The night insects hummed outside the window.
Mosquitoes, moths, something larger that buzzed past every few minutes. The sound pressed against the silence inside Room 304, filled it without breaking it.
Rahul sat at the table, notebook closed in front of him, staring at nothing in particular.
His shoulder throbbed.
Dull. Steady. In sync with his pulse.The ache had become familiar. Background noise he barely registered anymore except in moments like this—stillness, quiet, nothing to distract him from his own body.
Soma's hand would be worse.
Nerve damage. Three weeks minimum. Maybe four.Maybe permanent.
Rahul's jaw tightened.
Devaraj's voice echoed in his skull: Stay visible. Don't go digging.
Good advice.
Safe advice.
The kind of advice that kept people alive long enough to get promoted, to earn trust, to build careers editing stories about sewage contracts and traffic violations.
Rahul didn't have that timeline.
He knew this the way you know a bone is broken before the doctor confirms it. Deep. Certain. Undeniable.
Waiting meant dying slowly. Staying visible meant staying trapped.
The pink file existed. Someone had sent a man with a knife to keep it that way.
Which meant it mattered.
His eyes drifted to the notebook.
Inside, on the first page, he'd written her name weeks ago.
Ananya .
He stared at the letters.
One word. The name.
He'd loved her Or thought he had.
Or loved the version of her she'd allowed him to see.
If he'd really known her—truly known her—she wouldn't be dead.
The thought sat heavy in his chest.
Not comforting. Not absolving.
Just true.
Rahul opened the notebook.
Turned past the first page. Found a blank sheet.
His pen hovered above it.
He needed to stop thinking of Ananya as Ananya.Not lost love. Not tragedy. Not ghost.
Unknown subject.
A case he'd failed to solve because he'd been too close to see the gaps.
The pen touched paper.
He wrote: What didn't I know?
The question stared back at him.
The insects outside kept humming. Somewhere in the building, a pipe clanged—water running through rusted metal.Rahul didn't move.
Guilt was mutating.
Shifting into something sharper.
Suspicion.
If loving her made him blind, then maybe stopping—just for now, just long enough to see clearly—would show him what he'd missed.
He underlined the question.
Then added another:
Who was she when I wasn't looking?
The clock in the corner ticked.
One second. Two. Three.
Rahul closed the notebook.
Tomorrow, he'd request leave.
From Tonight, he'd stop mourning and start investigating.
The difference felt like falling.
Rahul moved to the window.
The street below was empty except for a stray dog sniffing at garbage near the corner. A single streetlight flickered—on, off, on again—casting everything in unstable yellow.
A train horn sounded in the distance. Long. Low. Fading into the humid night air.
Rahul's hand rested on the windowsill. Dust coated the wood, gritty under his palm. He didn't wipe it away.
He thought about Ananya.
Not the way he usually did—not the memory of her laugh, or the way she used to tuck hair behind her ear when she was thinking, or how she looked in morning light streaming through his apartment window or how she cheated him.
He thought about the gaps.
The spaces between what he knew and what he didn't.
Friends.He couldn't name a single one. She'd mentioned people—coworkers, classmates—but never by name. Never in detail. He'd never met them. Never been invited to.
Routine.
Where did she go on Thursday afternoons? She'd said errands. He'd never asked which ones. What did she do on the weekends they didn't spend together? She'd said she liked being alone. He'd respected that. Never pushed.
The day she died, where had she been? Who had she seen? What had she been doing in the hours before someone turned her into evidence?
He didn't know.
Rahul's fingers curled against the windowsill.He'd loved her.
But he'd loved the version she allowed him to see.
The version that showed up at his door smiling. The version that fell asleep against his shoulder. The version that existed only in the hours they shared.
What about the rest?
Rahul stared at his own reflection in the dark glass.
Faint. Barely there.
A thought crawled up from somewhere deep:
What if she chose this?
But the danger.
What if she walked into something knowingly? Eyes open. Aware.His shoulder throbbed.
Rahul turned away from the window.
Ananya wasn't there. Wouldn't be. Couldn't be.
Just absence.
And questions he should have asked when she was still alive to answer them.
The phone booth smelled like urine and stale cigarettes.
Rahul pulled the door shut behind him, sealing himself inside the narrow glass box. The overhead light flickered once, then stayed on—dim, yellowed, casting his reflection in ghostly double on the scratched glass.He lifted the receiver.Warm. Grimy. The plastic felt slick against his ear, like dozens of other hands had pressed it there before him, left their sweat and secrets behind.
He fed coins into the slot. They clattered down with hollow metallic sounds.Dialed.The line crackled. Rang twice.
A click.
"Hello?" Manish's voice. He didn't get many calls this late.
"It's me."
Silence on the other end. Not empty—just processing.
"Rahul." Not a question. Recognition. Then, quieter, warmer: "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine."
"You don't sound fine." A pause. "How's the shoulder?"
"Healing."
"That's not what I asked."
Rahul's jaw tightened. "It hurts. But it's healing."
Manish exhaled softly. Not relief. Just acknowledgment. "And the work? You're staying low?"
"Yes."
"Good." Pages turning in the background. A desk lamp clicking off. "That's good, Rahul. You need to give this time."
