Mumbai's Galaxy Apartments. It was said that even a bird couldn't fly here without permission, making it one of the city's most opulent and closely guarded societies.
However, at six in the morning, the shrill ring of a doorbell broke the stillness in Apartment No. 585 on the eighth floor.
Tring-tring.
The doorbell was screaming, not just ringing. A harsh, ruthless noise that shattered my slumber and pounded my head until I felt like ripping my ears off. "Who the devil is it?" I clutched my temples and let out a hoarse groan. It's not yet ten. At ten, my maid arrives. At this hour, who else might it be?
Loud thuds shook the door before I could think—heavy, urgent fists. My heart thumped. Squinting against the light, I took my phone off the nightstand. 6:00 a.m. was the time that glared back at me.
Not my maid, of course.
Then who?
My entire body pleaded with me to ignore it and let whoever it was waste their energy outside. However, the constant pounding and ringing was too intense to ignore. There was no sleep. Whoever stood out there was either in the midst of a true emergency or a complete idiot.
It was a struggle to drag myself out of bed. My knees almost buckled under the intense pain that pierced my body. My head throbbed like a drum, and my lower half shook violently. Last time, I was alright.
What the hell is wrong with me now?
I staggered into the living room, snatching my shrug from the sofa. No way was I opening the door in night shorts. Stranger or not, I wouldn't face them half-dressed.
Then came the voices. Men shouting outside—urgent, commanding. My chest tightened. Was there a fire? An accident?
My hands shaking, I fumbled with the lock as I hurried to the door. When it opened, I was frozen in place by what I saw. There were eight, perhaps nine,two were women fully uniformed police officers standing outside, their faces unreadable and grim.
My breath caught in my throat. My chest tightened. I was afraid—no, terrified. What would any normal human feel when faced with a wall of police at their door at six in the morning?
"Step aside," one officer barked.
"Huh?"
The sound stumbled out of me, strangled, as if my voice had gotten stuck halfway up my throat.
"Didn't you hear? Move aside," a woman constable snapped.
Despite my legs' resistance, I managed to give them way and shuffle back. I stood, gripping the wall, even though every nerve in my body begged me to give up. My palms felt drowned in sweat as it trickled down them.
Suddenly, I saw a young officer staring at me with piercing, unblinking eyes. He was reading and analyzing me, not just observing.
"Search the place," the inspector said in a stern, decisive tone. "Everywhere. Nothing should go unchecked.
Search ?
What?
But why? The thought caused my mind to falter. There would be no words. I swallowed somehow and croaked, "Sir. Why was the search conducted?
What's going on?
The female police officer scoffed. "Look at her—she's being so innocent. So why the panic? Before committing a crime, you ought to have considered that.
Crime ?
My heart plummeted. Did she just say… crime?
What crime ?
"I—I haven't done anything," I whispered, almost to myself. But loud enough that the officer before me caught every word.
He narrowed his eyes. "Drop the act, madam. We have proof. All of it."
Proof? Proof of what? My voice cracked. "What have I done?"
"Don't play dumb," another officer spat, his lips curling in a cruel smirk. "You killed a man. A living, breathing man. And now you stand here pretending like butter wouldn't melt in your mouth."
Murder.
The word hit me like a physical blow. Murder? My head reeled. "What nonsense is this? Whose murder? When? What are you even saying?" My knees buckled. I stumbled, clinging desperately to the sofa for balance.
"Listen, inspector—" I started, but my voice was trembling.
The officer cut me off sharply. "Enough lies. We're not here for your stories. We already have the evidence. The only thing left is to find the weapon. Cooperate, and tell us where you've hidden it."
Weapon?
"What weapon? I haven't killed anyone! I haven't even stepped out of this apartment! Check the CCTV if you want. I've been here the whole time. How could I possibly kill someone without even leaving?"
The inspector's voice thundered back, echoing in my spine.
"We already checked the CCTV. And every shred of evidence points at you."
The words didn't just echo in the room—they echoed inside me, rattling every bone, every vein, until all I could feel was cold, consuming fear.
My breath hitched. My chest rose and fell in shallow bursts.
Every cell in my body screamed—this isn't real, this can't be real.
"I… I didn't…" My words dissolved, weak, broken, swallowed by the heavy silence of the apartment as the officers tore through drawers, shelves, wardrobes—leaving chaos in their wake.
The young constable—the one whose eyes had been drilling into me—finally spoke. His voice was steady, unnervingly calm.
