dripping onto the pavement. His chest heaved.
The killer stepped into view.
He pulled out the knife again. The blade gleamed in the weak light.
Soma's hands curled into fists. His knuckles were white. "Stay behind me," he muttered, voice tight.
The killer moved.
Fast. Closing distance in two strides. Blade arcing toward Soma's chest.
Soma dodged—his body twisting awkwardly, feet scraping against pavement. The knife sliced through empty air where his ribs had been.
He countered with a punch, putting his weight behind it.
The killer swayed backward, letting the blow miss by inches. Then he twisted, bringing the blade up in a sharp slash.
Soma jerked back but not fast enough. The knife caught his forearm, cutting shallow but painful. He grunted, teeth clenched.
He grabbed for the killer's wrist with both hands, trying to trap the knife.
The killer was stronger. He yanked free, muscles flexing, and drove his knee into Soma's stomach.
Soma's breath exploded out. He doubled over, gasping.
The killer raised the blade for a finishing strike.
Something inside Rahul snapped.
The fear compressed. Hardened.
Sound faded first. The distant barking. Soma's labored breathing. The killer's footsteps. All of it receded into a distant hum.
Then everything slowed.
Not stopped. Just... stretched.
The killer's arm rising. Muscles tensing. Blade catching the weak light. Weight shifting forward onto his front foot.
Rahul's own breathing became loud in his ears. His heartbeat slowed to a deep, resonant thud.
Details sharpened. The angle of the killer's wrist. The exact trajectory of the blade. The micro-adjustment in his stance.
A voice inside Rahul's head—cold, calm—whispered:
Move now. Wrist. Grab the wrist.
His body obeyed before his conscious mind registered the command.
He lunged forward. His hand shot out. Fingers wrapped around the killer's wrist mid-swing.
The blade stopped.
The killer's eyes widened fractionally. The first real emotion Rahul had seen.
Soma surged upward despite the pain, fist connecting with the killer's ribs. Hard. Solid.
The killer staggered backward, balance breaking. He twisted, trying to recover.
His knife clattered to the ground, skittering across pavement.
For one moment, everything hung suspended.
Then the killer's hand moved toward his pocket again—
He lunged at Rahul, going for his stomach with something else.
Rahul tried to dodge—
Soma threw his hand between them.
The blade punched straight through his palm. Metal erupting from the back of his hand with a wet, tearing sound.
Soma screamed.
Raw. Guttural. The sound tore through the alley.
But even with the knife embedded through his hand, he twisted his body and drove his foot into the killer's ribs.
The kick connected. The killer stumbled backward, his weight shifting wrong. His foot caught on an overturned crate.
He fell. Hit the ground hard.
Soma dropped to one knee, cradling his impaled hand. Blood poured between his fingers, dripping onto the pavement in thick streams.
Rahul's vision tunneled. His breath came in sharp gasps.
Hit him. Hit him.
His eyes scanned the alley. There—a wooden stick near a trash bin. Part of an old bat, splintered at one end.
Rahul picked it up. The wood felt solid. Real.
The killer was already pushing himself up.
Rahul walked forward.
The killer's head turned. His eyes met Rahul's—
Rahul swung.
The bat connected with the side of the killer's skull. A sickening crack echoed off the walls.
The killer's head snapped sideways. His body collapsed back onto the pavement, limbs sprawling.
Rahul raised the bat again. His hands shook violently. His breath was ragged, uncontrolled.
"You idiot... stop."
Soma's voice. Weak. Strained.
Soma grabbed Rahul's arm with his good hand, fingers digging in hard.
"Move. We need to go. Now."
Rahul's entire body trembled. The bat slipped from his fingers, clattering to the ground.
The killer lay still. Eyes closed. Blood trickling from his temple.
Somewhere distant, a siren wailed. Faint but growing.
Soma pulled himself to his feet, grimacing, still cradling his ruined hand. "Rahul. Move."
Rahul nodded numbly.
They stumbled toward the alley entrance, Soma leaning heavily on Rahul's shoulder. Each step was labored, painful.
Rahul glanced back once.
Just once.
The killer's body lay motionless in the flickering light.
But then—
His fingers twitched.
Just barely. Just enough.
Rahul's breath caught in his throat.
Soma yanked him forward hard. "Don't look back."
They disappeared into the darkness.
Behind them, in the alley, the killer's hand slowly curled into a fist.