It was 8 a.m. when Rishi suddenly regained consciousness. He opened his eyes and looked around. He was locked in a room that resembled a five-star hotel suite. Everything he could need was there—a king-size bed, a couch, and a beautifully designed interior. The wall in front of him was made of glass, though nothing could be seen through it. The room had elegant curtains and a large balcony.
Rishi sat up with a jolt. It took him a few moments to realize where he was. Then it hit him—last night, he had entered that building and attacked a shadowy figure with a knife. Had that figure kidnapped him?
He rushed to the door, but it was locked from the outside. He then ran to the balcony. As soon as he stepped out, he was stunned. He was on the top floor of a three-story farmhouse. The balcony was enclosed from all sides, and the most terrifying part—the boundary wall of the farmhouse was nearly twenty feet high and secured with barbed wire. Even more disturbing, the location seemed far from the city, possibly near a forest.
Rishi's legs trembled. He felt dizzy and held his head.
"Do you like the place?" a voice echoed in his ears. He turned around instantly.
Standing there was the Writer, dressed in a black full-sleeve T-shirt with an unusually deep neckline and matching black pajamas. His face was covered with a black mask, and his curly hair still fell over his eyelids, ears, and neck. Rishi just stared at him, frozen in a mix of fear and shock, as if he were looking at a vampire.
"It's good that you're afraid of me. That fear in your eyes is exactly what I want to see, Rishi Thakur. Anyway, eat something—you've been starving since yesterday afternoon. I don't want you to die," the Writer said in a deep voice that sent chills down Rishi's spine.
Rishi clenched his teeth and lunged forward, grabbing the Writer's shirt by the neckline.
"How dare you, Writer? Do you think locking me up like this will hide your secrets?" Rishi shouted.
The Writer looked into Rishi's eyes. There was a smile in them. Rishi grew angrier and gripped his arm tightly. The Writer's eyes closed for a moment, and Rishi realized the wound was fresh. He tightened his grip, and blood began to seep from the Writer's arm, dripping onto Rishi's fingers. But the Writer didn't flinch.
Rishi looked at him. The Writer opened his eyes and stared back. Rishi's hand loosened on its own, and he stepped back. The Writer's eyes still held a smile, though a hint of pain had begun to show. Rishi was now truly afraid of him.
"You think you can pinch me and hurt me like that? That's your misunderstanding, reporter. I know you're not from any media house—you're an independent journalist. But I'm an independent writer too. Why should I give you the right to know my secrets? Fine, let's say I tell you everything—what will you even gain by publishing it?"
"Where is Ved?"
"Ah, why don't you two friends worry about yourselves for once? Anyway, he's safe for now. But today, someone's going to need healing cream."
"Don't tell me Kabir Sinha has kidnapped him." The Writer's eyes smiled.
"So it's true—Kabir Sinha and you are childhood friends. My information wasn't wrong."
"The one who gave you that information is our junior. He works for us from the media side." Rishi was stunned.
"You mean… the Writer I've been searching for all this time—is that you?"
"What do you think?"
"Any reason for kidnapping me like this?"
"I don't like people interfering in my personal life. Which is exactly what you were doing."
"Why do you want to hide your identity? Your books are bestsellers. People want to know you. Everyone's a fan of your writing. Then why stay anonymous?" He stood silent. Rishi kept staring at him.
"You'll be here for two months. You can take the interview anytime. But I think you should eat first."
"You think you can keep me kidnapped here and no one will come looking?"
"Who's going to look for you? Your father locked up in jail or your mother hiding somewhere?" the Writer said, and Rishi's eyes flared with rage and pain. He grabbed a flower vase from the side and charged at the Writer. The Writer stood still. Rishi smashed the vase against the same arm that was still bleeding. The blood gushed out, but the Writer didn't flinch—he was like stone.
"How dare you talk about my parents?" Rishi screamed and punched the Writer's wounded arm. The Writer's eyes closed for a moment. Rishi kept punching him, but his anger was mixed with pain more than fury.
"Why? You expose others' lives in the media, but when it comes to your own, you overreact? If you point fingers at others, why can't you handle it yourself?" the Writer said coldly. Rishi stared at him with burning eyes, while the Writer's eyes held only sarcasm.
"It would be best if you and your friend stayed away from me and Kabir. Because we've never let anyone into our matters unless we wanted them to. People only know what we allow them to know. Anyway, you're kidnapped now—you can't do anything."
"Keep my mom out of this. She shouldn't know anything."
"What will happen when you can't talk to her?" Rishi was on the verge of tears, but he swallowed them and glared at the Writer.
"If you want to stay alive, eat something. Even if you don't, no one here will care." He walked out, and the door shut automatically behind him.
Rishi held his head. He sat down on the couch, pulled the plate of food toward him, tore off a piece of bread, and put it in his mouth—but suddenly, he broke down crying. The bite felt stuck in his throat. He couldn't swallow it, nor could he stop crying. His throat felt dry.
Meanwhile, downstairs, the Writer stood in front of the CCTV screens, watching everything. His hands were in his pockets, and his eyes were completely emotionless—as if someone's tears meant nothing to him. Just then, his phone rang. He looked at the screen and answered the call.
"Writer, congratulations. You finally spent a night with someone," the voice teased.
The Writer just smiled.
"Say thanks to me—I laid the trap and caught the fish for you."
"You caught one for yourself too."
"What do I lack?"
"Nothing! But I created this character just for you."
"And Rishi! You crafted him for yourself too. After all these years, you finally wrote someone for yourself. Looks like this time you're going to shake up the whole writing world."
"This story—I wrote it just for me," Kabir laughed. The Writer remained quiet. His eyes were still fixed on Rishi on the screen. His eyes smiled faintly, but his lips remained still. The smile was only in his eyes.
Rishi wiped his tears and quietly began eating. After all, hunger is a ruthless thing—it crushes even the strongest pride. That's exactly what Rishi was feeling now. After eating, he sat on the bed. As he reached for the table lamp to grab some water, he suddenly saw his phone. He was shocked. He quickly picked it up. The phone was perfectly fine. He touched the screen—it worked smoothly. His face lit up.