The line buzzed with static.
Rahul stared at his distorted reflection in the scratched glass. "How long?"
"What?"
"How long do I give it?"
Silence stretched between them.
When Manish spoke again, his tone had shifted. Still kind, but cautious. "As long as it takes untill truth comes out ."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
A car passed outside the booth, headlights sliding across the glass, then gone.
Rahul's grip tightened on the receiver. "I need information. "
The warmth drained from Manish's voice. "About what?"
"Ananya." The name came out flat. Clinical. "Her life. Friends. Routine. Anything I can access."
The line crackled with static for three seconds.When Manish spoke again, his tone was measured. Careful. "You were told to stay low.""I was."
"But i cannot."
His voices choked
" I cannot hide as rajesh for ever".
More static. The streetlight outside the booth flickered.
"This isn't protection you're asking for," Manish said slowly. "This is investigation."
"I know."
"That's dangerous."
"I know that too."
Silence again. Heavier this time.
Rahul could picture Manish on the other end—sitting in his house , glasses pushed up on his forehead, weighing options the way he always did. Methodically. Never impulsive.
Finally: "Why now?"
"Because waiting is also a choice," Rahul said. "And I'm done choosing it."
The streetlight outside the booth flickered. Once. Twice. Stayed on.
Manish exhaled slowly. The sound crackled through the receiver. "The university keeps records. Attendance. Registrations. Student groups." A pause. "But accessing them remotely is difficult. I'd need to go in person."
"Can you?,sir"
"Possibly." Another pause. Then: "Or we could."
Rahul's stomach tightened. "What?"
"Come here. To my hine." Manish's voice dropped lower. "The university archives are easier to navigate if you know what you're looking for. I can show you. Guide you through it."
"That's risky."
"Everything you're doing is risky." Manish's tone sharpened slightly. "At least this way, you're not doing it alone."
The words landed harder than they should have.
Don't act alone again.Devaraj's warning. Already broken.
Rahul stared at his reflection in the glass. Distorted. Fractured by scratches and grime.he thought for a second ,
"When?" he asked.
"Soon. Tomorrow if you can." Manish hesitated. Then, carefully: "Rahul... you're becoming reckless."
"I know."
"Be careful," Manish said quietly. "Whatever you're chasing... make sure it doesn't chase you back."
The line clicked.
Dial tone.
Rahul held the receiver against his ear for three more seconds before hanging up.
He pushed open the door and stepped back into the night.
The killer sat alone in the corner of a dhaba that didn't ask questions.His glass was half-empty. Cheap whiskey. Burned going down, left a sour aftertaste that clung to the back of his throat.
He didn't drink to enjoy it.
The dhaba was nearly empty. One other table—two men arguing quietly over cards. The owner stood behind the counter, wiping down surfaces that would never be clean.
Nobody looked at him.He preferred it that way.
Headlights swept across the dirty window.
A car pulled up outside. Black sedan. Engine idling.The killer set down his glass.Didn't finish it.
He stood, dropped a few crumpled notes on the table, and walked out.
The pavement outside was wet. Rain earlier. The air still smelled like it—damp concrete, exhaust fumes mixing with moisture.
The back door of the sedan opened.
He climbed inside.
Leather seats. Cold against his back. The interior smelled like expensive cologne and cigarette smoke.
The killer thought only one thought.
" Next time my target clear, next no saving"
The car driver just looked at killer and spoke in low voice
" He want's to see you"
The killer face turned pale he looked down and and said
" When? "
" tomarrow , same spot" the driver said
The car just vanished into dark road
The next morning
The bus stop smelled like diesel and wet concrete.Rahul sat on the metal bench, bag at his feet, waiting.The sun hadn't fully risen yet. Dawn light filtered through morning fog, turning everything gray and indistinct. Shapes moved in the distance—vendors setting up carts, a man unlocking a shop, someone sweeping the street with a short broom that scraped against pavement.A newspaper vendor shouted headlines from the corner. Something about elections. Rahul didn't listen.He'd filed leave this morning. Brief. Indirect. Left the request on Devaraj's desk before anyone else arrived, then walked out before questions could start.
Family emergency.The lie came easily now.The bench was cold beneath him. Metal that had spent the whole night absorbing the chill. It seeped through his clothes, settled into his bones.
He felt exposed.A bus appeared in the distance. Headlights cutting through fog. Engine rumbling. It slowed as it approached, brakes hissing.
Rahul stood.Picked up his bag.
The bus doors opened with a mechanical groan.
He climbed inside. Found a seat near the back. Window side. The vinyl was cracked, stuffing visible beneath torn fabric.
The bus lurched forward.
Rahul watched the city scroll past. Shops. Streets. People starting their day. Everything normal. Routine.He was moving toward old town in bhopal .
Toward Manish sir .But running didn't feel like escape anymore.
It felt like falling forward. Controlled. Deliberate.
The city disappeared behind him, swallowed by fog.
A thought surfaced, quiet and cold:
His dark voice inside him spoke laughing
"A lone wolf wandering for truth doesn't die loudly. He disappears."
Rahul closed his eyes.
The bus kept moving.