Chapter 2 The First Puppet

The night air of Udaipur often carried a softness that made the old city feel like a memory you could touch. Tonight, however, something colder threaded through the narrow lanes - an unease that seemed to cling to the walls, to the faint yellow bulbs hanging above doorways, to the droplets of condensation resting like pearls on shuttered shops. It was the sort of night in which shadows behaved a little differently, stretching where they shouldn’t, curling into corners they didn’t belong.

            Harish Dangi could feel every one of those shadows pressing against him as he rode his second-hand scooter through the shrinking streets of Ambamata. The engine coughed and hissed beneath him, as if protesting the strange urgency with which he drove. His knuckles were white upon the handlebar. His breath came in shallow bursts. And his mind - usually calm, structured, disciplined from years of teaching history - felt as if it had been pried open by invisible fingers.

 

            He did not know why he was here.

            He did not know how long he had been riding.

            He only knew that something had brought him.

 

            The scooter rolled to a stop in front of  SM Jewel Palace, its shutters gleaming dully under a streetlight that flickered more than it glowed. The metallic sheet reflected Harish’s face back at him: pale, drawn, drenched in a faint sheen of sweat. He stared at his reflection as if trying to recognize himself, then slowly slid off the seat. His legs wavered under him for a moment, unsteady, like a man waking from a deep sleep.

 

            His thoughts came in short, panicked bursts.

 

            Why am I here? I should be at home. I have papers to grade. Tomorrow is the unit test. I must prepare instructions for the students. I… I didn’t plan this. I didn’t want to come…

 

            But his feet moved of their own accord, carrying him toward the shutter. The metallic curtain was cold beneath his fingertips. He touched it, not knowing whether he sought comfort or clarity. The air around him felt thick, almost viscous. He swallowed hard and whispered into that coldness:

 

            “I don’t want to do this.”

 

            The words left his lips stiffly, trembling, as if they had to force their way out past an invisible hand clamped over his throat. His forehead rested lightly against the shutter, and for a moment he simply stayed there - breathing, shaking, wishing the world would tilt back into normalcy.

 

            But normalcy had abandoned him hours ago.

 

            Five hours, to be exact.

 

            That’s when he had last known who he was.

 

            He had been standing in front of Class VIII-B, reciting the timeline of the Mughal dynasty with his habitual precision. A chalk stick rested neatly between his fingers, his shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow, his spectacles perched low on his nose. Students scribbled notes, the occasional cough or rustle of paper filling the warm afternoon air.

 

            And then something happened - something so unnatural that even in memory it felt like a wound.

He had turned toward the blackboard to underline a date when the classroom suddenly darkened, as if a cloud had drifted over the sun. The walls grew dim. The sounds thinned into silence. The children’s movements became sluggish, like frames of a film dragging behind.

 

And then he saw them.

 

            Two glowing eyes.

 

            Suspended near the cupboard at the back of the classroom.

 

            Glowing not like animal eyes reflecting light, but glowing with intent - alive, intelligent, fixed upon him with a predatory stillness. The irises pulsed faintly, a soft amber halo surrounding a darker, bottomless center.

 

            Harish had blinked.

            The eyes remained.

            He blinked again.

            They drew closer.

 

            He had tried to lift his hand toward his face, thinking perhaps he was fainting or hallucinating. But his hand didn’t move. He tried to speak. His tongue felt locked inside his mouth. He tried to turn away. His head stayed still, held by some invisible force.

 

            Then came the voice.

 

            Not from outside the room.

 

            Not from his ears.

 

            From inside his skull.

 

            “Harish.”

 

A coldness had spread through him - sharp, metallic, as if needles of ice were piercing his thoughts.

 

            “It is time.”

 

            He had felt himself struggling, resisting, panicking.

 

            Time? Time for what? Who is speaking? What are you?

 

But the answers did not arrive

.
Only the command did.

 

            “Tonight. You will go to Mohan Jewel Palace.”

 

He remembered the sharp sting of terror rising in his throat.

 

            No! Why would I go there? Why -

 

The voice cut through his mind with the chill of a blade.

 

            “Obey.”

 

            The eyes grew brighter, filling his vision, drowning his consciousness in a haze of amber light. He felt his muscles tighten, his breath catch, his heartbeat slow as if dragged into obedience. The classroom dissolved around him, fading into a soft grey fog.

 

            He remembered nothing after that.

 

            Only that he was suddenly at the shop’s shutter now, in the deep of night, with a hammer inside his bag and a hollowness in his heartbeat.

 

            A whisper ricocheted inside the dark alleys of his skull:

 

            Open it.

 

            His hands rose to the shutter again.

 

            He closed his eyes tightly, as if he could squeeze the command out of his mind.

 

            “No,” he whispered. “Please… I don’t want to…”

 

            But his hand balled into a fist and beat against the shutter - once, twice, three times. The metallic clangs echoed through the narrow lane.

 

            Lights flickered on from the flats above. A window creaked open. A shadowy figure leaned out.

The door upstairs unlatched and Mohan Lal, the owner, stepped out into the balcony. He was a man in his late fifties, wearing a simple vest and cotton shorts, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

 

            “Harish?” he called down, confused. “What happened? Why are you here at this hour?”

 

            Harish looked up at him, his face pale, hollow. He opened his mouth to answer, but a sudden pressure gripped his throat. His voice came out in a brittle whisper.

 

            “Open the shutter.”

 

            Mohan frowned, leaning forward.

 

            “Why? What’s the matter?”

 

            Harish felt the command pushing through him like a current.

 

            “Open it,” he said again, the words stiff, unnatural.

 

            Mohan stepped back slightly, suddenly uneasy.

 

            “Harish, are you alright? You look sick. Is someone following you?”

 

            Harish twitched once, then twice, as if his muscles were receiving electric shocks. His chin trembled, then tightened. His eyes lost focus.

 

            “Open. The. Shutter.”

 

            The tone made Mohan flinch.

 

            “Not at this time. You can come in the morning. If there’s a problem, we’ll talk.”

 

            Harish’s hand clenched. A tremor shot through his arm.

 

            “Please don’t make me…” he whispered - almost to himself.

 

            And then his body jerked forward, abrupt, robotic. His hand shot out and grabbed the edge of the railing above him with surprising force. Mohan stumbled backward.

 

            “Harish! Are you out of your mind—”

 

            The world blurred.

 

            Harish lunged toward the staircase, his movements unnaturally swift, propelled by something that was not fear, not rage, but control - remote, cold, absolute.

 

            Mohan backed away, instinctively raising his arms.

 

            “What are you doing?!”

 

            Harish tried to stop himself.

            He tried to stop his legs.

            He tried to stop his arms.

 

            But they were no longer his.

            A strange calmness took over him, a numbness that spread through every joint in his body, every strand of muscle. He could feel his mind screaming behind a thick wall, but his limbs moved with mechanical certainty.

 

            The hammer slid into his grip.

 

            Mohan’s eyes widened, “Harish – NO -”

 

            The hammer swung.

 

            The impact cracked through the staircase, through the street, through Harish’s mind.

 

            Blood spattered like ink across the wall.

 

            Mohan collapsed to his knees, gasping, trying to speak. Harish wanted to drop the hammer, wanted to run, wanted to scream for someone to stop him. But the command held him like a puppeteer’s strings.

 

            A second blow fell.

 

            A third.

 

            A fourth.

 

            The air filled with a thick metallic smell, as if rust had blossomed into flowers around them.

When Mohan’s body finally slumped sideways, his breathing faint, the voice whispered through Harish’s skull again:

 

            “Now enter.”

 

            And the world around him spun into darkness.

 

·        

 

            The world returned to Harish in fragments - shards of reality drifting slowly back into focus like pieces of a cracked mirror being reassembled by trembling hands. The first thing he became aware of was the cold floor beneath him. The second was the smell: thick, metallic, suffocating. It hung in the air like something rotten that refused to leave the body.

 

            He blinked once.

            Then twice

.
            Each blink seemed to struggle against an unseen weight pressing heavily on his eyelids. His head jerked up. For a moment he didn’t understand where he was.

 

            The shutter was open behind him, half-lifted at an awkward angle. The yellow streetlights outside bled into the shop interior in uneven patches. His vision trembled as he tried to make sense of the shapes, the outlines, the shadows.

 

            Then he saw the blood.

