The house sat three streets back from the main road, tucked between a crumbling apartment block and a pharmacy with peeling signage.
Rahul stood on the pavement outside, staring at the gate.
It was almost eleven. The morning fog had burned off, leaving behind humid air that pressed against his skin. His bag hung heavy on his shoulder—clothes, notebook, enough cash to last a week if he stretched it.
The gate was painted green. Flaking. Rust showed through at the hinges.
He pushed it open.
It creaked.
The courtyard beyond was small—cracked concrete, a single potted plant that looked half-dead, a wooden bench no one had sat on in years.
Rahul crossed the courtyard. Climbed three steps to the front door. Knocked twice.
Footsteps inside. Light. Quick.
The door opened.
Antony stood in the doorway—clean-shaven, wearing a faded blue kurta and glasses perched low on his nose. He looked at Rahul with mild curiosity. Polite. Habitual.
"Yes?"
Rahul's throat tightened. Two options. Two identities. One true. One safe.
He chose.
"I'm Rajesh," he said. The lie came out smooth. Automatic. "Professor Manish's sister's son."
Antony's expression shifted slightly. Recognition without knowledge. "Oh. He didn't mention you were coming."
"It was last minute."
Antony studied him for a moment. Not suspicious. Just measuring. Then he stepped back. "Come in. Wait here. I'll call him."
Rahul crossed the threshold.
Inside, the air was cooler. Filtered daylight pushed through the drawn curtains, casting everything in soft amber. The smell hit him immediately—old books, incense that had burned hours ago, tea leaves steeped too long. The floor was tile. Cool under his feet even through his shoes.
Antony closed the door behind him. The sound was final. Definitive.
Rahul stood in the entryway. His eyes moved automatically. Exits. Windows. The front door behind him. A side door to the left—kitchen, probably. Another door at the end of the hall, closed.
He was measuring distances. Escape routes. He didn't realize he was doing it until he caught himself.
The house felt insulated. Thick walls. Heavy curtains. Street noise barely penetrated—just muffled horns, distant voices, the occasional scooter engine. Like the city existed somewhere else, far away, irrelevant.
That bothered him.
Antony gestured toward the living room. "Please, sit. I'll get Professor."
He disappeared up the stairs, footsteps soft against wood.
Rahul moved to the living room but didn't sit. Just stood there, hands at his sides, breathing controlled.
Footsteps descended the stairs.
Manish appeared first, Antony behind him. Manish looked the same as Rahul remembered—thin, tired, glasses sliding down his nose. But his expression softened when he saw Rahul. Relief. Maybe something else.
"Rajesh," Manish said. Not a question. Confirmation of the lie.
"Uncle," Rahul said quietly.
Manish descended the last few steps. Stopped three feet away. He didn't offer a handshake. Just studied Rahul's face, reading something there that Antony couldn't see.
Antony stepped forward slightly. Looked at Manish. "Who is he?"
"My sister's son," Manish said calmly. "From Bhopal. He came to visit."
"Ah." Antony nodded slowly. Glanced at his watch. "I didn't know you had family visiting." He looked apologetic. "I'm actually running late for a tutoring session. I should—"
"Of course," Manish said smoothly. "We'll talk later."
Antony smiled at Rahul. Polite. Genuine. "Welcome. We'll meet properly when I get back. Make yourself at home."
"Thank you," Rahul said quietly.
Antony grabbed his messenger bag from near the door. Checked his pockets. Keys. Phone. Then looked back at Manish. "I'll be back around four."
"Take your time."
Antony left, pulling the door closed behind him.
The sound of his footsteps crossing the courtyard. The gate creaking open. Then closing.
Silence.
Manish didn't move until the sound of Antony's scooter engine started outside. Faded. Disappeared completely.
Then he exhaled. Long. Controlled.
"He's gone," Manish said quietly.
He turned to Rahul. His expression shifted—relief mixing with concern. "You did well."
"I hesitated."
"Barely." Manish moved toward the kitchen. "Come. I'll make tea."
Rahul followed.
The kitchen was small. Clean but worn. Manish filled a kettle, set it on the stove. The flame caught with a soft hiss.
"The family relation was good," Manish said quietly, his back to Rahul. "Simple. Believable."
"How was the journey?" Manish asked.
"Long."
"I'm sure." Manish handed Rahul a cup. "And the job at the paper? Still keeping you busy?"
The question landed carefully. Deliberate.
Rahul understood immediately. "Yes. It's... manageable."
"Good." Manish picked up his own cup. "Come. Let's go upstairs."
They climbed the stairs in silence. Each step creaked slightly under their weight. Rahul kept his eyes forward, but his mind was cataloging everything. The distance between stairs. The angle of the hallway. How quickly someone could descend if they needed to.
Manish's study was cramped. Books lined every wall—stacked on shelves, piled on the floor, balanced precariously on the edge of a desk covered in papers. A single window let in filtered light, curtain drawn halfway. A ceiling fan rotated slowly overhead, blades wobbling with each turn.
