It was dark. Only the faint sound of footsteps echoed through the silence. Someone was approaching, but in the shadows, they couldn't be seen.
"Turn on the light… someone, turn on the light!" a voice whispered, barely audible.
As the light flickered on, six or seven figures came into view—suits, polished shoes, like businessmen, but there was a strange glint of danger in their eyes. With every step, their shadows grew taller, and an uneasy tension filled the air.
Then, a masked figure—man or woman—stepped forward. They revealed someone seated on a chair, hands cuffed. Without asking, the masked figure grabbed the person's head and struck them squarely in the face.
A voice whispered inside his mind:
"1… 2… 3… 4… enough… I'm getting scared now."
His eyes fluttered open. The man in the chair looked at his hands—cuffs were still secured. He glared at the one who had hit him. The attacker froze for a moment, surprised. Squinting, he said:
"So… awake, Muna? Gently, huh?"
Anger flashed across the man's face.
"Damn… what should I even say?" he muttered.
Then he walked away. A gun appeared in his hand.
The man in the chair demanded:
"Who are you?"
He raised his head, revealing glass shards embedded in his skin and blood trickling from his nose.
"Who… who are you? And… where is this place?"
His eyes lowered slightly, confusion and anger mixing together. He muttered under his breath:
"Why are you doing this like an Indian mother? Are you crazy?"
The masked man heard him, anger simmering, yet he said nothing. The gunman, keeping the weapon in his pocket, stepped closer:
"Listen. I'll tell you where this place is. But first, take this… a handkerchief from your pocket. Wipe the blood, or it will be the death of you."
The man in the chair took the handkerchief, held it near his nose, and said:
"You didn't touch that thing… the smell… it's disgusting. I'm sweating just from this."
The masked man replied:
"No. And why are you thinking like that?"
"Forget it. Who are you, anyway?" another voice demanded, striking him across the face again.
"Speak up!"
Finally, the man in the chair spoke:
"Chetan Morya. 28 years old. Single. P.T. teacher at a small private school in Mumbai, Mipubha."
Another strike landed across his face.
The man sitting in the chair said:
"Brother, are you a woman? Because your hair… don't get angry, alright?"
The attacker delivered a kick; he fell to the ground.
"Lift him up," someone commanded.
They lifted Chetan back onto the chair.
"You don't even recognize my voice. And stop clapping around like some dramatic movie," the voice warned.
"Take him to the room near the Gater."
Chetan muttered:
"I'm scared… this place smells awful. Why am I here? Give me medicine… I'm late."
Someone approached from behind and injected him with some sedative. His vision blurred, his head spun, and a drowsy heaviness overcame him.
The scene shifted.
A voice demanded:
"Chetan Morya, P.T. teacher, where is he?"
No one answered clearly. This was no ordinary school; according to them, all schools are similar, but this one ranked among India's top twenty.
Someone asked:
"Miss Anaya Varma, music teacher, where did she go? She lives nearby, right?"
She replied:
"Yes, sir, but I don't know where she went."
She thought to herself:
"Where did they go? Left? If Chetan hadn't shown up, we'd have lost the job."
The teacher said:
"Let it be. Is there anyone else? Find the P.T. teacher."
Anaya asked:
"Sir, what about Chetan? This was his post. Are you replacing him without consulting him?"
The teacher replied:
"Chetan sir will get a job at another school, but someone must stay here. So, leave it. Miss, you may go."
We are then shown the person who was attacking Chetan. The mask comes off, and she says:
"How much time has passed… had home-cooked food, but can't go home. Leave it, we'll have to make do here."
She is shown sitting on the sofa, nodding and thinking quietly.
The man calling himself Chetan Morya, but in the file it says Kabir Roy… and the world with seven faces involved in this story hasn't been fully verified. But it is the same, because his DNA matches with Kabir's father's DNA. This proves it's him.
Elsewhere, someone opens their eyes and sees:
"This looks like a prison… what is this place? Where am I?".
this. Story To be continued