 

            It streaked across the stairs. It splattered against the wall, forming grotesque patterns as if someone had painted with violent desperation. Drops glimmered faintly under the light.

 

            And Mohan Lal…

 

            Mohan lay slumped against the lower steps, one arm twisted beneath him in an unnatural angle, his head resting awkwardly against the banister. His breathing was shallow, wheezing. His eyes were barely open, unfocused, staring past Harish - as if looking into another realm entirely.

 

            Harish’s throat tightened.

 

            “What… what happened?” The words came out hoarse, cracked.

 

            But he already knew the answer.

 

            The hammer lay on the floor beside him, slick with blood, its handle smeared with a mix of sweat and something darker. Harish stared at it in disbelief. The sight felt like a nightmare - too monstrous to be real, too vivid to be forgotten.

 

            His first instinct was to scramble backward. He pushed himself away from the weapon, his palms slipping slightly on the cold tiles. His breath hitched, quick and irregular. His heart thudded so violently inside his chest that for a moment he felt certain it might burst.

 

            “I didn’t do this,” he whispered.

 

            His voice trembled.

 

            “I didn’t do this… I didn’t…”

 

            He pressed both hands to his temples, as if trying to hold his skull together.

 

            And then the memory rushed back - the glowing eyes, the command, the coldness that had seeped through his veins. He remembered the pressure in his throat, the stiffness in his limbs, the terrible awareness that his body had been moving without him. The thought alone made his stomach twist.

 

            His hands shook violently.

 

            “Someone made me,” he whispered, barely able to breathe. “Someone made me do this. I wasn’t… it wasn’t me…”

 

            The world around him wavered, as if reality itself was struggling to maintain form.

 

            Outside, the alley remained quiet for a moment more - too quiet. It was the kind of silence that precedes a storm. And the storm arrived swiftly.

 

            A distant gasp pierced the night.

 

            A young boy, no more than fourteen, stood at the entrance of the open shutter. His eyes widened as they flicked from the blood, to Mohan’s body, to Harish sitting on the floor with trembling hands. The boy let out a sharp, panicked scream.

 

            “Murder! Someone’s murdered Mohan-ji! Help!”

 

            The sound echoed through the lane, bouncing between the cramped walls. Within seconds, lights switched on across the neighbourhood. Doors swung open. Footsteps approached. People gathered at the threshold - men, women, faces half-asleep and half-horrified.

 

            “What happened?”

            “Is he dead?”

 

            “Is that Harish from the school?”

            “Dear God… look at the blood…”

 

            Harish felt the weight of dozens of eyes pressing upon him. His mouth opened to explain, to plead, to scream that he wasn’t responsible - but the words tangled in his throat.

 

            A middle-aged man stepped forward carefully, as if approaching a dangerous animal.

 

            “Harish… what have you done?”

 

            Harish shook his head furiously.

 

            “No! No - listen to me. I didn’t do it. I swear I didn’t. Something - someone - there were eyes, glowing eyes, I…”

 

            A woman in the crowd stifled a cry.

 

            “Eyes? He’s gone mad.”

 

            Another voice rose sharply.

 

            “He’s lying. Look at his hands! Look at the hammer!”

 

            Harish looked down at his hands. Even in the dim light, he could see the blood - a dark smear across his palms, streaked beneath his fingernails. He wanted to scrub it off. He wanted to tear his own skin, peel it away, anything to erase the trace of violence.

 

            But the blood clung to him like guilt itself.

 

            “I’m not lying,” he whispered desperately. “I didn’t want to come here. I didn’t -”  He broke off, voice cracking.

 

            “He’s in shock,” someone muttered.

 

            “He’s possessed,” another whispered.

 

            “He’s dangerous!” a third cried.

 

            A stone suddenly clattered near his foot—thrown by someone too afraid to step closer yet too angry to stay silent.

 

            Harish flinched instinctively.

 

            Then the sirens arrived.

 

            Two police jeeps screeched to a halt at the mouth of the street. Uniformed officers poured out, pushing back the crowd, creating a rough perimeter. Their boots struck the ground with the finality of judgment.

 

            A tall figure stepped out of the second jeep. His long strides cut through the tension like a blade slicing open fabric.

 

            ACP Arjun Rathod.

 

            His presence commanded silence instantly - not through aggression but through the cold, assessing authority in his eyes. He had a reputation: a man who solved crimes by seeing what others didn’t; a man whose instincts rarely failed him.

            Arjun stepped under the partly opened shutter and took in the scene with a single sweep of his gaze - the blood on the stairs, the broken shape of Mohan’s body, the hammer on the floor, and the trembling figure of Harish huddled in the corner.

 

            One of the constables leaned in.

 

            “Sir, looks like he did it. He’s still sitting here.”

 

            Arjun didn’t respond immediately.

 

            He walked closer to Harish, his boots leaving neat imprints on the dusty floor.

 

            “Mr. Dangi,” he said quietly.

 

            Harish looked up, his eyes red, unfocused, darting between fear and disbelief.

 

            Arjun crouched to his level.

 

            “Tell me what happened.”

 

            Harish blinked at him, lips trembling.

 

            “I… I don’t know. I don’t…” He swallowed hard, then whispered with a desperate urgency, “I didn’t kill him. I swear on everything I have ever believed - I didn’t.”

 

            Arjun’s gaze didn’t soften, but it didn’t harden either. It remained steady, cool, analytical.

 

            “Then how did you end up here? With blood on your hands?”

 

            Harish clenched his fists tightly.

 

            “I was forced,” he whispered.

 

            “By whom?” Arjun asked, keeping his tone neutral.

 

            Harish hesitated. Saying it aloud felt foolish - like signing himself into madness. But the memory was too sharp, too vivid, to deny.

 

            “There were eyes,” he whispered. “Glowing… in my mind. They told me to come here. They controlled me.”

 

            A few constables snorted dismissively. One muttered, “Mental case.”

 

            Arjun didn’t react. He studied Harish carefully - as if measuring the tremors in his voice, the twitch in his fingers, the rawness in his breathing.

 

            “Glowing eyes?” Arjun repeated calmly.

 

            Harish nodded, tears streaking down his cheeks.

 

            “I’m not lying. They were inside my head. Like something was wearing me… from the inside.”

 

            Arjun leaned back slightly, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.

 

            He had heard many lies in interrogation rooms. People invented miracles to escape guilt. They fabricated spirits, curses, shadow men. But something about Harish’s voice carried a peculiar tremor - not of deception, but of genuine horror.

 

            Still, facts mattered.

            “Constable Mehta,” Arjun said without looking away from Harish. “Check for other footprints. Anything that doesn’t match the victim or the suspect.”

 

            “Yes, sir.”

 

            “And seal the entire shop.”

 

            The constables moved swiftly.

 

            Harish buried his face in his hands.

 

            “I didn’t kill him…” he whispered again, muffled. “Please believe me. Someone was inside my mind.”

 

            Arjun stood slowly.

 

            “We’ll find out,” he said quietly. Then, after a brief pause, “Take him into custody.”

 

            Two officers moved toward Harish.

 

            He didn’t resist. He was too exhausted, too broken, too frightened even to stand properly. He allowed them to pull him to his feet, his legs wobbling beneath him.

 

            As he was being led out through the shutter, Harish turned his head one last time toward the shop - toward the blood-streaked stairs, toward Mohan’s motionless body, toward the place where his life had split into a before and after.

 

            Inside his head, a faint shadow rippled.

 

            A trace of the glowing eyes.

 

            He shivered.

 

            And the city of Udaipur, bathed in moonlight, remained eerily silent—as though it too was listening for a whisper in the dark.

 

·        

 

            Udaipur’s night had thickened into an oily darkness by the time Inspector Raghav and his junior, SI Purohit, stepped out of the hospital. The hallway lights flickered behind them, throwing long, skeletal shadows on the polished floor. Outside, the usual night wind carried the scent of lakeside algae mixed with diesel fumes from late-running auto-rickshaws. It should have been calming. Somehow, it wasn’t.

Raghav walked slowly toward the jeep, hands in his pockets, head lowered as though listening to something only he could hear. Purohit followed, careful not to disturb the inspector’s silent contemplation. The city slept, but the case was awake - alive, breathing, shifting in shape.

 

            A mild-mannered teacher turns murderer… then cries about glowing eyes.

            No motive.

            No pattern.

            No sanity.

 

            It disturbed even Raghav.

