On the other side of the city, Rajiv sat alone in his study room, a book open in his hands. Reading at night was part of his routine. No matter how tiring the day had been, he always spent some time with a book before going to sleep.
Tonight, though, his body was clearly not cooperating.
His eyes kept drooping. The words on the page blurred again and again. He reread the same paragraph twice, then a third time, without absorbing a single line. His grip on the book loosened, and his head tilted slightly forward before he caught himself.
Annoyed, he shut the book and glanced at the clock on the wall.
12:00 a.m.
Rajiv frowned. He hadn't realized it was already that late. A dull heaviness sat behind his eyes, and his throat felt uncomfortably dry.
He stood up, switched off the study lamp, and walked toward the kitchen. The house was silent, the kind of silence that usually felt peaceful. Tonight, it felt oddly hollow.
He poured himself a glass of water and drank it slowly. The cold water helped, but the uneasiness didn't leave. It lingered, vague and unexplained, like a thought he couldn't quite remember.
After placing the glass back, he turned and headed toward his bedroom.
Inside, he closed the door behind him and sat on the edge of the bed. He leaned back slightly and shut his eyes, planning to lie down properly in a moment.
Just a few seconds passed.
Then—
KADAKK.
Rajiv's eyes snapped open.
The sound was sharp and unmistakable. Something had fallen. It came from outside the bedroom, somewhere in the house.
He straightened immediately, his heart thudding faster than it should have. For a split second, a familiar thought crossed his mind.
His daughter.
Then reality caught up.
She was staying at her college hostel. She wasn't home. She hadn't been home for weeks.
Rajiv swallowed.
"So then… who?" he murmured under his breath.
He stood up slowly, every sense suddenly alert. The silence of the house had changed. It no longer felt empty. It felt occupied.
Rajiv turned his head toward the bedroom door, listening carefully.
Nothing.
No footsteps. No voices.
Just stillness.
And whatever had fallen… had fallen inside his house.
Rajiv's irritation sharpened into anger.
He wasn't just any man. He was the Mayor of Mumbai. If there was a theft, or worse, some incident inside his own house, it wouldn't stay private for even an hour. It would be a headline. A joke. A disgrace.
Jaw tight, he yanked open the bedroom door and stepped out.
The moment his foot touched the floor, something sharp pressed into his leg.
He hissed and froze.
Whatever it was had lodged itself near his ankle. He couldn't move properly without pain flaring up. His body went rigid, instincts kicking in. If someone was inside the house, this was the worst moment to lose balance.
Slowly, carefully, he shifted his weight and lowered himself onto the sofa in the living room. Moonlight spilled in through the window, painting the room in pale silver.
He bent down, pulled the object out of his leg, and flicked it away with his foot. He didn't bother looking at it. He didn't care what it was.
His anger was louder than his curiosity.
Enough.
He stood up and walked straight to the main door. His hand went to the lock. He twisted it hard.
The door didn't move.
He tried again.
Nothing.
His chest tightened.
The door was locked.
From the outside.
For a brief second, confusion hit him. Then rage followed, fast and violent. Someone had come into his house and locked him in like an idiot.
Rajiv picked up his phone from the table. For a moment, he hesitated, then opened the drawer beside the bed and took out his personal revolver. He checked it quickly, out of habit, not panic, and held it low in his hand.
Just in case.
He moved through the corridor toward the kitchen. His steps were controlled, quiet. The house was still, too still. He reached the kitchen door and tried the handle.
It didn't open.
He pulled harder.
Nothing.
Rajiv exhaled slowly through his nose. Both exits were blocked. That wasn't an accident.
He raised his phone and dialed his security guard.
"Birju," he said the moment the call connected, keeping his voice firm, "mujhe lagta hai koi mere ghar mein ghus gaya hai. Jahan bhi ho, main gate aur kitchen door check karo. Ho sake to turant madad bhejo."
Silence.
"Birju?" he said again.
No reply. Not even background noise.
His grip tightened around the phone.
