{Fragments of Memories}
"Alex!…."
"Come here!"
"Alex!…."
"Come here!"
a woman's voice reverbered.
.
.
.
.
"Come here!"
"My child!"
a man's voice echoed through the fragments of memory.
{4 June 2026 – Midnight}
A man was trembling. He was sitting on his bed, thinking in fear. He was an American man with light maroon hair and blue eyes. He called himself Druke Cruiser.
Druke (trembling): I don't know what to do, what to say. This will be the first time in my life that I'll be caught.
(shouting reflexively) No! I don't want this to happen. I don't want it to happen.
(his voice softened under pressure) I don't want to die! What should I do? What should I do now?
Druke was feeling trapped.
On the other side, Kartik reached the East Mumbai border by cab. From there, he traveled on foot for four kilometers to reach 7th Street. From the beginning, the street looked nearly a kilometer long, with huge farmlands on both sides. He walked through the silent road, looking here and there to make sure no one was watching or following him.
In the middle of that silent street, Kartik placed the suitcase he was carrying on the ground. He took out a black hoodie, a black mask, elastic gloves, black goggles, and black boots. He wore them all and hid the suitcase in the bushes. From there, he continued walking toward the cottage in the wooded forest.
It was around 2 a.m. when Kartik reached the red-colored wooden cottage. He took out the note from his pocket that Teer had given him.
Kartik was about to stick the note on the door, but at the same moment, Druke opened it from inside.
Kartik had no choice but to place the note in front of Druke and run away.
Druke (horrified): The woman! No… this time it's a man. The same getup and the same procedure—computerized printed notes for communication.
Druke bent down to pick up the note. As he uncrumpled it, rapid thoughts flooded his mind.
Druke (thinking): I never expected that she would help me. From childhood, I've always been helpless. I knew this time too, I would be nothing more than a hammer.
A stone was placed between the folds of the note. It read:
"Hey! Identityless!"
Druke: What? But she never called me that. It's true about me, but…
The note had many arrows drawn on it. At first, Druke didn't understand its intent—it was different from all the printed notes sent by the unknown woman he described.
But soon, he realized the writer wanted him to follow the directions shown by the arrows.
He followed them. Leaving his cottage, moving through the wooden forest, he finally reached 7th Street.
The last arrow on the note pointed along the way of 7th Street. As Druke walked forward, he had no clue what to do, since there was nothing more written on the note. He kept searching for any sign or clue along the street. Both sides of the road were covered with farmlands, the greenery stretching as far as his sight could reach.
After a dozen steps, he finally saw a tree on his left. Beneath the tree lay several small stones scattered on the ground. Those stones were identical to the one placed between the folds of the crumpled note.
Analyzing the idea that formed in his mind, Druke began searching under the stones. Beneath one of them, he found another note. It read:
"Druke! It's Holy Dictator."
Reading just that much made Druke's eyes widen, his heart pounding faster.
Druke (thinking): What? Another mastermind? In this country—how complex they are.
The note further read:
"You aren't alone! Talk to me. I will protect you.
9904-7762."
Druke (realizing): Huh…! That's—that number! It's familiar. The last four digits are the same as the last four digits of the steamer, and the first four digits…
If I'm not wrong, it's the number on the fake number plate of my car. Maybe near it, I'll get the third note for the next step.
Druke moved toward the cottage where his car was parked. While returning, countless thoughts circulated through his mind.
Druke (thinking): Holy Dictator?! Very similar to that woman I worked for recently in India. But this note is far more complex—only the recipient can understand it. No direct orders are written.
Druke reached his cottage and went to the back where his car was parked. He began checking every part of the vehicle. Under the car's undercarriage, a note was taped tightly. He pulled it off and opened it. It read:
"Dark Web"
"Holy Dictator / plays.core"
Druke understood that the writer wanted him to use the Core browser to access the dark web and open this site. He hurried toward a nearby cyber café.
Druke (panting, thinking): It's already 4:00 a.m. I have to get there fast. The only way I can save my identity is hope. I have nobody in this country other than that woman—but I don't know how to contact her. I don't want to die. Survival is my second rule.
At 5:30 a.m., Druke reached a local cyber café. It looked very old and poorly furnished, but the banner claimed that the café provided personal compartment-type rooms for private work.
Druke entered. The receptionist was an old man—the owner himself. The cyber café was run by him and his son. The old man asked for Druke's passport, took a photo of it, and then asked him to sign the register.
After completing all the procedures, Druke was allotted a private space. He closed the gate and carefully checked for any cameras inside. He had only one hour of access before his Wi-Fi session would end.
Druke (body shivering, thinking): I'm getting a very strange feeling. I've worked for many masterminds in America, but here in India, the working pattern is different—creativity is used alongside anonymity. I liked that woman's procedure, but this guy is far more anonymous than anyone I've seen in my entire life…
[Chapter 12: Anonymous Help] Ends…
[Chapter 13] Coming Soon.