 

            He had seen criminals break apart, crumble, deny, justify. But this - this was different. The tremors in Mohan’s voice, the rhythmic phrasing, the terror that clenched his throat… it didn’t feel performed. It didn’t feel humanly constructed.

            It felt implanted.

 

            Raghav unlocked the jeep. “We’re going back to the school,” he said quietly.

 

            “At this hour?” Purohit blinked.

 

            “People hide their real selves in the quiet hours,” Raghav replied. “Let’s see what a school hides after dark.”

 

            They drove through Udaipur’s narrow lanes - shadowy havelis leaning inward like old eavesdroppers, the faint shimmer of Lake Pichola stretching in the distance, broken by the occasional reflection of a passing scooter’s headlight. Vendors had shut their stalls. Rooftop restaurants had gone silent. The whole city felt like a painted scene - beautiful but holding secrets in its stillness.

 

            The school gate creaked as Raghav pushed it open. The metal sound echoed through the empty courtyard. The building loomed ahead in the faint streetlamp glow, its colonial-era architecture casting jagged silhouettes across the playground.

 

            They entered Mohan Sharma’s classroom.

 

            The air smelled faintly of chalk and moist wood. One window was slightly ajar - something Raghav had noticed earlier but not paid attention to. Now, under the moonlight, he saw it differently. The frame seemed scraped, almost forcibly pushed open.

 

            He went near it. “Look.”

 

            Purohit bent close. “Scratches.”

 

            “And here,” Raghav said, touching the lower ridge, “Markings. Not of fingers… not exactly.”

 

            “Animal?” Purohit whispered.

 

            “Too symmetrical for an animal,” Raghav murmured.

 

            A faint breeze slipped in through the opening, cold despite the season. The curtains fluttered like thin ghosts. The moonlight spilled across the floor - where Mohan’s desk sat silently, holding its secrets beneath layers of papers and notebooks.

 

            Raghav opened the drawer.

 

            Inside lay the usual clutter - red pens, chalk pieces, attendance registers. But beneath the registers something else was peeking - a stack of loose pages bound by a rubber band. Raghav drew them out.

The handwriting was Mohan’s. Neat, rounded, methodical. A teacher’s script.

 

            But the content was anything but.

 

            Page after page contained drawings - not artistic, not expressive, not even coherent. Instead, they looked compulsive, repetitive, almost carved rather than written. The same symbol appeared again and again - a rough shape resembling two elongated ovals, connected by jagged strokes. It took a moment for the mind to process it.

 

            Eyes.

 

            Dozens. Hundreds.

 

            Wide, unnatural, staring eyes.

 

            Purohit swallowed hard. “Sir… he was drawing these? Why?”

 

            “That’s what we’re going to find out.”

 

            Raghav flipped through more pages. The intensity increased. Early sketches were light pencil strokes. Later ones were carved deep, almost rupturing the paper. The final few pages were nearly shredded at the center, as though Mohan had tried to erase or destroy something but failed.

 

            The last sheet sent a shiver through Raghav.

 

            Two words.

            Jagged. Desperate.

 

            “HE WATCHES.”

 

            Below it, smeared in what looked - not like ink - but something darker. More organic.

 

            Purohit whispered, “Sir… do you think this is blood?”

 

            Raghav didn’t answer.

 

            Not yet.

 

            Not until evidence spoke with certainty.

 

            He took out an evidence bag and carefully slid the pages inside. “We need to dust the room first thing in the morning. Meanwhile, there’s something else you can check.”

 

            “What, sir?”

 

            “The footage.”

 

            “There are CCTV cameras near the playground and the staff block, not inside classrooms though,” Purohit murmured.

 

            “We’ll start with what we have,” Raghav said.

 

            They returned to the jeep and drove toward the nearby school office building where the security guard was dozing under a dim yellow bulb. The guard startled awake when he saw the police jeep.

 

            “Sah - Sir!” he stammered.

 

            “No questions,” Raghav said. “Just access to your footage room.”

 

            Minutes later, they were inside a cramped room smelling of cold wiring and machine dust. A single monitor glowed in the corner - grainy, monochrome footage playing silently from multiple angles.

 

            “Which camera covers Mohan’s classroom side?” Raghav asked.

 

            “This one, sir,” the guard said, pointing to a feed showing the corridor outside the classrooms. The timestamp was set at the previous evening. At exactly 7:31 PM - about twenty minutes before the murder - Mohan appeared on the screen. He walked slowly down the corridor, head lowered, hands stiff at his sides.

 

            “That’s him,” Purohit murmured.

 

            But something was off.

 

            His gait looked mechanical. His movements lacked rhythm, fluidity, consciousness - as if he were walking under someone else’s command.

 

            He disappeared into the classroom.

 

            Two minutes passed.

 

            Raghav leaned closer. “Fast-forward to the point he leaves.”

 

            The footage jumped forward.

            Then - at 7:38 PM - Mohan walked out.

 

            But not alone.

 

            Behind him, for the briefest second, the camera registered a flicker. A distortion. A shadow that wasn’t shaped like a human silhouette. It passed across the corridor wall like a smear of darkness, shapeless yet unmistakably directional.

 

            Purohit froze. “Sir… what was that?”

 

            The guard muttered, “Maybe a glitch…?”

 

            “No,” Raghav said softly.

 

            His voice had dropped an octave.

 

            “That wasn’t a glitch.”

 

            He replayed the footage. Slowed it down. Frame by frame.

 

            There.

            That smear again.

            Almost like… something lurking.

            Following.

            Observing.

 

            And then - the frame paused.

 

            For a single fraction of a second, two faint points of illumination flashed within that smear. Not bright, not defined - just the suggestion of something reflective. Something alive.

 

            Something watching.

 

            Purohit’s voice trembled. “Sir… those look like -”

 

            “Eyes,” Raghav finished quietly.

 

            The room felt colder. But the night wasn’t over. Udaipur had more secrets to reveal.

 

            At dawn, the city was washed in pale-blue hues as the investigators gathered outside the school again. Technicians dusted the classroom, collected fibers, photographed every scratch. Raghav remained near the window, staring at the marks.

 

            “Sir,” one technician said, “these aren’t tool scratches.”

 

            “What are they?”

 

            “Pressure streaks. As if someone… or something… pushed the frame from outside with unnatural force.”

 

            “Unnatural how?”

 

            “Too uniform. Too strong. Human fingers wouldn’t do this without leaving prints.”

 

            “And animals?”

 

            “No animal grip matches this pattern.”

 

            Raghav nodded. “Just document it.”

            He stepped outside, letting the morning air brush his face. A group of students had gathered near the school gates, whispering in anxious curiosity. Rumors would spread soon. Stories would alter themselves. Myths would begin.

 

            He didn’t care about myths.

 

            He cared about patterns.

 

            And something about this case was beginning to form one - dark, deliberate, intelligent.

 

            He walked toward the boundary wall. The early morning sun cast a soft glow, revealing details the night had hidden. On the soil near the window, he noticed indentations - shallow, but present. Not footprints. Not shoe prints.

 

            They were too evenly shaped.

            Too smooth.

            Almost circular.

 

            Something had stood there.

            Something that didn’t belong in the normal catalogue of living creatures.

 

            He crouched and touched the soil. It was cold. Unnaturally cold.

 

            Behind him, Purohit approached. “Sir, you’re thinking something. What is it?”

 

            Raghav didn’t answer immediately. His gaze remained locked on those marks.

 

            Finally, he said, “If Mohan saw something… if he truly saw glowing eyes… what if he wasn’t hallucinating?”

 

            Purohit frowned. “Sir, you mean… something actually controlled him?”

 

            “Yes,” Raghav said. “Something that made him walk out of school like a puppet.”

 

            “But… what kind of person can do that?”

 

            Raghav straightened slowly. “Whoever it is… they’re not just a killer.”

 

            He turned toward the school building, his eyes darkening.

 

            “They’re a thief.”

 

            “A thief?”

 

            “A thief of minds.”

 

            Later that afternoon, the hospital sent an urgent update.

 

            Mohan Sharma - still in the special observation room - had woken up again. This time screaming. Violently enough to trigger alarms. Nurses rushed in, trying to restrain him without hurting him.

 

            By the time Raghav arrived, the corridor was buzzing. Two nurses were in tears. A doctor was instructing interns to sedate the patient again.

 

            “What happened?” Raghav asked sharply.