"Stop pretending. You know exactly whose blood stains your hands."
"No!"
"I don't "My voice cracked into a shriek. "I don't! Tell me… who?"
The inspector turned then, his gaze sharp enough to cut. He stepped closer, so close I could feel his breath ghost against my face. His next words dropped like stones into the pit of my stomach.
"Nihal Malhotra."
"What…?" The word barely slipped past my lips.
The name meant nothing—and yet it crushed me. My head spun. The room seemed to tilt on its axis. "Who… who is that? I don't even know him!"
"He's dead," the inspector said flatly. "Murdered in cold blood. And every witness, every camera, every trace—leads straight to you."
The world blurred. Sirens screamed in my head. My body swayed on the edge of collapse.
Murder.
Evidence.
Me.
The world tilted. Darkness clawed at the edge of my sight. And then—
"Sir!" a constable's voice rang out from the bedroom. "There's nothing here."
The inspector's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. He looked at me with the certainty of a man who had already written my fate.
"Listen, madam—this is your last chance. Confess your crime and tell us where the weapon is. Do it the easy way.
Otherwise…
we have other methods of making you speak."
The inspector's voice carried a quiet but dangerous edge, his eyes holding an unspoken fury.
That threat-laden tone sent a shiver racing down my spine.
But what was I supposed to say?
I didn't even know who this Nihal was—or what weapon they were talking about. My voice trembled, almost a whisper, as I muttered, "I don't know…"
I wasn't sure what the inspector heard, or how he interpreted my words. But what happened next… It was like stepping straight into a nightmare. A terrifying blur where I couldn't tell if I was trapped in reality or some cruel dream.
"Geeta," the inspector barked, "put the handcuffs on her. The rest of the questioning will happen in the lockup."
"What? Why? No—wait! I haven't done anything!" Panic clawed at my throat as my words spilled out, desperate. "Why won't you believe me? I'm innocent!"
But he ignored me. With a mere flick of his eyes, the lady constable moved forward. Cold, unforgiving metal snapped around my wrists. The bite of it burned into my skin.
Please, let this be a dream… I can't afford for this to be real.
Somebody—anybody—wake me from this horror, because it feels like sleep paralysis, like I'm trapped in a nightmare I cannot escape. Yet a more chilling thought loomed over me—what if this wasn't a dream at all?
What if I was truly being arrested… for a crime I never committed, accused of murdering a man whose existence I hadn't even known of until a few minutes ago?
In that moment, I realized my life was no longer mine . I was trapped in a nightmare so delusional, so impossible, it almost felt staged. But the fear in my chest was real, the judgmental stares of my neighbors gathering at their doors were real, and the whisper of my own thoughts was real—
What if I did kill him?
The ride to the police station was a blur of flashing red lights and muffled whispers. I sat between two officers in the back of the van, wrists bound, my mind a fog of disbelief. Every time I tried to speak, my throat locked. I could only replay the inspector's words in her head—Murder of Nihal Malhotra.
At the station, they pushed me into a cold, dimly lit room. The walls smelled faintly of damp cement and stale coffee. A single chair sat opposite a metal table. I lowered myself onto it, my pulse thundering in my ears.
Across from me , the inspector leaned forward, his eyes sharp.
"You were seen entering Nihal Malhotra flat. You left hours later. He was dead. Your belongings were found there. What do you have to say for yourself?"
"I don't…" my voice cracked. "I don't even know him. I swear. I've never spoken to him in my life."
The inspector threw a photograph on the table. It showed my scarf in Nihal's hand. Another—my bracelet on his nightstand.
"Are you calling this a coincidence?"
"No… no, this can't be happening."
It felt as if my heart had stopped. A rush of adrenaline tore through me, leaving my body weak and trembling. My vision blurred, the world turning into a haze. I gripped the chair with all my strength, afraid my legs would give way beneath me—afraid I might collapse right there. It was as if every drop of life had drained out of me.
"This isn't right… I wasn't there. I don't even know him!"
But every piece of evidence screamed otherwise.
My mind raced, trying to remember where I had been, what I had done. Yet my memory was like shattered glass—fragments with sharp, painful edges, none of them whole. Why couldn't I remember?
My head spun. The images were undeniable, yet I couldn't remember ever being inside that apartment. How could my things be there?
A sickening thought wormed its way in.
What if they're right? What if I did kill him? What if I'm the murderer I don't remember becoming?