"Arey, maine kya kaha hai? Samajh mein nahi aa raha kya? Kuchh to jawab do."
Still nothing.
Rajiv looked down at the screen.
The signal bar was unstable, flickering. The call timer showed 00:00. Below it, the network name blinked once and vanished.
No network.
That made no sense.
This area never lost signal. Not once. Full coverage, twenty-four hours. He knew that for a fact.
He ended the call and checked again. Same result. Emergency options loaded slowly, then froze. It felt less like a weak signal and more like the phone refusing to connect at all.
Rajiv lowered the phone and glanced around the kitchen. Moonlight slipped through the window, cutting the room into sharp shadows. Everything looked normal, yet something was off. Small things. A chair slightly out of place. A drawer not fully closed.
Someone had been here.
And whoever it was hadn't rushed.
Rajiv steadied his breathing, revolver still in hand. If this was a theft, it was a strange one. Locked doors. Dead network. No noise.
He wasn't being robbed.
He was being contained.
Rajiv stepped back into the living room, shoulders squared, revolver raised just enough to show he meant it.
"Tum koi bhi ho," he said loudly, his voice cutting through the silence, "tumne ek galat insaan se musibat mol li hai. Chupchap mere saamne aa jao. Yeh dhamki bhi hai… aur chetavni bhi."
His words echoed, thin and hollow.
Nothing answered.
Without waiting, he started moving.
Bedroom.
Bathroom.
Study.
Kitchen.
Every door. Every corner. Every shadow behind furniture.
Nothing.
No footsteps. No breathing. No sign of another presence.
By the time he returned to the living room, his grip on the gun had tightened. His jaw clenched, then unclenched. The confidence he had forced earlier was gone, drained quietly.
He stood still.
And then he heard it.
A faint sound. Not clear enough to place. Maybe a scrape. Maybe fabric brushing against a wall. He turned sharply and aimed the revolver toward the sound.
Silence.
Another noise. From a different direction this time.
He swung around, gun following instinctively. His eyes moved faster than his thoughts now. The house felt closer, tighter. The walls seemed to lean in.
Shadows shifted as clouds passed over the moon. A curtain stirred slightly. Rajiv's breath caught.
He aimed again.
Nothing was there.
His heartbeat was loud now. Too loud. Every small sound felt amplified. The house he had lived in for years no longer felt familiar. Even the corners looked wrong.
Rajiv stood in the center of the living room, turning slowly, gun tracking the empty space around him.
There was no one in the house.
And that was the most terrifying part.
Rajiv couldn't make sense of it anymore.
Something was wrong. Not outside. Not with the house.
With reality itself.
He moved again, searching every room one more time. Slower now. Careful. As if the walls might respond. Nothing changed. No movement. No sign. Just the same hollow stillness following him everywhere.
His patience snapped.
"Bas," he muttered.
He raised the revolver and fired toward the main door.
BANG.
The sound cracked through the house.
He waited.
Surely Birju would hear that. Even an idiot couldn't miss a gunshot.
One minute passed.
Then two.
Then five.
Nothing.
No footsteps. No shouting. No response.
Rajiv walked back to the door, heart pounding harder now. His eyes dropped to the spot where the bullet should have hit.
There was nothing.
No mark. No dent. No crack.
The bullet lay on the floor.
Perfect. Untouched.
His fingers loosened.
The revolver slipped from his hand and hit the ground with a dull sound. Rajiv stepped back, his breath uneven. His legs gave up, and he dropped to his knees.
"Yah to... Yah namumkin Hai," he whispered.
The words echoed and died.
He pressed his palms to the floor, trying to steady himself, trying to think. Nothing fit. Nothing obeyed logic anymore.
He shouted.
Not a threat. Not a command. Just a sound.
At some point, the shouting broke. It thinned. Turned rough. He didn't notice when it became crying.
He didn't know how long he stayed like that.
Then—
Something shifted.
Not a sound.
Not a movement.
A presence.
The air changed.
Rajiv froze.
Whatever it was, it was close.
And fear finally left him with no place to stand.