 

            The doctor wiped sweat from his forehead. “He woke up shouting that ‘he’ was inside the room.”

 

            “Who?”

 

            “He didn’t give a name. Just kept screaming: He’s here… he’s standing near the wall… don’t look in his eyes… don’t let him in… Then he collapsed.”

 

            “Collapsed?”

 

            “More like fainted from panic. His heart rate shot dangerously high.”

 

            “Is he stable?”

            “For now.”

 

            Raghav stepped inside.

 

            The room was dim. Curtains drawn. Mohan lay unconscious, breathing heavily. Machines beeped steadily. But something else caught Raghav’s eye.

 

            On the wall opposite the bed - near the corner - was a faint streak. A dark, smudged line like burnt residue or soot.

 

            He walked closer.

 

            The line wasn’t random. It followed a vertical curve, almost like the trace of something that had leaned its weight against the wall before sliding away.

 

            He touched it lightly.

            Cold.

            Like the soil outside the school.

 

            Behind him, Purohit whispered, “Sir… what do you think happened here?”

 

            Raghav looked at the soot-like streak, and for the first time in years, his expression betrayed a crack - a flicker of dread.

 

            “I think,” he said quietly, “something visited him.”

 

            The room felt suffocating.

 

            But the case was now beyond suffocation. It was mutating into something far larger.

 

            A gentle teacher had snapped like a puppet.

            Blood had been spilled in a jewelry shop.

            Eyes had glowed in distortions.

            Something had stood outside his classroom.

            Something had stood inside his hospital room.

 

            Someone - or something - had taken control of him.

 

            And this was just the beginning.

 

            The First Puppet.

 

            The First Warning.

 

            The First Night of Blood.

 

            And Raghav knew - instinctively, chillingly - that the next victim had already been chosen.

 

            By evening, the hospital incident had reached the ears of the district superintendent, and the pressure had begun to tighten around the investigation. Reporters had already begun sniffing around the edges of the story - though none yet knew the shocking details. The official version was still: Teacher suffers breakdown after violent crime. Nothing more. Nothing supernatural. Nothing abnormal.

 

            Raghav knew the truth was neither supernatural nor explainable. It was something in between - a region where logic frayed, where science had no vocabulary yet.

 

            He sat in his cabin at the police station, his desk lamp casting a dim yellow circle over the wooden surface. Files lay scattered. Photos of the crime scene were clipped on the board in front of him—the jewelry shop smeared with a metallic sheen of dried blood, the shattered glass counter, the disordered necklace trays, the body of the owner lying in an impossible angle.

            First robbery.

            First murder.

            First puppet.

 

            And now - the first trace of something that was not human.

 

            He lit a new cigarette but did not smoke it. He simply held it, staring at the swirling ribbon of grey rising toward the ceiling. His mind raced through every detail. Mohan’s drawings of eyes. The corridor distortion. The marks on the soil. The soot-like streak in the hospital room. All pointing in one direction:

 

            Control.
           

            Possession.
           

            Manipulation.

 

            But by whom?

            Or what?

 

            The door opened. Purohit stepped in, looking pale and slightly shaken. “Sir… the report you asked for has arrived.”

 

            “Which one?”

 

            “The psychological profile. And the early toxicology.”

 

            Raghav leaned forward. “Speak.”

 

            The words seemed to trouble Purohit. “Sir, the psychiatrist says Mohan doesn’t show signs of long-term mental instability. No schizophrenia. No delusions. No history of hallucinations. Nothing.”

 

            “So he’s stable.”

 

            “Except for yesterday,” Purohit whispered. “Yesterday… whatever happened to him… it wasn’t a gradual break. It was sudden. Like a switch.”

 

            A switch.

 

            Raghav’s eyes narrowed. “Go on.”

 

            “The toxicology report… it’s even stranger. No drugs in his system. No hallucinogens. No sedatives. Nothing that could make him imagine glowing eyes.”

 

            Raghav tapped the cigarette against the table. “So we’re left with the impossible.”

 

            Purohit shook his head. “Sir… there’s more. Something the technician wanted you to see personally.”

 

            He handed over a sealed envelope. Raghav opened it.

 

            Inside were four printed photographs - close-ups of Mohan’s right forearm taken after he had fallen unconscious yesterday. Raghav brought one closer to the lamp.

 

            A faint pattern.

            Barely visible.

            But present.

 

            Not bruises.

 

            Not scratches.

            A sequence of tiny, uniform marks - like the imprint of microscopic needles arranged in a curved arc.

 

            Raghav exhaled slowly. “Where exactly were these found?”

 

            “Just above his wrist,” Purohit replied. “On the inside.”

 

            “Self-inflicted?”

 

            “No chance. The angle is wrong. And they’re too symmetrical.”

 

            Raghav stared at the marks longer. They didn’t look like wounds. They looked like… an interface. As though something had gripped him - or connected with him - through those points.

 

            He placed the photographs on the table. “Call the technician. I want digital enhancement.”

 

            “He’s waiting outside,” Purohit said.

 

            “Send him in.”

 

            The technician - a bald man with square glasses - entered with a nervous stiffness. Raghav motioned toward the chair.

 

            “What do you make of this pattern?”

 

            The man adjusted his glasses. “It’s definitely not any needle shape used in medical practice. Too small. Too consistent in spacing. Honestly, sir… they look like nodes.”

 

            “Nodes?”

 

            “Yes. Contact points. Like something touched him with a surface embedded with… I don’t know… sensors?”

 

            Raghav stayed silent. Sensors.             Nodes.             Control points.

 

            A teacher murdered because someone touched his mind through his skin.

 

            “What else did you find?” Raghav asked.

 

            “Something on the soil sample from the classroom window.”

 

            Raghav’s head snapped up. “From the marks outside?”

 

            “Yes, sir. We found particles. Not biological. Not mineral. Something synthetic.”

 

            “What kind?”

 

            The technician swallowed. “Micron-level fragments of a polymer compound… but with traces of conductive metal woven into it.”

 

            Raghav stiffened. “Conductive?”

 

            “Yes, sir. Which means whatever left those marks… it wasn’t purely biological. It had some kind of…”

 

            He hesitated.

 

            “Say it,” Raghav demanded quietly.

 

            “…some kind of built structure. Artificial. Mixed with organic components.”

 

            Purohit muttered, “What kind of creature has artificial parts?”

 

            The technician replied softly, “Not a creature, sir. A designed entity.”

 

            A designed entity.

            Raghav leaned back in his chair, eyes darkening. The city outside hummed with its usual noise, unaware that somewhere in its quiet corners, something engineered - something with purpose - was moving through the shadows, touching minds, turning humans into tools.

 

            “Leave the photos,” Raghav told the technician. “And keep this confidential.”

 

            The man nodded and slipped out of the cabin.

 

            When the door closed, Purohit whispered, “Sir… what does all this mean? A synthetic compound? Nodes? Eyes in the corridor? This is getting too…”

 

            “Uncomfortable?” Raghav murmured.

 

            “Unbelievable.”

 

            Raghav stood up. His shoulders tightened with a growing sense of direction.

 

            “Call the families,” he said.

 

            “Whose, sir?”

 

            “Anyone who has worked close to Mohan. His colleagues. His neighbors. His students’ parents.

Anyone who might have seen something unusual.”

 

            “Unusual like what?”

 

            “Unusual like… someone watching.”

 

            By 9 PM, three families had come to the police station. Raghav and Purohit sat with them in the small visitor room - a cramped space with steel chairs, peeling paint, and the smell of old disinfectant clinging stubbornly to the air.

 

            The first was an elderly couple who lived next door to Mohan. The husband spoke with trembling breath. “He was a gentle man, Inspector sahib. Never raised his voice. Never fought with anyone.”

 

            “Did you notice any visitors?” Raghav asked.

 

            “Not a single one,” the man replied. “But…”

 

            Raghav looked at him sharply. “But what?”

 

            The wife completed the sentence. “There was someone near his window three nights ago.”

 

            Purohit leaned forward. “Who?”

 

            “We couldn’t see clearly,” she said. “It was late. Around 1 AM. We heard a noise. Like someone dragging their feet. My husband looked outside… and he swore he saw a shadow bending near Mohan’s window.”

 

            Raghav’s voice was calm. “Human shape?”

 

            “No,” the husband whispered. “Not exactly human.”

