The clinic smelled like disinfectant and dying hope.
Fluorescent tubes hummed overhead, casting everything in sickly white light that made the peeling paint look worse than it was. The reception area was barely ten feet across—crammed with a rusted metal desk, three plastic chairs with cracked seats, and a water cooler that hadn't worked in months.
A nurse rushed past, rubber shoes squeaking on stained linoleum. She carried a steel tray loaded with syringes, gauze, and bottles of something brown that sloshed as she moved.
Behind a curtain somewhere deeper in the building, a doctor's voice cut through the humid air: "He's losing too much blood! Where's that saline? Move!"
Another voice, younger, panicked: "The vein collapsed—I can't get the line in—"
"Then find another vein!"
Metal instruments clattered against a tray. Someone swore quietly.
Rahul sat alone on a long metal bench in the corridor.
His shirt was soaked through. Dark red, almost black in places where Soma's blood had dried into the fabric. It stuck to his skin, cold and stiff. The metallic smell clung to his nostrils no matter how many times he tried breathing through his mouth.
He stared at the stains.
They spread across his chest in uneven patterns—handprints where he'd grabbed Soma's arm, smears where Soma had collapsed against him in the alley, drops that had fallen when they'd stumbled through the street looking for help.
His hands rested on his knees. Perfectly still. But inside, everything was screaming.
Again.
The word repeated in his skull like a drumbeat.
Again. Someone saved me. Again I did nothing.
His jaw tightened. His fingernails dug into his palms until the pain became real, present, something he could focus on instead of the shame burning through his chest.
Useless.
The word tasted like bile.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor. He didn't look up.
The nurse from earlier rushed past again, this time carrying an IV bag. She glanced at him once—took in the blood-soaked shirt, the hollow stare—and kept moving.
Nobody asked if he was okay.
Nobody asked why he was covered in someone else's blood.
This kind of clinic didn't ask those questions.
A scooter's engine roared outside, far too loud for midnight.
Brakes screeched. The engine cut off abruptly.
Heavy footsteps pounded up the cracked concrete steps leading to the entrance.
The door slammed open.
Devaraj Sen stormed inside, eyes scanning the reception area with sharp, aggressive purpose. His shirt was half-tucked, hair disheveled like he'd been sleeping when Rahul called. But his face was wide awake—half-worried, half-furious.
His gaze locked onto Rahul.
He crossed the space in three strides and dropped onto the bench beside him, close enough that their shoulders almost touched.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Devaraj stared at the blood soaking Rahul's shirt. His jaw worked silently. Then, quietly, almost gently: "Rajesh... how is Soma?"
Rahul opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
Before he could force words through the tightness in his throat, a door at the end of the corridor opened. A doctor stepped out—young, maybe thirty, with tired eyes and surgical gloves stained red.
He pulled off the gloves as he approached, balling them up and tossing them into a nearby bin.
"The patient lost a lot of blood," the doctor said flatly, addressing both of them without preamble. "The cut went clean through his palm—severed tendons, possible nerve damage. But he's out of immediate danger. We've stabilized him."
Rahul's lungs finally remembered how to work. He exhaled—long, shaky, uncontrolled.
Devaraj let out his own breath beside him, slower, more controlled. His hands unclenched from where they'd been gripping his knees.
The doctor studied them both. His eyes lingered on Rahul's shirt. "What caused such a deep puncture wound?"
Rahul's brain snapped into focus instantly. Too fast. Almost automatic.
"Bike accident," he said. His voice came out steady. Practiced. "He fell and his hand went through a metal sheet. Rusted construction materials."
The doctor's expression didn't change, but something shifted in his eyes. Suspicion. Doubt.
"A metal sheet," he repeated slowly.
"Yes."
The doctor held his gaze for three long seconds. Then he glanced at Devaraj, who said nothing, face carefully blank.
Finally, the doctor nodded once. "He needs to stay admitted overnight. We'll monitor for infection. You can see him in the morning."
He turned and walked back down the corridor, disappearing through the same door he'd emerged from.