Rajiv felt it before he saw it.
The skin on the back of his neck tightened. Goosebumps ran down his arms.
He turned.
A vase was floating in the air.
Not falling. Not supported. Just… there. Suspended, steady, as if gravity had been politely asked to leave. The cracks from earlier were still visible, but one thing was wrong.
One piece was missing.
Before he could process that thought, something sliced past him.
Fast. Sharp. Invisible.
Rajiv flinched. A thin sting burned across his cheek. Warm blood trickled down his skin.
Behind him, the missing shard snapped into place.
The vase was whole again.
Rajiv stared, frozen, as the surface of the vase darkened. The solid form began to break down, not shattering this time, but dissolving. It crumbled into fine black dust, pouring downward and piling on the floor.
A small mound formed.
The dust shifted.
It rose.
Slowly, the shape changed. Limbs pressed outward. A torso took form. A head lifted as if pulled by an unseen hand. Within seconds, a human figure stood there.
Not flesh. Not bone.
Just black soil, compacted into a body.
Rajiv stumbled back and dropped to one knee. His hand found the revolver on the floor. He grabbed it, raised it, and aimed without thinking.
He fired.
Five Times.
The shots rang out, sharp and useless.
Each bullet passed through empty space. They missed the figure by inches, as if something nudged their path aside at the last moment.
The black figure remained untouched.
Still.
Watching.
Rajiv stopped.
The trigger clicked uselessly.
No bullets.
He lowered the revolver slowly, his hand shaking despite his effort to control it. He stared at the figure in front of him, at the thing his mind refused to accept.
His chest tightened. Breathing became difficult. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.
The black figure tilted its head.
"Tumhara shukriya," it said calmly.
Rajiv's fingers dug into his own palm. He clutched his hand, grounding himself, forcing logic to return.
"Bas… yeh ek bura sapna hai," he whispered.
"Bas ek pura sapna hai."
The black figure moved.
Not forward.
Inward.
Its shape collapsed into itself and twisted violently, shrinking into a tight, spinning funnel. A small black tornado formed in front of Rajiv and surged toward him.
Before he could react, it wrapped around his body.
Cold. Heavy. Suffocating.
Black dust pressed against his skin, forcing its way in. Through his eyes. His nose. His mouth. Rajiv tried to scream, but the sound died inside his throat. The living room trembled slightly, furniture rattling as if the house itself felt the intrusion.
The dust rushed into him.
Fast. Aggressive.
Rajiv's body jerked. His arms flailed wildly in the air. His legs kicked, uncontrolled, as if pulled by invisible strings. His movements were sharp, unnatural, more like seizures than resistance.
Then—
His body dropped.
Rajiv hit the floor hard and lay still.
The black sand lifted off him and vanished, dissolving into nothing.
For a few seconds, there was only silence.
Then Rajiv's body moved.
He rose in one sudden motion, straight up, without using his hands. No struggle. No hesitation. As if something else had decided the body was ready.
His head tilted slightly.
"Nahin hota," a voice muttered quietly, unfamiliar even to itself.
"Aree itna waqt Kaun deta hai.... per itna bhi bura nahin Hai".
The man moved toward the corner of the living room where the mirror stood.
He stopped in front of it.
For a moment, he simply stared.
Then his hands rose and pressed against his face, fingers digging slightly into the skin. Not curiosity. Verification. As if confirming the body had finally settled.
Suddenly, memories surfaced.
Not Rajiv's.
His.
Images he despised. A man he hated beyond reason. A presence that burned even after years of silence. The reflection stiffened. His jaw tightened. His breathing changed.
Anger surged.
His eyes lifted.
The whites darkened as a deep red glow ignited within them, sharp and violent. The light flared with his rage, reflecting in the mirror like embers catching fire.
"Mere aaka…" he said quietly, the words heavy with intent.
"Jo aapka adhura kaam tha… main woh poora karunga."
The anger didn't fade. It settled.
A slow smile formed on his lips. Not joy. Not madness. Recognition.
END OF THE CHAPTER