 

            A cold silence fell across the room.

 

            The next family entered - a young mother holding her child close. She said her son had been taught by Mohan for three years. “He always smiled, sir. Always patient. But last week… something changed.”

 

            “What changed?”

 

            “He jumped in fear during class. As if someone had shouted at him.”

 

            “He reacted… to nothing?”

            The woman nodded rapidly. “Yes. He looked toward the window suddenly. He said he felt ‘someone standing there’. But when we checked - no one was around.”

 

            The room grew heavier. The third visitor was a middle-aged guard from a nearby ATM. He sat stiffly, refusing tea, his hands trembling slightly. “Sir… please don’t laugh at me.”

 

            “Speak,” Raghav said.

 

            “Two nights before the robbery… I was on my shift. Around midnight… I saw something on the school terrace.”

 

            “Something?”

 

            “It wasn’t human.” His voice cracked. “It crouched. Motionless. Watching the road.”

 

            Raghav exchanged a slow glance with Purohit.

 

            “What did it look like?”

 

            “I don’t know,” the guard whispered. “But its eyes… they reflected the moonlight.”

 

            A chill slid through Raghav’s spine.

 

            He didn’t show it.

 

            Instead, he thanked the guard and asked Purohit to escort them out. When the room was empty, Raghav leaned back and closed his eyes. The pattern was now clear. Something had been around Mohan for days - stalking him, studying him, waiting. Something engineered. Something adaptive.
Something capable of mental intrusion. The First Puppet wasn’t chosen randomly.
He was chosen after observation.

 

            A predator had circled him.

 

            And then - it had struck.

 

            At midnight, the final update of the day arrived.

 

            A nurse from the hospital called Raghav directly, her voice shaky. “Inspector… something strange happened again.”

 

            He straightened in his chair. “What happened?”

 

            “We were checking Mohan’s vitals. Everything was normal. Then… suddenly… the heart monitor spiked. Just for one second.”

 

            “What triggered it?”

 

            “We don’t know. No physical movement. No noise. Nothing. But the temperature in the room dropped by three degrees.”

 

            Raghav felt the tension in his throat tighten. “Is he awake?”

 

            “No… he’s still unconscious.”

 

            “Is he safe?”

 

            The nurse hesitated. “Inspector… I don’t think he is.”

 

            “Why?”

 

Her answer sent a ripple through the quiet police station air.

 

            “Because a few seconds before the temperature dropped… Mohan whispered something in his sleep.”

 

            “What did he say?”

 

            “He said, He’s here again.”

 

            Raghav didn’t waste another second. He grabbed his coat, signaled Purohit, and headed for the jeep. The night outside was cold. Too cold for Udaipur in this season. As they drove toward the hospital, Raghav had only one thought running through his mind - a thought that scraped against his bones like a warning:

 

            This wasn’t the first attack.

 

            It wouldn’t be the last.

 

            Something was choosing its puppets.

 

            And somewhere in the darkness, its eyes were already searching for the next one.

 

            The hospital was unusually silent when Raghav and Purohit arrived - too silent. Hospitals always hummed with some kind of life: the shuffle of nurses, the beeping of machines, the low murmur of attendants waiting outside wards. But tonight, the entire place seemed suspended, as if someone had pulled a thin veil over its sound.

 

            Raghav noticed it the moment he stepped through the main entrance. The air felt dense, like it was resisting their entry. Even the ceiling fans seemed to rotate slower.

 

            The night-shift receptionist sat stiffly at the counter, her face pale, her eyes looking anywhere except toward the ward corridor. When she saw the inspectors, she stood abruptly.

 

            “Inspector… you’re here,” she said in a whisper meant to be respectful but strained by fear.

 

            “Where is the nurse who called?” Raghav asked.

 

            “She’s waiting inside the ward, sir.”

 

            “And Mohan?”

 

            “Still unconscious. But… something isn’t right.”

 

            Raghav did not ask what. He already sensed it. He and Purohit walked down the corridor. Their boots echoed softly. The white fluorescent lights flickered overhead in a slow, unsettling rhythm. With each flicker, the corridor brightened and dimmed like the building itself was breathing heavily.

Halfway through, Purohit whispered, “Sir… the temperature.”

 

            “Yes,” Raghav said quietly. “I feel it.”

 

            It was colder here. Not the crisp cold of winter nights, but a sharp, unnatural cold that settled into the bones. Cold that suggested something invisible was passing through the hallway, brushing against the walls.

 

            They reached Room 312.

 

            A nurse stood outside, hugging her arms for warmth despite the fact she wore a full-sleeved coat. She flinched when she saw them.

 

            Raghav stepped toward her. “Tell me exactly what you noticed.”

 

            She pointed inside the room, her fingers trembling. “The temperature dropped suddenly. And the heart monitor spiked… as if someone startled him. But he didn’t wake up.”

 

            “That all?”

 

            She shook her head. “No. I… I heard something.”

 

            “What did you hear?”

 

            “Breathing.”

 

            “Whose breathing?”

 

            She swallowed. “Heavy breathing. Not his. Something else. In the room.”

            Purohit stiffened. “Did someone enter the ward?”

            “No,” she said quickly. “I was right outside. No one went in. But it felt like someone was standing near the bed… breathing… watching him.”

            Raghav nodded once. “Stay outside. Don’t enter under any circumstances.”

            The nurse stepped back gratefully. Raghav pushed open the door slowly.

            The room was dim and cold enough that his breath puffed out in thin clouds. For a moment, it looked like the room was filled with mist, though there was no source for it. The curtains hung still. The machines glowed faintly in the bluish darkness.

            And there he was - Mohan Sharma, lying on the bed, the sheets pulled up to his chest, his face pale, motionless, almost waxen. The heart monitor beeped steadily. But there was something else. Raghav stepped closer. A faint, almost invisible disturbance in the air - that was the only way to describe it. A vibration. A pressure. A presence.

            Like someone had just moved away from the bed a moment before they walked in. He scanned the corners. Nothing. But the nothingness felt… full. He moved to the bedside. His fingers touched the metal railing - it was freezing. He checked the temperature display on the AC panel.

 

            It read 18°C.

 

            But the room felt colder than a freezer.

 

            Purohit whispered, “Sir, look.”

 

            He pointed toward the wall - the same wall where earlier a soot-like streak had been found. Now, there was a second streak. Longer. Sharper at the top, fading toward the bottom. As if fingers - long, thin fingers - had dragged downward across the paint, leaving a trail of something dark.

 

            Raghav moved closer. The streak was indeed the same—ashy, cold, and unnatural.

 

            “Ignore the fear,” he muttered to himself. “Focus.”  Purohit stayed back, frozen near the doorway.

Raghav inspected the bed next. That was when he noticed something far more chilling.

 

            Mohan’s right hand - the same hand with the symmetrical node-like marks - was now positioned differently than before. Earlier it had rested on his chest. Now it hung over the side of the bed.
Limp. As though someone had held it, examined it, and then let it drop. Raghav lifted the hand carefully.

His heart skipped a beat. There were new marks. Not scratches. Not bruises. Fresh nodes.
Three of them. Perfectly round. Perfectly spaced. Red at the edges - as if the skin had been touched by something hot. Or something electrical.

 

            Behind him, Purohit whispered, “Sir… are you seeing what I’m seeing?”

                       

            “Yes.”

 

            “These marks… whatever is touching him…”

 

            “…is trying to reconnect.”

 

            Purohit swallowed. “Reconnect with what?”

 

            “With his mind,” Raghav said.

 

            At that exact moment, the heart monitor let out a long beep - not an alarm - but a sudden spike. A violent, unnatural surge. Mohan’s fingers twitched.

 

            Purohit stepped back instinctively. “Sir!”

 

            Raghav leaned over the bed. Mohan’s eyelids trembled. Then slowly – painfully - they opened. But the eyes that surfaced beneath those lids were not the eyes of a gentle teacher. They were wide.
Bloodshot. Unfocused. Empty. Like the eyes of a man seeing a nightmare pressing its face against the glass of reality.

 

            “Mohan?” Raghav said softly. “Can you hear me?”

 

            Mohan’s lips moved. Barely. A breath escaped. A whisper tangled in weakness.

 

            “He… is… here…”

 

            Purohit shivered. “Sir, who is he talking about?”

 

            Mohan’s eyes shifted, not toward Raghav, not toward Purohit - but toward the far corner of the room. The darkest corner. His fingers rose shakily, pointing in that direction.

