Samrat learned very early in life that silence can be louder than sound. Some people shout their lies, some whisper them, and some bury them so deep that even they forget the truth. He belonged to the kind of people who listened more than they spoke, not because they were shy, but because listening felt safer. Words could hurt. Silence only observed.
At twenty-three, Samrat lived alone in a narrow rented room above a closed tailoring shop. The walls were thin, the ceiling fan made a tired clicking sound, and the window faced another building so close that sunlight entered only for a few minutes each day. He worked night shifts for a data verification company, the kind of job where numbers mattered more than names and people were reduced to entries in a database. It suited him. The less human contact, the better.
Sleep never came easily to him, but he did not complain. Nights felt honest. The world slowed down, and people revealed parts of themselves they hid during the day. Samrat used to think that was the only reason he preferred the dark.
He was wrong.
The first time it happened, he thought it was exhaustion. His shift had ended at 12:30 a.m., and he lay on his bed staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks he had memorized over months. The clock on his phone read 1:07 a.m. when he heard a voice.
"You're fine," the voice said.
It sounded close. Too close.
Samrat sat up immediately, heart racing, eyes scanning the room. The door was locked. The window was shut. There was no one there.
The voice came again, softer this time. "I'm not angry."
He pressed his palms against his ears, but the sound did not fade. Instead, it changed. It became heavier, almost strained, like someone forcing words out of their mouth.
"I didn't mean to hurt you."
The voice vanished as suddenly as it came.
Samrat stayed awake till morning, telling himself it was stress, lack of sleep, imagination playing tricks. When it didn't happen the next night, he convinced himself he was right.
Then it happened again.
And again.
Always between 1:00 and 3:00 a.m.
Over time, Samrat noticed something else. The voices did not come from the room. They came from people. Not physically present people, but people he had interacted with earlier that day. His manager who smiled while assigning extra work. The neighbor who borrowed money and promised to return it. The childhood friend who said everything was fine.
Their voices returned at night, stripped of control, stripped of masks.
"You're replaceable."
"I never planned to pay you back."
"I hate what you've become."
Samrat didn't hear thoughts. He heard lies. Not the lies people told others, but the lies they told themselves while speaking.
It took weeks for him to accept it.
Between 1 and 3 in the morning, he could hear lies.
Once the realization settled in, fear followed. Not the kind that makes you scream or run, but the kind that sinks into your bones and stays there. If this ability was real, it meant one thing clearly: the world was not built to handle truth.
Samrat tried to test it carefully. He avoided people during the day and paid close attention at night. Every voice matched a moment. A sentence spoken. A smile forced. A promise made without intention.
The rule never changed. After 3:00 a.m., silence returned. Complete, absolute silence.
He could not control it. He could not turn it off. And worst of all, he could not forget what he heard.
One night, his phone rang at 2:11 a.m. The name flashing on the screen made his stomach tighten.
Anaya.
She had joined his company three months ago. Quiet, observant, kind in a way that felt real. She didn't talk much, but when she did, she listened too. Samrat trusted her, which was rare for him.
"Sorry for calling so late," she said. "I just wanted to check if you uploaded the final report."
"Yes," he replied. "I did. Everything okay?"
There was a pause. "Yeah. Just… making sure."
They hung up after a few polite words. Samrat stared at his phone, uneasy. Something about the call felt off.
At 2:26 a.m., the voice came.
"I didn't call for the report."
It was Anaya's voice.
Samrat's chest tightened. He waited, barely breathing.
"I called because I'm scared."
The voice trembled, not with fear, but with restraint.
"He's watching."
Samrat stood up so suddenly that the chair fell behind him. "Who?" he whispered, forgetting the voice couldn't answer questions.
But it did.
"Not you," the voice said. "Not yet."
The room felt colder. The fan slowed, or maybe his senses sharpened. He felt like he had crossed an invisible line.
The voice faded, leaving behind a silence that felt heavier than sound.
The next day, Samrat watched Anaya closely. She smiled at work. She laughed softly at a joke someone made. She drank tea like everything was normal. There was no sign of fear in her eyes.
At lunch, she sat across from him. "You okay?" she asked.
He nodded. "Did you… need something last night?"
She shook her head immediately. "No. Why?"
The lie arrived at 1:42 a.m.
"I needed help."
That night, another voice joined the others. It was new. Different. Deeper. Calm.
"You should stop listening."
Samrat froze.
This voice did not belong to anyone he recognized.
"Some truths are not meant to be collected," the voice continued. "And some listeners are not meant to survive."
"Who are you?" Samrat whispered, his voice cracking.
The voice laughed quietly. "Someone who noticed you."
From that night onward, the rules began to bend.
The lies grew clearer. Sharper. Some carried images. Others carried memories that were not his. He saw things he shouldn't have—rooms he had never entered, conversations he had never been part of.
One night, he heard his own voice.
"I'm not afraid," it said.
Samrat collapsed onto the bed.
He was.
Very afraid.
Days blurred together. Samrat stopped sleeping properly. Dark circles formed under his eyes. He became distant at work. Anaya noticed.
"You're fading," she said one evening as they walked out together. "Like you're somewhere else."
He almost told her everything. The words reached his throat and died there.
That night, at 2:03 a.m., her voice returned.
"I trust him."
Samrat felt something twist painfully inside his chest.
"But trust is dangerous."
The next lie came from his manager.
"He won't last long."
Then from a stranger on the street.
"I chose him on purpose."
Samrat realized something terrifying: the lies were no longer random. They were circling him.
On the seventh night after the strange voice appeared, the power changed again. For the first time, a lie spoke his name clearly.
"Samrat."
He stood in the middle of the room, trembling.
"You don't understand what you are," the voice said. "But others do."
Images flashed before his eyes. A file with his name. Surveillance footage of his building. Notes written by someone else, analyzing him.
"They are not interested in truth," the voice continued. "They are interested in control."
Samrat sank to the floor, pressing his back against the wall. "Why me?" he whispered.
"Because you listen," the voice replied. "And because you haven't lied yet."
The next morning, Anaya didn't come to work.
Her phone was switched off. Her desk was empty. No one seemed concerned. The manager said she had taken leave. HR said there was no record of it.
At 1:18 a.m., her voice returned.
"I shouldn't have trusted them."
Samrat grabbed his jacket and ran out into the night, driven by panic rather than logic. He didn't know where to go, only that staying still felt wrong.
The city was quieter than usual. Streetlights flickered. Shadows stretched unnaturally long.
At 2:01 a.m., the unknown voice returned, closer than ever.
"She was a warning," it said.
Samrat stopped walking. "Where is she?"
The voice paused, almost thoughtful. "Safe is a relative word."
"Tell me," Samrat demanded, anger cutting through fear.
"You'll hear her again," the voice replied. "If you survive long enough."
At 2:59 a.m., the voices fell silent.
For the first time, Samrat wished they hadn't.
Because in the silence, he understood something worse than fear.
Between one and three, he wasn't just hearing lies anymore.
He was being trained.
And whoever was doing it had just taken someone he cared about.
The clock on his phone turned to 3:00 a.m.
The world went quiet.
Samrat knew one thing with terrifying clarity.
This was only the beginning.