Chapter 1 The Man Who Never Leaves A Trace

             The night in Jaipur breathed like a living creature - warm, dense, and weighted with centuries of whispered stories. Dust floated lazily above the ancient stones of Chandpole Gate, catching the muted glow of the streetlamps. The grand archway, usually a bustling artery during the day, now looked like a lone sentinel guarding a kingdom that had drifted into uneasy slumber.

 

            The scent of rain that never fell mixed with the distant aroma of cardamom tea still being poured at a late-night stall around the corner. A few dogs lay curled against shuttered shops, raising their heads only when the wind rustled the dry leaves across the pavement.

 

            It was nearly 1:50 AM.

 

            And Jaipur, despite its history of secrets, had never seen something quite like this.

 

            Prakash, a milk vendor who had pedaled the same route for fifteen years, rode his rusty bicycle through the narrow lane leading away from the gate. His worn white kurta fluttered slightly as he pedaled; its hem was spotted with dried milk from a day that had ended far later than he had hoped. The metal containers tied to the cycle clinked with each turn of the wheel.

 

            He was humming a tune - an old folk melody he didn’t remember learning but somehow always remembered singing.

 

            Then he saw her.

 

            A young woman stood directly in the middle of the road.

 

            Barefoot. Motionless. Fragile.

 

            The yellow streetlight barely touched her, but enough was visible to make Prakash’s breath catch. Her cream salwar-kameez, decorated with faded pink flowers, was smeared with mud as if she had fallen again and again. Her dupatta hung half-torn behind her, dragging like a wounded limb. Her hair fell over her face in tangled stripes, plastered to her damp skin.

 

            Her eyes - those eyes - didn’t focus on him.

 

            Or on anything in this world.

 

            They were hollow, almost glassy, as if reflecting a scene far away from Jaipur, far away from this moment, far away from reality.

 

            Prakash’s hands trembled. The cycle nearly toppled.

 

            “Ma’am… are you okay?” he stammered, his voice cracking in fear. “Do you need help?”

 

            She didn’t react.

 

            Her fingers twitched unnaturally, curling inward in sudden spasms. Her shoulders jerked. Her breathing came in sharp, broken bursts.

 

            Then, very slowly, her lips parted.

 

            “He told me to do it.”

 

            Her voice was barely a whisper. Thin. Ghostlike. As if scraped from the inside of her ribs. Prakash felt a cold wave crawl up his spine.

            “Who told you? What happened?”

 

            She blinked - too slowly, like a puppet adjusting to a new command.

            “I don’t know.”

 

            And with that, her knees buckled.

 

            She collapsed as if someone had cut invisible strings holding her upright. Prakash dropped his bicycle, the metal container striking the ground and spilling milk across the dusty road. The white liquid spread slowly, seeping into the cracks like a pale pool of silence.

 

            This wasn’t the first time he had seen a person collapse like this.

 

            Not the second.

 

            Not even close.

 

            He took a step back, shaking.

 

            “Not again… dear God, not again.”

 

            Because Jaipur had become a city haunted not by ghosts, but by people who suddenly acted like they were no longer themselves.

 

            And now, another one had appeared.

 

·        

 

 

            The police jeep screeched to a halt near Chandpole Gate fifteen minutes later. Inspector Raghav Sharma stepped out with a quiet intensity. He wasn’t the kind of officer who announced his presence; he simply existed with an aura of absolute control.

 

            He wore dark blue jeans, a charcoal shirt tucked in neatly, and a black leather belt. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing strong forearms. A faint stubble shadowed his jaw, and a thin scar cut through his left eyebrow - an old remnant from an incident he rarely revisited, even in his own thoughts.

 

            Raghav had the posture of someone who observed more than he spoke. Who remembered details most people subconsciously ignored. Who trusted facts, not instincts - but had instincts sharper than anyone he knew.

 

            Constable Mahesh hurried toward him.

 

            “Sir... it’s the same kind of case as the others.”

 

            Raghav’s lips tightened.

            He wasn’t fond of patterns.

 

            Patterns meant someone was designing them.

 

            “Where is she?” he asked.

 

            Mahesh gestured toward a woman seated on a wooden stool, wrapped in a thick woollen blanket. Her expression was frozen somewhere between confusion and terror. Her eyes, wide and unfocused, stared at nothing.

