The bench at the bus stop was cold iron, biting through the thin fabric of Sonu's jeans. It had the kind of cold that didn't shock but lingered, creeping upward, convincing the body that staying still was a mistake made too late. Night pressed down on the city like a damp palm, flattening distant sounds into a low, ill-tempered murmur. A single sodium lamp flickered overhead, throwing an uneven orange that gathered in bruises on the concrete and left the corners in permanent shadow.
The air tasted of diesel and old rain. Somewhere nearby, a stray dog barked once—sharp, startled—then stopped, as if it had remembered something important.
Sonu sat hunched forward, elbows on his knees, wallet open in his lap. He turned it upside down again, the motion automatic, almost polite. Empty. The leather was soft with age, cracked along one seam so badly that the lining showed through like exposed gum. He pinched the inner pocket, rubbed it between his fingers, and folded the wallet closed. Then he opened it again.
Nothing changed.
Inside his head, the same familiar pressure built, a dull ache behind the eyes. His mother's voice—tight, precise, sharpened by fatigue. His father's silence, more suffocating than shouting. The creaking fan in the corner of their old house, turning and turning on the night his brother didn't answer when spoken to, when touched, when shaken.
Time hadn't sanded the memory down. It had only polished the edges until they cut cleaner.
A shift in weight disturbed the air beside him.
Someone sat down.
Sonu didn't look. The bench creaked under the newcomer's careful balance. For a moment the two of them existed side by side without acknowledgment, listening to the city breathe. The stranger smelled faintly of wet earth and something metallic—coin-scent, sharp and old.
A torn poster skittered across the asphalt as the wind nudged it loose, slapping weakly against the bench leg before sticking there, fluttering like something that had tried and failed to get away.
"Do you know anything about the Dark Web?"
The voice was low, controlled. Not curious. As if the question had been waiting for him specifically.
Sonu kept his eyes on the road. "A little," he said. His throat felt dry. "Seen some videos. YouTube stuff."
A soft sound—breath released through the nose, close to amusement but not quite. "And what did they show you?"
Sonu shrugged. The movement pulled at his shoulders, stiff from old injuries. "Drugs. Guns." He paused, then added, more carefully, "They say there are rooms. Red rooms. People pay to watch torture. Maybe killings."
He expected revulsion, disbelief, something loud.
Nothing came.
"The world's hell anyway," Sonu finished, because the silence asked for more.
The stranger leaned forward a fraction. Under the hood of his sweatshirt, a sliver of face caught the lamp's glow: pale cheekbone, an eye that seemed to reflect more light than it received. "And you think the government knows all of this," the stranger said quietly, "and stays silent?"
Sonu's mouth twitched. "If there's enough money," he replied, "anything can stay quiet."
Another pause. Not empty—measured.
Something slid onto the bench between them. Sonu glanced down. A small black card rested there, placed carefully between two metal slats. One side bore a symbol that refused to settle in his gaze; the longer he looked, the more it felt like his eyes were slipping off it. The other side held a QR code, printed in a dark, viscous red that looked less like ink and more like residue.
"Red Room," the stranger murmured. "It's about to begin."
Sonu turned sharply.
The space beside him was empty. No retreating footsteps. No fading shadow. Just the night, indifferent and thick, and the card, already cold.
He stared at it for a long time.
Then he slid it into his pocket.
---
His room was quieter than the street, but not calmer. The walls held sound the way damp fabric held smell—old conversations, unfinished arguments, his brother's laughter stretched thin with memory. The single bulb above flicked uselessly when he flipped the switch. He hadn't changed it in weeks.
The phone's glow carved his face into sharp planes as he sat on the edge of the bed, card balanced between his fingers. The symbol seemed darker here, drinking the light rather than reflecting it. He scanned the code.
The call connected on the first ring, then cut dead.
A message replaced it almost immediately.
PLEASE ENTER: NAME, AGE
His thumbs hovered. For a moment, absurdly, he thought of lying. The thought passed. He typed.