The moment he was gone, Devaraj stood abruptly and moved to the window overlooking the patient ward. Through the grimy glass, Soma's unconscious body was visible on a narrow bed—chest rising and falling slowly, left hand wrapped in thick bandages elevated on a pillow.
Devaraj stared at him for a long time.
Then, without turning around: "Tell me what really happened."
Rahul's throat closed up again.
"Now, Rahul."
The words came out slow. Halting. Like dragging stones uphill.
He explained everything. The pub. Ravi's body in the washroom. The killer standing over him. The chase through the alley. Soma stepping between Rahul and the blade—twice. The knife punching through Soma's palm when he should have let it hit Rahul instead.
Devaraj didn't interrupt. Didn't move. Just kept staring through that window at Soma's still form.
When Rahul finished, silence filled the corridor like water rising.
Finally, Devaraj spoke. His voice was low. Dangerous.
"You look like hell."
Rahul blinked.
"Go to your room." Devaraj turned to face him. His eyes were hard, but not angry—at least not at Rahul. "We'll talk tomorrow."
"I'll stay—"
"Idiot." Devaraj cut him off sharply. "You're drenched in blood. You think sitting here covered in his blood helps anyone? Go. Clean yourself. Sleep if you can."
Rahul started to protest again.
Devaraj yanked off his jacket—thick cotton, worn but clean—and threw it at Rahul's chest. "Wear this. Cover that shirt before someone calls the police. Go."
Rahul caught the jacket automatically. His hands felt numb.
Deep inside, beneath the numbness, something cold and heavy settled in his stomach.
Useless.
He stood slowly. Put on the jacket. Zipped it up.
Devaraj had already turned back to the window, arms crossed, watching Soma breathe.
Rahul walked toward the exit. Each step felt heavier than the last.
He didn't look back.
Across the city, at the Pub, police tape stretched across the entrance.
Two constables stood outside, bored and smoking, occasionally shooing away curious onlookers.
Inside, Inspector Mehta crouched beside Ravi's body.
The washroom looked like an abattoir. Blood everywhere—walls, sink, floor, pooled thick around the corpse. The smell was overwhelming: copper, waste, death.
Mehta studied the wound. Deep. Clean. Professional.
He'd seen this before.
"Same as Malhotra," he muttered to himself. "Throat slit. Left to right. Single stroke."
A younger officer stood near the door, looking green. "Sir, should we—"
"Get statements from everyone in the pub," Mehta said without looking up. "Everyone."
Twenty minutes later, Mehta stood in the main pub area, notebook open, facing a small group of patrons who'd been present during the incident.
An old man with a grey beard shifted uncomfortably. A woman in a faded sari clutched her purse. The bartender leaned against the counter, arms crossed defensively.
"What did you see?" Mehta asked flatly.
The old man spoke first, voice shaky. "Three men. They came running from the back. From the washroom area. Very fast. "
"Describe them."
The old man hesitated. "I... I didn't see clearly. It happened so fast."
Mehta turned to the woman. "You?"
She shook her head quickly. "No, no. I was in the corner. I didn't notice anything until people started shouting."
The bartender shrugged. "I saw them leave. But I didn't get a good look. Dark clothes, maybe. That's all."
Mehta's jaw tightened. "Three men. Running. And nobody saw their faces?"
Silence.
"Convenient," Mehta said coldly. He snapped his notebook shut. "If any of you suddenly remember something useful, you know where to find me."
He walked out, leaving the constables to finish processing the scene.
Outside, he lit a cigarette and stared at the dark street.
Three men. One victim. Same killing as Malhotra.
This wasn't random.
Rahul pushed open the door to his room and stepped inside.
The single bulb overhead buzzed faintly.
He closed the door behind him and stood there for a long moment, just breathing.
Then he dropped Devaraj's jacket onto the floor.
Slowly, mechanically, he pulled off his blood-soaked shirt.
It peeled away from his skin with a wet sound. He dropped it beside the jacket and stared down at it.
Dark. Stiff. Ruined.
Soma's blood.
His hands started trembling.
He sat on the edge of his narrow bed, still staring at the shirt.
Useless. Always useless.
The thought crawled through his brain like rot.
People save me. I never save anyone.