 

            Raghav approached her slowly.

 

            The woman shivered even though the night was warm. Her fingers trembled against the blanket, and occasionally her head jerked in small, unnatural angles, as if listening to something whispered into her skull.

 

            “What’s your name?” Raghav asked gently.

 

            She didn’t blink.

 

            He tried again. “Can you tell me what happened?”

 

            No answer.

 

            Just a faint twitch of her lips.

 

            Then, suddenly - her breathing accelerated. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. Her hands clawed at the air.

 

            Her head snapped back violently.

 

            And then came a scream - raw, guttural, almost animalistic - that ripped through the silent street. Even Mahesh took a step back.

 

            But Raghav didn’t.

 

            He moved closer, steady, calm.

 

            “Get her to the ambulance,” he said.

 

            As they carried her away, she kept whispering something no one could decipher. A faint murmur, like words trapped between worlds.

 

            Raghav watched her disappear into the flashing lights of the emergency vehicle.

 

            She was the sixth.

 

            Six people - normal, unrelated individuals - each committing crimes they didn’t remember.

Each whispering the same line:

 

            He told me to do it.

 

            Raghav exhaled slowly.

 

            Whoever “he” was…he was getting bolder.

 

·        

 

            Two hours later, Raghav walked through the majestic entrance of Rambagh Palace Hotel. The palace glowed under golden chandeliers, its walls humming with old royalty and expensive quiet. Silk curtains swayed gently. Persian carpets absorbed every footstep.

 

            But tonight, something cold lingered beneath the grandeur.

 

            A 28-year-old chartered accountant - mild mannered, polite, introverted - had attacked a foreign tourist in broad daylight. No motive. No prior history. No memory afterward.

 

            Raghav entered the CCTV control room, the cold air-conditioning wrapping around him like a thin coat. Sub-Inspector Kavita was already there, her olive-green shirt crisp and tucked into black trousers. She stood with her hands on her hips, her sharp eyes scanning the footage.

 

            “There,” she said, pausing the video.

 

            On the screen, the young accountant walked across the luxurious corridor. His light-blue shirt was neatly tucked into beige trousers. He carried a leather laptop bag over his shoulder.

 

            Completely normal.

 

            Then - his entire posture stiffened. His face drained of emotion.His pupils dilated abruptly.
His eyes went blank. And without warning, he lunged at the tourist.

 

            “Rewind,” Raghav said.

 

            They watched again - slower this time.

 

            Just before the attack, the lights in the corridor flickered. No one else reacted. Too subtle.

 

            But Raghav saw it.

 

            “Pause,” he said softly.

 

            Kavita zoomed in.

 

            The accountant’s eyes looked… vacant. But not confused. More like his consciousness had stepped aside, making room for something else.

 

            “A sudden switch,” Kavita murmured. “As if someone pressed an invisible button.”

 

            Raghav didn’t respond.

 

            He was thinking - and when Raghav Sharma began thinking, he entered a zone where nothing around him existed except the truth he was chasing.

 

            The truth that felt closer than ever tonight.

 

            He stepped out of the palace with Kavita. The setting sun bathed the ancient façade in molten gold.

 

            That’s when a little boy approached - a thin child with torn shorts and a faded red T-shirt. He held a single balloon in one hand.

 

            “Sir… someone asked me to give this to you.”

 

            He offered a folded white paper.

 

            Raghav knelt slightly. “Who gave it to you?”

 

            “A man in a black coat. His eyes looked… strange. Like he could see inside my head.”

 

            Raghav’s heartbeat slowed. Not in fear. In calculation.

 

            “Where did he go?”

 

            The boy pointed vaguely. “Across the road. And then… nowhere. He vanished.”

 

            Raghav unfolded the paper. Seven words stared at him: Stop chasing patterns you cannot understand.

 

            Kavita leaned in. “What does it say?”

 

            “Nothing,” Raghav replied, folding the note.

 

            But something had shifted inside him.

 

            This was not random.

 

            This was not coincidence.

 

            This was personal.

 

·        

 

 

 

 

            Near midnight, Jaipur sank into the quiet of lamps turning off one by one, leaving behind long shadows that clung to the ancient walls.

 

            On M.I. Road, a small grocery shop still glowed faintly. The place smelled of potatoes, soap, lentils, and dusty incense sticks. The owner was about to close when a school teacher walked in - soft-spoken, bespectacled, with a checked shirt tucked neatly into worn trousers.