SONU SHARMA
21
Send.
The reply came back before the phone could cool.
THANK YOU FOR APPLYING.
PLEASE START THE PREPARATION FOR THE TEST…
TEST NAME: KILL THE KILLER
His breath left him in a short, harsh laugh. Sounded wrong in the small room. He tossed the phone onto the bed. It landed face up, screen glowing like an open eye.
TEST WILL START IN 24 HOURS.
He slept with his shoes on. Dreams came thin and mechanical—doors opening into the same room, again and again.
---
Evening returned without ceremony.
Sonu walked because staying still felt dangerous. The city thinned as he moved farther from the main roads, buildings giving way to shut-down workshops and skeletal frames of half-finished towers. Streetlights blinked out one by one, as if conserving strength for something yet to come.
He didn't hear the footsteps behind him.
The first warning was the smell: antiseptic layered over something scorched. Then the shadow slid alongside his own, stretching too long under a working lamp.
He turned.
The figure was wrapped head to toe in white medical tape, wound thick and uneven, like a poorly preserved body. Strands of long dark hair spilled free, sticking to the bindings. Only the eyes were exposed—black, flat, set in a face that didn't shift when it saw him.
An axe hung from one hand. The other held a short knife, its blade smeared dark.
Sonu moved without thinking. The axe swept down where his head had been, cracking concrete, sending sparks skittering across the ground. He was already running.
They moved through alleys and broken yards, the chase unnervingly deliberate. No shouting. No curses. Just breath and footsteps and the wet sound of something dragging briefly before lifting again.
He bolted into an abandoned industrial lot, containers stacked like rusted coffins. A single floodlight buzzed overhead, half-dead. His lungs burned. He ducked behind a pile of pallets and wrapped the boxing tape tighter around his knuckles, the ritual anchoring him, reminding his hands how to close properly.
The figure stepped into the light.
It stood still, head tilted slightly, as if listening to instructions Sonu couldn't hear. The axe rested against its leg. The knife pointed downward. Waiting.
Sonu stepped out. "Come on," he said, and surprised himself by meaning it.
They collided.
The first punch jarred his arm. The body beneath the tape was wrong—dense, unyielding. The knife flickered. Pain flashed along his forearm, quick and bright, then dulled to a steady heat. He tasted blood where his teeth cut into his lip.
A broken bottle sagged against a wall nearby. Petrol soaked into the tape like it had been waiting. A match flared.
Fire climbed eagerly, the tape blackening, curling. The smell hit hard—burnt fabric, hair, something fatty underneath. Sonu backed away, pulse roaring, waiting for the scream.
It didn't come.
The thing walked through the flame, skin blistering under its bindings, eyes unchanged. The knife slid into Sonu's stomach with almost gentle precision.
The world narrowed.
He fell. Warmth flooded his hands as he pressed them to the wound. The figure knelt, raising the blade again.
"Still… weak…"
The words forced their way through unmoving lips, flattened, wrong.
Sonu's vision pulsed. His brother's room. The rope. The sudden, awful quiet. Something inside him snapped—not loudly, but completely.
He lunged forward. Teeth found flesh at the thing's throat. Hot blood filled his mouth. The figure jerked, the first sign of surprise. They fell together, Sonu on top, hands slick and shaking. His small knife flashed again and again until the body under him stilled.
Silence settled, heavy and immediate.
He rolled onto his back, staring at nothing. His phone vibrated weakly against his chest.
TEST ENDED.
CONGRATULATIONS. NEW RECORD.
SPECIAL KILLER 262.
0.557857959 BTC TRANSFERRED.
STAY HEALTHY AND FIT.
He laughed, the sound breaking apart before it fully left his mouth. Tears cut clean tracks through soot on his cheeks. Somewhere inside his pocket, the black card pulsed faintly with warmth, like something alive.
Another message appeared.
RED ROOM
STARTING SOON…
The floodlight overhead flickered, then steadied.
Behind him, in the cooling ruin of the body, a faint vibration answered the phone's glow.