The sky over Mumbai wasn't grey; it was the color of a bruised soul.
Heavy, swollen clouds hung low over the cityscape, threatening to collapse under their own weight.
Outside the tall, arched windows of St. Jude's College of Architecture, the monsoon was a relentless beast.
It clawed at the glass, drumming a rhythmic, frantic beat that drowned out the professor's drone.
Inside, the air-conditioning was cranked to a bone-chilling eighteen degrees.
It was a sharp, clinical contrast to the suffocating humidity of the streets outside.
I sat in the third row, my fingers curled tightly around a cheap, plastic ballpoint pen.
The ink had leaked slightly, staining my index finger a permanent, mocking blue.
I didn't mind. The stain felt more real than the lecture on Gothic arches.
I focused on my sketchbook, my only sanctuary in this glass-and-steel prison.
The paper was slightly warped from the dampness in the air, but it held my secrets well.
I was sketching a cage.
Intricate, silver bars intertwined with thorns that looked like they were bleeding.
It wasn't just a drawing; it was a map of the room I was currently sitting in.
Thud.
The sound was deliberate. Heavy. Expensive.
A leather handbag, embossed with a golden logo that cost more than my father's monthly pension, landed on my desk.
It didn't just land; it claimed the territory.
"Move Avni. Myra wants this view of the courtyard today."
The voice belonged to Sia- the loyal, sharp-tongued lieutenant of the campus queen.
I didn't look up immediately. I couldn't.
If I looked up, they would see the flash of resentment in my eyes, and resentment always carried a price.
I kept my gaze fixed on my bleeding thorns.
"The seats aren't assigned, Sia," I whispered, my voice sounding thin and brittle.
A sharp, melodic laugh cut through the quiet murmur of the classroom.
It was Myra.
She stood behind Sia, her hair a perfect, dark silk waterfall that never frizzled in the rain.
She smelled of expensive jasmine and the kind of confidence that only comes with a seven-figure bank balance.
"Did the ghost speak?" Myra asked, her voice dripping with mock wonder.
She leaned down, her face inches from mine.
I could see the perfection of her skin, the way her eyeliner was winged with lethal precision.
"Avni, darling. Look at yourself."
She reached out, her manicured nail- painted a deep, blood red- flicking the frayed collar of my oversized hoodie.
"You're practically transparent. Why do you even bother showing up?"
The girls around her giggled, a synchronized sound that felt like sandpaper against my nerves.
"Maybe she's hoping Ishaan will notice her today," another girl chimed in from the row behind.
The mention of his name sent a cold shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with the AC.
Ishaan Malhotra.
The son of the man who owned half the skyline we were studying.
He was currently sitting five rows down, his broad back a steady anchor in the chaotic room.
He didn't turn around. He never did.
To him, I wasn't even a ghost; I was part of the furniture.
"Ishaan?" Myra snickered, her eyes flashing with a cruel light. "He dosen't even see the sidewalk he walks on, let alone the dirt beneath it."
She pushed my sketchbook off the desk.
It hit the floor with a dull slap, sliding across the polished tiles.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.
I stood up, my chair screeching against the floor, drawing the brief, annoyed gaze of the professor.
"I'm moving," I muttered, my face burning with a heat that felt like it would melt my skin.
I knelt to pick up my book, my fingers grazing the cold floor.
As I reached for it, a designer sneaker- white, pristine, and worth a fortune- stepped firmly onto the open page.
Right over my drawing of the cage.
Myra didn't move her foot. She just looked at me and smiled.
"Oops. I didn't see it there. It's so...small. Just like you."
I retreated to the very back of the hall, the 'graveyard' where the broken equipment was stored.
I sat on a stool with a wobbling leg, my chest heaving.
The humiliation was a familiar weight, a stone I carried in my pocket every day.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone.
The screen was a spiderweb of cracks, the light flickering erratically.
Suddenly, the screen went black.
Then, a single line of white text appeared, cutting through the darkness.
[Unknown]: Does it hurt?
My breath hitched. I looked around the room, paranoid.
Everyone was looking at the front. Myra was preening. Ishaan was taking notes.
My thumb trembled as I typed back.
[Me]: Who is this?
The reply came before I could even blink.
[Unknown]: Someone who hates the way she looks at you.
I stared at the screen, the words blurring as my eyes filled with hot, frustrated tears.
[Unknown]: She stepped on your heart, Avni. Do you want me to step on hers?
The intensity of the message felt like a physical touch.
It was dark. It was wrong.
But for the first time in three years, I felt like I wasn't invisible.
I looked down at my ruined sketchbook, at the muddy footprint covering my art.
My fingers acted on their own, fueled by a sudden, sharp spike of adrenaline.
[Me]: Who are you?
The phone vibrated with a long, steady pulse.
[Unknown]: I am the one who watches over you while you sleep.
[Unknown]: I am she shadow that follows her when she leaves the light.
[Unknown]: I am yours, Avni. Even if you don't know it yet.
I looked toward the back exit of the lecture hall.
The heavy steel doors were slightly ajar.
For a split second, I thought I saw a figure standing in the dim corridor.
A tall, lean silhouette dressed in black, leaning against the grey concrete wall.
He was holding a phone, the faint blue light illuminating the sharp line of a jaw.
The figure didn't move. He just watched.
A bolt of lightning fractured the sky outside, turning the world white for a fraction of a second.
When the light faded and the thunder shook the building, the corridor was empty.
Only the sound of the rain remained.
And the glowing text on my screen.
[Unknown]: Don't cry, Avni. The rain will wash away the footprints soon.
[Unknown]: And I will wash away the people who made them.
My heart wasn't just hammering now. It was screaming.
A terrifying mix of horror and a dark, sick sense of relief washed over me.
I looked at Myra, who was laughing at something on her own phone.
She had no idea.
She had no idea that the predator had finally entered the room.
And he wasn't looking at the throne.
He was looking at the girl in the shadows.
***
To be continued...