 

            The CCTV captured everything.

 

            He looked exhausted but normal.  Then - his expression froze. His eyes widened slightly, then grew dull. A glaze settled over them. He picked up a bottle of oil. Smashed it on the counter.
And attacked the shopkeeper with a shard of glass.

 

            When Raghav arrived, the shop smelled of blood and spilled spices. The shopkeeper sat with a bandage wrapped around his shoulder, trembling. The teacher sat on the floor cross-legged. Calm. Almost meditative.

 

            Raghav crouched beside him.

 

            “Why did you attack him?”

 

            The teacher blinked slowly. “Attack? I… I didn’t attack anyone.”

 

            A pause.

 

            Then confusion washed over his face. Followed by terror.

 

            “I remember… a whisper. A man’s voice.”

 

            “What did it say?”

 

            The teacher swallowed. “It said… finish him.”

 

            Raghav’s pulse deepened. “Did you see who the voice belonged to?”

 

            “I think so.” The teacher gripped his head. “I think I saw him once… but every time I try to remember, everything turns black.”

 

            He screamed and collapsed forward, clutching his skull.

                       

            “It’s like someone is wiping his face out of my memory!”

 

            Raghav steadied him. Inside, something cold settled into his bones. Someone was hijacking minds. Someone was erasing their own identity from the memories of their puppets.

 

            A ghost.

 

            A puppeteer.

 

            A thief.

 

            A thief of minds.

 

·        

 

            Rain began around 2:00 AM - thin at first, then pounding. The city blurred behind sheets of water. Raghav sat alone in his office, the soft glow of his desk lamp illuminating files, photos, and reports.

 

            Six faces stared at him from the table.

 

            Six lives shattered.

 

            Six memories stolen.

            He unfolded the note again.

 

            Stop chasing patterns you cannot understand.

 

            Outside, thunder rolled. In the flash of lightning, Raghav noticed something reflected in the glass window of his office:

 

            A silhouette.

 

            Someone standing outside his door. Tall. Completely still. Raghav grabbed his gun and strode to the door. He flung it open. The corridor was empty. Except for an envelope lying on the floor. Inside were three words:

 

            You’re getting closer.

 

            A whisper floated through the corridor - thin, eerie, impossible to trace:

 

            “Catch me… if you can.”

 

            The lights flickered.

 

            Raghav felt a deep certainty settle within him - like a stone dropping into water.

 

The game had begun.

 

·        

 

            Far from the city lights, a half-ruined haveli crouched like a forgotten beast. The courtyard was drowned in shadows. Cracked walls leaned precariously. The faint glow of an oil lamp flickered inside one of the rooms.

 

            A man sat cross-legged beside the lamp. He wore a plain black kurta, his posture unnaturally straight. His hair was combed back neatly, his face calm - serene, even. Too serene.

 

            A ten-year-old boy stood in front of him, trembling.

 

            “I want to go home,” the boy whispered.

 

            “You will,” the man replied gently. “But first, you will listen.” He lifted a finger.

 

 

            The boy’s pupils widened instantly. His breathing slowed. His face relaxed. His fear vanished. The man placed a hand lightly on the boy’s head.

 

            “Every mind has a door,” he murmured. “Some are locked. Some are cracked. Some…” He tapped the boy’s forehead, “…are wide open.”

 

            The boy’s voice became flat. “What must I do?”

 

            “You will deliver my next message.”

 

            “To whom?”

 

            A slow smile curved across the man’s lips.

 

            “To the one who is beginning to see me.”

 

            He stood, shadows wrapping around him like loyal servants.

 

            “Inspector Raghav Sharma.”

 

·        

 

            Back at the police station, Raghav stood in the corridor, staring at nothing - listening to everything. He didn’t believe in spirits. He didn’t believe in miracles. He believed in minds. And someone had weaponized them.

 

            He gripped the note.

 

            “Whoever you are,” he whispered, “I’m coming for you.”

 

            Outside, rain blurred the street.

 

            A little boy stood at the gate - drenched, shivering - holding a sealed envelope with Raghav’s name written on it in flawless handwriting.

 

            The boy didn’t know it yet.

            Raghav didn’t know it yet.

 

            But that envelope would change everything.

 

            Forever.

 

·