            “Don’t… look… in… his… eyes…”

            Raghav turned slowly. There was nothing. Nothing visible.

            But the corner seemed wrong - too dark, too deep, as if the shadows there had weight, as if they weren’t shadows at all but a veil thrown over something waiting quietly.

            Raghav stared into that darkness.

            And the darkness stared back He didn’t see eyes.He didn’t see a shape.  But he felt it. A sensation like standing near the edge of a cliff at night. A sense that something was inches away.

            Watching.

            Choosing.

            Claiming.

            Behind him, Mohan gasped. His body jerked. The heart monitor spiked again. Nurses rushed in. Raghav stepped away, eyes still on the corner. The presence receded. A softness returned to the air. The cold lifted slightly. As if whatever was there… had slipped away.

            But not far.

            Never far.

            An hour later, after stabilizing Mohan again, the doctor approached Raghav. “Inspector… his brain scans came in.”

Raghav stood beside the wall, arms folded, waiting.

            “What did you find?”

The doctor hesitated as if choosing the simplest possible version of a complicated truth.

            “There is… activity,” he said. “Activity that shouldn’t be there.”

            “What kind of activity?”

            “In his frontal lobe. Patterns we don’t see in normal neurological responses.”

            “Stress? Seizure? Trauma?”

            “No.”

            The doctor lowered his voice.

            “This looks like input.”

            Raghav’s face tightened. “Input?”

            “Not output. Input. As if his brain is… receiving something.”

            Purohit stared. “Receiving what?”

The doctor shook his head helplessly.

            “I don’t know, Inspector. It’s not electrical noise. It’s not sleep neurology. It’s not trauma. It’s like… signals are being fed into his brain from an external source.”

            An external source.

            Raghav felt the last piece of the pattern clicking sharply into place.

            The nodes on his wrist.            The glowing eyes.        The shadow distortions. The streaks on the wall. The sudden behavioral switch. The puppet-like gait. The temperature drops. The neurological input signals. Someone was controlling him. Someone was trying to reclaim the connection. Someone wasn’t done with their puppet.

            Raghav exhaled slowly.

            “He’s being targeted,” he said softly. “And whatever is targeting him… wants him back.”

            The doctor looked horrified. “Inspector… if this continues, his brain won’t survive. He’s already deteriorating.”

            “How long does he have?”

            The doctor straightened. His voice was grave.

            “Hours. May be a day.”

            The corridor hummed faintly with distant hospital sounds.

            But behind that thin layer of normalcy, Raghav could feel it - a pair of unseen eyes watching from somewhere close, choosing, waiting, looking for the next mind to grip.

            The First Puppet was dying.

            And the puppeteer was already hungry for the second.

            The rain began somewhere after midnight, the kind that didn’t roar or crackle but whispered against windows like a private conversation. In Udaipur, the city’s lights dissolved into soft halos behind the curtain of water. The morgue at Maharana Bhupal Government Hospital sat in a lonely wing of the complex, its corridors stretching out like the hollow ribs of an abandoned ship.

 

            Inspector Devraj Shekhawat pushed through the metal door with the back of his wrist. The room greeted him with its usual cocktail of cold steel and formalin—a smell he had grown used to, though never quite indifferent to. His boots echoed sharply on the floor tiles, the only sign of life in a place built to hold nothing but the end of it.

 

            On the far side, Dr. Anika Rathod, in her pale-blue coat, stood over a metal examination table. A white sheet draped the body lying beneath. Her hair was tied higher than usual, a sign she was deep in focus.

 

            She didn’t look up when she heard Devraj’s footsteps.

            “You took your time,” she said quietly, her voice steady but carrying a hint of unease.

 

            “I had to finish with the statements.” Devraj stepped closer. “Tell me.”

 

            Anika hesitated. And that was enough to tighten something inside his chest.

 

            “Anika…?”

 

            She took a breath and finally pulled down the sheet.

 

            The body of Vishal Purohit, the mild-mannered schoolteacher who had turned into a murderer for one inexplicable night, looked ordinary at first glance - pale, still, harmless again. But it was the wound on the back of his neck that caught Devraj’s eye.

            A small, perfectly round bruise. Almost too perfect. Not quite a puncture. Not quite a burn. Something in between.

            Devraj leaned in. “What is that?”

            “That is what I called you for.” Anika removed her gloves and tossed them into a metal bin. “I’ve never seen a pattern like this.”

            “It looks… deliberate?”

            “It looks controlled,” she corrected softly. “Not accidental.”

            Devraj exhaled sharply. “He murdered a man, robbed the house, tried to run, collapsed, and died. But before collapsing, he told police he saw ‘a pair of glowing eyes’. And now this.”

            Anika nodded. “And Dev… this mark. It isn’t from the scuffle. It isn’t from the fall. It isn’t from anything external I can identify.”

            Devraj’s brow furrowed. “What are you implying?”

            “That something happened to him long before we found him. Something that interfered with his system.” She hesitated again. “His brain chemistry is extremely unusual. High levels of adrenaline. Distorted neural patterns.”

            Devraj stared at her. “Distorted how?”

            “Like someone had pressed a switch inside his mind,” Anika said.

            The words didn’t echo through the room - but they rippled inside him.           A switch. Inside his mind.

            Devraj straightened, the air suddenly colder. “He was a perfectly normal man. No history of violence. No medical conditions. His students loved him. He lived alone, no addictions, no past trauma. Nothing.”

            “Nothing,” she repeated. “And yet his brain shows signs of extreme manipulation. Not physical. Not chemical. Something else.”

            Devraj clenched his jaw. “A teacher with no enemies does not suddenly butcher a jeweller and his wife unless something pushes him.”

            “Or someone,” she whispered.

            They stood in silence for a long moment.

            Only the humming of the old freezer units broke the stillness.

            Finally, Anika lifted a notebook from the counter and flipped through it. “There’s more.”

            Devraj took a step closer.

            “The optic nerves,” she said. “They show signs of stress - as if he had been exposed to a sudden, overwhelming visual stimulus.”

            “Like bright light?” Devraj asked, though his voice already carried dread.

            “Not just bright,” she said. “Something intense enough to shock the brain.”

            Devraj looked at the small mark on the body’s neck again. “Anika… do you think the ‘glowing eyes’ he claimed to see could have been real?”

            Anika didn’t answer immediately.

            When she finally did, her voice was tight.

            “I think he saw something. Whether those were eyes or something else entirely… I can’t say. But whatever it was - it triggered him.”

            Devraj felt the ground beneath him shift - not literally, but mentally, as if some familiar law of human behaviour had quietly bent out of shape.

            He stepped back, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Glowing eyes. A mark on the neck. A normal man acting like a trained killer. And now he’s dead.”

            “Whoever did this,” Anika said, “didn’t want him alive.”

            Devraj looked at her sharply. “You think someone silenced him?”

            “I think someone designed him,” she corrected.

            Designed. The word sent a cold shiver along his spine. Before he could respond, the morgue door opened with a dull metallic scrape.

A constable stepped in, saluting nervously. “Sir… sorry to disturb. There’s someone asking for you outside. Says it’s urgent.”

            Devraj frowned. “Who?”

            “He wouldn’t tell. Just said his name is…”
The constable checked his notebook. “…Officer Raghav Singh from Crime Branch Jaipur.”

            Devraj’s eyes narrowed. “Raghav Singh? Why is he here at two in the morning?”

            The constable looked even more confused. “Sir… he said he wants to speak in private.”

            Anika crossed her arms. “Dev, be careful.”

            “I always am.”

            He moved toward the door, but paused when Anika said softly:

            “Come back as soon as you can. This case is… unlike anything we’ve handled.”

            He nodded and stepped into the corridor.

            The corridor felt colder than it should have been, the overhead tube lights flickering every few seconds. Water dripped somewhere in the distance, perhaps from a cracked pipe or an unsealed window. The hospital at night always felt abandoned, half-asleep, as if dreaming its own uneasy dreams.

            Devraj reached the waiting lobby and stopped.

            A man stood with his back turned, hands behind him. Dark-blue blazer. Clean stance. Too clean for a rainy night. Rainwater glimmered at the edges of his shoulders but had already dried in odd patterns - almost as if he hadn’t come in from the rain at all.

            “Raghav Singh?” Devraj called out.

            The man turned.