Manish closed the door behind them. The click felt final.
He moved to the window first. Checked the street below. Satisfied, he turned back and sat on the edge of his desk. Gestured to the chair.
Rahul sat. The chair was old. Wood worn smooth from years of use. It creaked under his weight.
"Rajesh," Manish said quietly.
"It was easier than I thought."
"Good." Manish adjusted his glasses. "But you can't relax. Not here. Not yet."
Rahul nodded.
Manish sipped his tea. Set the cup down carefully on the cluttered desk. "Tell me about the job. How's it really going?"
Rahul stared at his own cup. The ceramic was warm against his palms. "It's... fine."
"That's not what I asked."
Silence. The afternoon light filtered through the window, casting everything in pale gold.
Rahul exhaled. "I've found nothing."
Manish didn't react. Just waited.
"No clues. No progress." Rahul's grip tightened on the cup. "There's a file. Pink cover. Senior reporter keeps it locked. I tried to—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I think I could get some information in it ."
Manish's expression tightened. "The Pink File."
"You know about it?"
"I think that one may be a police file which got hands into reporters ." Manish adjusted his glasses. "Documents people don't want found. Questions people don't want asked."
"Then you know why I need it."
"I know why you think you need it." Manish's tone stayed gentle.
Rahul looked up. "I want to know where she went."
"When?"
"Before." The word came out raw. "Before the kidnapping. Before someone—" He stopped. Started again. "Thursday afternoons. Weekends we weren't together. Her routine. Where she went. Who she saw."
Manish was quiet for a moment. Then: "The university keeps some records. Attendance. Club memberships. But accessing them..." He trailed off.
"Is difficult."
"More than difficult. Restricted." Manish leaned forward slightly. "I have access to certain archives. Faculty records. Course materials. But student files—especially ones from years ago—those require justification. Authorization."
Rahul's jaw tightened. "So we can't—"
"I didn't say that." Manish picked up his tea again. Took a slow sip. "I said it requires justification. And preparation. We can't just walk in and start pulling files."
"How long?"
"Tomorrow. Maybe the day after." Manish set the cup down carefully. "But right now, you need to rest."
"I'm fine."
"No. You're not." Manish stood. "You're running on fumes and desperation. That makes people careless. And careless gets people killed."
The words landed heavy. Rahul didn't argue.
Manish moved to the door. Opened it. "Guest room is downstairs. First door on the left. Clean sheets. Lock on the door if it makes you feel safer."
Rahul stood slowly. Picked up his bag.
"We'll talk more later," Manish said quietly. " When the house is settled."
Rahul nodded. He moved toward the door. Stopped beside Manish.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
Manish's expression softened. "Don't thank me yet."
The bed creaked when Rahul sat down.
Old springs. Mattress thin but clean. The room was small—barely ten feet across. A single window looked out onto the courtyard. Curtains half-drawn.
Rahul set his bag down beside the bed. Lay back. Stared at the ceiling. A crack ran from the corner to the light fixture. Thin. Jagged.
Outside, birds called to each other. Evening sounds.
He closed his eyes. Tried to sleep. Couldn't.
His brain wouldn't stop.
Antony's face. The way he'd looked at Rahul. Curious. Kind. Measuring.
Ananya's gaps. Thursday afternoons. Weekends alone. Friends he'd never met. Places she'd never mentioned.
The Pink File. Locked drawer. Soma's hand wrapped in bandages.
You're becoming reckless.
Rahul opened his eyes. The crack in the ceiling hadn't moved. The light had changed though. Less gold. More orange. Shadows stretching longer.
Evening was coming. He was still lying here. Still. Motionless. Waiting.
Being still felt like dying. But moving felt impossible.
The knock came just after six.
Sharp. Confident. Three raps against wood.
Rahul sat up.
Footsteps in the hallway above. Manish descending the stairs. Moving toward the front door.
Rahul stayed where he was. Listening.
The door opened.
"Oh," Manish said. Surprise in his voice. "You're here."
A pause.
Then a voice. Male. Familiar. "Professor said seven, but I finished early. Thought I'd come by."
Rahul's blood went cold.
He knew that voice. Knew it the way you know your own heartbeat. Automatic. Undeniable.
He stood. Moved to his door. Opened it slowly. Silent. Stepped into the hallway.
Manish stood at the front door, partially blocking the view. But Rahul could see past him. Could see the figure standing in the doorway.
Tall. Thin. Messenger bag slung over one shoulder.
Mohan.
Their eyes met.
One second. Two.
Mohan's expression shifted. Confusion.
His mouth opened. Then closed.
Rahul didn't move. Didn't breathe.
Manish turned slightly. Looked back at Rahul. His face was unreadable.
The silence stretched.
Mohan stepped inside.
The door closed behind him