His fingers curled into fists. The trembling spread up his arms, into his shoulders, his chest.
He stood abruptly and stumbled toward the small sink in the corner. Twisted the tap. Cold water sputtered out.
He splashed his face once. Twice. Again and again until his skin burned and water dripped from his chin onto the floor.
When he finally looked up, the cracked mirror above the sink showed him his own reflection.
Hollow eyes. Wet hair plastered to his forehead. Pale skin.
He looked like a corpse.
Weak. Weak. Weak.
The word echoed in his skull, louder each time.
Memories crashed through him in fragments—Ananya's voice, cold and final. Niraj's mocking laughter. Every failure, every moment he'd frozen when he should have acted, every time someone else had paid the price for his cowardice.
"Stop," he whispered.
The reflection stared back, accusing.
"Stop."
His hand moved before he realized what he was doing. Palm flat. He slapped his own cheek—hard enough that the sound cracked through the small room.
The sting helped. Grounded him.
But only for a second.
The room tilted. The walls breathed in and out like lungs. The floor shifted under his feet.
His legs gave out.
He collapsed onto the bed, vision swimming, darkness rushing in from the edges.
The last thing he heard before unconsciousness took him was his own breathing—ragged, desperate, drowning.
He woke in a forest.
No transition. No sense of falling asleep. One moment darkness, the next moment—trees.
Tall. Ancient. Stretching endlessly upward until their tops disappeared into blackness. The ground was covered in dead leaves that crunched too loudly under his feet when he tried to move.
Silence everywhere.
Oppressive. Unnatural.
Then—laughter.
A child's laughter.
High-pitched. Wrong.
Rahul's chest tightened. He turned slowly, scanning the shadows between the trees.
There.
A small boy. Maybe seven years old. Standing behind a massive tree trunk, half-hidden, watching him.
The same boy from last night's nightmare.
Round face. Big eyes. That terrible, empty smile.
Rahul tried to speak. His voice came out hoarse: "Who are you?"
The boy didn't answer. Just kept smiling.
"Who the hell are you?!"
The forest shifted.
The trees didn't move—they changed. Bark turned black. Leaves withered and fell in sudden cascades. The air grew hot, suffocating.
Flames erupted from nowhere.
Fire raced up tree trunks, consuming everything in seconds. The heat slammed into Rahul's face, but he wasn't burning. He stood in the middle of an inferno, completely untouched.
The boy's voice echoed from everywhere at once—above, below, inside Rahul's own skull:
"In this world, you have no friends."
The words weren't spoken. They were placed directly into his consciousness.
"You are your only friend. You are your only enemy."
The flames roared higher. The trees collapsed inward, crashing down in slow motion.
"The voice inside you... the weakness you fear... it is you."
Rahul screamed: "WHO ARE YOU?!"
The boy stepped forward through the fire, unharmed, still smiling.
Then he disappeared.
Not fading. Not walking away. Just gone, like he'd been erased.
The burning forest collapsed into darkness.
Rahul fell—
He jolted awake.
Gasping. Sweating. Heart hammering against his ribs like it was trying to break free.
His room. Morning light leaked through the gap in the curtain, pale and grey.
He sat up slowly, trembling hands gripping the edge of the mattress.
"What..." His voice cracked. "What was that?"
A memory? A dream?
He didn't know.
He got dressed slowly, movements mechanical. His hands still shook. He ignored them.
When he finally left his room and stepped outside, the city was already awake—the grinding chaos of another day.
He walked toward the office, mind still half-trapped in that burning forest.
In a dark alley across the city, the killer stirred.
His eyes opened slowly. Pain exploded through his skull—sharp, white-hot, radiating from where the bat had connected.
He lay still for a moment, breathing carefully, assessing damage.
Concussion. Definitely. Possible fracture.
Didn't matter.
He sat up slowly, ignoring the way his vision swam. His hand touched the dried blood caked in his hair.
A smile spread across his face.
Not anger. Not frustration.
Satisfaction.
"This time they got away," he whispered.
Then he started laughing.
Quiet at first. Then louder. The sound echoed off the alley walls, empty and wrong.
He stood, swaying slightly, and started walking.
The game wasn't over.