            It was him - but different. Thinner. Older around the eyes. His smile didn’t reach his expression.

            “Inspector Shekhawat,” he said warmly. “Always punctual, even at odd hours. Good to see you.”

            Devraj didn’t relax. “What brings Crime Branch to Udaipur tonight?”

            “Information,” Raghav replied. “Sensitive information.”

            He stepped closer, lowering his voice.

            “The case you’re working on - Vishal Purohit - the teacher who murdered the couple…”

            “Yes?”

            Raghav’s eyes hardened, becoming strangely sharp, as if cutting through Devraj’s face and something beyond it.

            “You need to drop the investigation.”

            Devraj blinked. “Excuse me?”

            Raghav repeated, slower. “Drop it. Close the file as an aberrant crime under mental instability. File the report. Move on.”

            The rain outside thickened on the glass, tapping gently - though the sound felt like hammering inside Devraj’s head.

            “And why do you want me to do that?” he asked.

            “Because,” Raghav said, “you’re stepping onto ground you shouldn’t. For your sake - and your department’s - bury the case now.”

            Devraj let out a humourless breath. “Is this an order? From Jaipur Crime Branch?”

            A pause. A silence that stretched too long. Then Raghav spoke.

            “It’s not coming from Jaipur.”

            “Then from where?”

            Raghav’s jaw tightened. “From the people who don’t want this case opened.”

            Devraj stepped closer too, their faces almost level now. “Who are these ‘people’?”

            Raghav’s throat moved slowly - one swallow.

            “Let it go, Devraj.”

            “Not an answer.”

            Raghav’s voice softened, sounding almost like a plea. “You know me. I wouldn’t come here at this hour unless it was serious. This thing… you don’t want to pursue it.”

            Devraj’s muscles tensed.

            “I don’t take orders without explanations,” he said.

            Raghav exhaled and reached into his blazer, pulling out a small, sealed envelope.

            He placed it in Devraj’s hand.

            “What is this?”

            “Proof,” Raghav said. “Open it when you’re alone. And after that - burn it. Don’t keep it. Don’t show it to anyone.”

            The dim lobby light reflected on his face, making his eyes appear darker - almost hollow.

            Raghav stepped back. “If you continue, there will be consequences far beyond what you can imagine.”

            Devraj clenched the envelope tightly. “Are you threatening me?”

            “No,” Raghav said softly. “I’m warning you.”

            And with that, he walked out of the hospital without another word.

            Devraj watched him leave, a knot forming in his stomach. Something in Raghav’s walk had changed - too stiff, too controlled. As if someone else was pulling invisible strings tied to his limbs.

            The thought sent a sudden pulse of dread through him. He whispered into the empty hallway:

            “Who has strings long enough to reach a man like him?”

            The rain outside answered with harder tapping.

            He looked at the envelope again. No name. No seal. Just a weight that felt bigger than paper.

            He slipped it inside his jacket and returned toward the morgue.

            As he walked, Devraj felt something unusual - something he couldn’t justify with logic. A feeling that someone was watching him. Not following. Watching. And not from behind. From somewhere ahead. The lights flickered again.

            Just once.

            But in that single flicker, for less than a fraction of a second, he thought he saw - A silhouette at the end of the corridor. Tall. Still. And something near the head - two faint glimmers. Like eyes. When the lights steadied, the corridor was empty.

            Devraj froze in place, heartbeat pounding in his ears. He waited. Listened.
Held his breath. Silence. Nothing but silence.

            He forced himself to walk again, steady, controlled. But his mind replayed that flash - a silhouette where there should have been none. Eyes where no light existed.

            When he reached the morgue door, he paused for a moment, gathering himself. Then he entered.

            Anika looked up immediately. “Everything okay?”

            “Yeah,” he said, though the word felt like a lie. “Just… a warning from someone who thinks this case is dangerous.”

            “It is dangerous,” she replied.

            Devraj moved closer to the body again, staring at the mark on Vishal’s neck. Dangerous…Yes. Because something was hidden behind this murder. Something sharp. Something intelligent.
Something close. He turned to her.

            “Anika… whatever this is, we’re not walking away.”

            She met his eyes, serious. “I didn’t think we would.”

            But neither of them noticed what the CCTV camera above the door captured in its grainy corner: A faint reflection on the metal surface of a storage cabinet. A pair of eyes. Not glowing fully - just simmering lightly, like embers waiting for air. Watching them. Waiting.

 

            The corridor outside the morgue felt even colder when Devraj stepped out again. Anika needed a few minutes to run one last test, and he needed a moment alone - alone with the envelope that weighed heavier than a gun against his chest.

 

            The hospital’s night staff moved like shadows - nurses walking briskly with tired faces, a ward boy pushing a trolley, two interns whispering over a file. None of them paid him any attention, yet he felt a presence brushing against his nerves like static electricity.

 

            He reached a small, unlit seating area in the far-left wing of the building, a place where visitors waited in silence during the worst hours of their lives. The rain pattered more gently now, but it was still relentless, coating the windows with a film of trembling reflections.

 

            Devraj sat down.

 

            The envelope lay in his hands - sealed, thin, but ominously stiff. He looked around. No footsteps. No voices. No shadows that moved where they shouldn’t. He slid a finger under the flap and opened it.

Inside was a single photograph. He held it up slowly. And felt his breath shorten.

 

§   

The Photograph

 

            It wasn’t a crime scene photo. It wasn’t a surveillance still. It wasn’t anything he expected. The photograph showed a wall - plain, aged, cracked white paint.

 

            On that wall was a rough charcoal sketch. Crude, smudged, but unmistakable. Two oval shapes. Two irises. Two circles of light inside those irises. Eyes. But not normal eyes. The pupils were slitted - like an animal’s. The glow, though sketched, felt alive, unnerving. The eyes stared from the picture with an intensity that made his fingers go cold. Just below the sketch was a faint scrawl, almost erased:

 

            HE SAW ME.

 

            Devraj’s stomach tightened. His hand trembled - not from fear, but from the sudden punch of revelation.

 

            This wasn’t evidence. This was a message. A warning. Maybe a threat. He studied the rest of the photo, searching for context - a corner of a room, a doorframe, a sign - anything that revealed where this wall existed. Nothing. Just those eyes staring through charcoal. He checked the envelope again.

 

            No note. No signature. No location. No date.

 

            But at the bottom of the photograph, someone had written a single word: Udaipur.

 

            Devraj shut his eyes for a second. Who had drawn this? Why had Raghav brought it? Why had he asked him to burn it? Most disturbingly: Why did the eyes in the picture feel almost identical to what he had seen in the corridor’s flicker?

 

            He opened his eyes again and studied them more carefully. No… not identical. But close. Close enough to rattle something deep inside him. His phone buzzed suddenly. He jumped slightly, the photo nearly slipping from his fingers. The screen lit up with a call from the control room.

 

            He answered. “Yes?”

 

            “Sir, urgent update in the Purohit case,” the constable on duty said. “A neighbour just reported something new.”

 

            Devraj straightened. “What?”

 

            “He said he saw Purohit the evening before the murder. Sir… he wasn’t alone.”

            Devraj froze. “Not alone?”

            “No, sir. The neighbour swears someone was with him. A person who didn’t look familiar.”

            Devraj’s pulse picked up.

            “What description?”

            The constable hesitated. “The neighbour said… the person wasn’t fully visible.”

            Devraj’s heartbeat doubled. “What does that mean?”

            “He said the man stood under a streetlamp but somehow… the light didn’t fall on his face. Like the shadows clung to him.”

            Devraj felt a chill run down his spine.

            “Call the neighbour in,” he said. “I want him brought to the station immediately. And tell him not to speak to anyone else.”

            “Yes sir.”

            The call ended.

            Devraj stared at the photograph again. A man who hid from light. A teacher who saw glowing eyes. A charcoal sketch saying He saw me. A mysterious bruise. A brain thrown into chaos by a single visual trigger.

            Patterns began to form in his mind - not clear yet, but unsettlingly consistent.

            Someone had watched Purohit. Followed him. And possibly manipulated him. Someone whose presence could distort the perception of ordinary people. Someone who left marks—on minds, not just bodies. Someone who didn’t want the police to understand.

            He carefully folded the photograph and slipped it back into the envelope. He didn’t burn it—not yet. Raghav’s warning echoed in his ears, but he wasn’t ready to destroy anything that might explain even one corner of this nightmare.

            He stood and began walking back toward the morgue. But halfway through the corridor, he stopped. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

§   

The Vanished Body

            The morgue door was slightly open. Anika never left it open. Ever.

            Devraj’s chest tightened. He approached slowly, his steps almost soundless. A draft moved the metal door just half an inch at a time, creaking with a rhythm that felt too deliberate.

He pushed it open fully. The lights were all on. But the exam table where Vishal Purohit’s dead body had been lying…Was empty. A white sheet lay crumpled on the floor. Instruments were scattered. A tray knocked over. A chair pushed back violently.

            “Anika?” Devraj called out sharply.

            No answer.

            He moved farther in, scanning every corner, every cabinet, every shadow.

            “Anika!”

            Silence.

            He checked behind the storage units. Behind the privacy curtain. Near the freezer compartments. Nothing. No sign of struggle - except the sheet and the overturned tray. No marks of blood, no footprints, no sign anyone had been dragged.

            The body was simply gone. As if it had risen and walked out. Devraj’s heartbeat thundered inside his ears. “Where the hell -”

            His eyes landed on the CCTV camera. He rushed to the small terminal in the corner and pressed the monitor button. The feed activated. Grainy, black-and-white. The clock showed the last few minutes.

            He rewound. The feed flickered. Then froze. Then rewound again. The footage was corrupted. He rewound further - thirty minutes back. Finally, a stable image appeared. Anika was there, adjusting instruments, preparing to take a tissue sample.

            She bent over the body.

            Then - The screen glitched. Static crackled. A black patch spread across half the screen. Then a figure appeared in the doorway.

            A tall silhouette. Absolutely still. The camera didn’t catch the face—only darkness where a face should be. Anika didn’t notice at first. The figure stood without moving for at least seven seconds.

            Then – slowly - the head lifted. Two faint specks of light glimmered. Devraj’s breath caught.

            Eyes. Glowing faintly - just like Vishal had described. Anika finally turned. Her body jerked in shock. She opened her mouth - maybe to scream. The footage distorted violently. The screen shook like someone had hit the camera hard.

            And then -

            Total static. The feed never recovered. The last clear frame was Anika turning toward those impossible eyes. Devraj stood frozen, staring at the screen long after it went blank. His mind refused to interpret what he had seen. But his body understood before he did. Someone had taken the body. Someone had taken Anika. Someone had been inside this hospital - inside this very room - while he was only a few meters away. Someone who could appear and vanish without a trace. Someone whose presence the camera barely survived.

            Devraj finally whispered, voice hollow:

            “What are you?”

            And somewhere deep in the building, a metallic clang echoed faintly. As if answering him.

            But he stood alone in the cold morgue, with nothing but fear and the echo of a vanished colleague.

 

            For a full minute, Devraj simply stood staring at the blank CCTV screen, unable to move, unable to breathe properly. His mind kept replaying the frozen frame: Anika’s face twisting in sudden fear, the pale outline of her hand lifting instinctively, and behind her - Those eyes. Not bright. Not blazing. But unnaturally steady… as if looking directly into the camera, directly through the lens, directly into him.

 

            Devraj dragged a hand across his jaw, forcing his thoughts to settle into order. He had handled murderers, psychopaths, conmen, and professional hitmen - people who hid behind lies or rage or desperation. But this?

 

            This was something else.

 

            Someone had walked into a heavily staffed hospital, entered a morgue, eliminated the body, erased the footage, and taken a forensic doctor without being seen by a single guard.

 

Someone - or something. He refused to let the last word form fully. He turned away from the monitor and dialed the night supervisor’s number. His voice came out harsher than he intended.

 

            “This is Inspector Devraj Shekhawat. Block every exit of the hospital immediately.”

 

            The supervisor stammered, startled. “Sir? What -”

 

            “No questions. Seal every gate. No one leaves until I say so.”

 

            He hung up and rushed toward the main corridor, boots striking the tiles in sharp, urgent beats. The hospital’s quiet had evaporated - nurses were now moving in hurried motions, guards running to doors, doctors peering out from wards with confused expressions.

 

            A young nurse approached him nervously. “Sir, is something wrong?”

 

            Devraj didn’t slow. “Everything is wrong.”

 

§   

The Search Begins

 

            He reached the emergency exit staircase first. A guard stood there, bewildered.

            “Check the stairwell,” Devraj ordered. “Top to bottom. Every landing.”

            “Yes sir.”

            Devraj didn’t wait. He pushed open the steel door and stepped inside. The stairwell smelled of damp concrete and rust. The emergency lights created elongated shadows along the walls. His senses sharpened - ears tuned to every creak, every footstep, every echo.

            He descended one floor. Nothing. His phone rang again.

            He answered. “What now?”

            “Sir, this is the north gate guard,” the voice said, breathless. “We found something outside, near the boundary wall.”

            Devraj’s spine straightened. “What did you find?”

            “A lab coat… soaked.”

            Soaked. He didn’t need to ask with what.

            “Guard it. Don’t touch it. I’m coming.”

            Devraj sprinted down the stairwell, pushing past two visiting relatives who had ventured close to see the commotion. He tore through the corridor, past the glass doors, down the long hallway that led to the outside grounds. Rain hit his face sharply the moment he stepped out. The cold bit his neck. His shoes slapped into puddles as he crossed the courtyard.

            The north gate guard stood under an awning, pointing toward the boundary wall. Devraj moved closer. There, hanging from a rusted hook on the wall’s inner side, was a white coat.

            Anika’s.

            The pocket ID tag dangled loosely.

            The cloth was drenched - rainwater mixed with streaks of something darker, heavier, almost sticky in texture. Blood. Not a lot. Just enough. Enough to send a cold tightening across Devraj’s ribs.

            He examined the ground. Mud. Footprints were impossible to distinguish in the rain. But the way the coat hung… that was deliberate. Almost placed. As if someone wanted it found.

            He looked up at the wall. It was high - nine feet at least. Topped with concrete spikes. No person could climb that easily. No person carrying a dead body. No person carrying Anika.

            Devraj’s pulse hammered. “Did any guard see movement outside the wall?”

            “No sir,” the guard said. “Nothing. The cameras on this side were fogged from the rain.”

            Devraj stared at the coat again, rain dripping off its sleeve. Something didn’t add up. If the kidnapper had taken Anika outside - why leave her coat inside? Why not throw it away? Why leave a clue?

            Unless…

            Unless this wasn’t a clue.

            It was a signature. A declaration: I was here. I took her. Try and stop me.

            Devraj clenched his fists.

            The guard swallowed nervously. “Sir… do you think she’s…”

            “Alive,” Devraj said sharply. “Until I find something that proves otherwise, she’s alive.”

            The guard nodded quickly. But even as Devraj spoke, a cold thought whispered at the back of his mind: Alive… but with whom? And for what purpose? He forced the questions away and stepped back under the awning. The rain drummed relentlessly above them.

            Suddenly, Devraj’s phone buzzed with a new message. Unknown number.

            He opened it.

            The screen displayed a single image.

            His throat went dry.

§   

 

The Message

 

            It was a photograph taken from a close angle - too close. The background was dark, blurred, almost like the inside of a vehicle. In the foreground was Anika.

 

            Her eyes were closed. She wasn’t bleeding. She wasn’t bound. But her head was tilted unnaturally, as if she had been forced into sleep or unconsciousness. Her skin looked too pale. Her hair was damp. Her lips slightly parted. But that wasn’t what froze Devraj. Behind her shoulder, in the upper corner of the frame, two faint lights shimmered. Two eyes. Watching the camera. Watching him. The message had no text. He zoomed in. The resolution broke. The eyes dissolved into pixels. But the shape remained unmistakable.

 

 

Two glimmers. Two slits. Two burning points, staring. A new message arrived instantly.

           

            Stop Looking.

            Stop Digging.

            Stop Following.

 

Devraj’s heartbeat roared in his ears.

 

Another message:

 

            The More You Seek The Truth,The Closer The Eyes Will Come To You.

 

            He swallowed hard.

Then a final message appeared:

            She Is Not Dead. Yet.

And then:

            Follow The Wrong Path, And She Will Open Her Eyes In Darkness Forever.

            The phone screen went black. Devraj stood motionless in the rain, breath shallow, fingers tightening around the device so hard he felt the casing bend. The kidnapper had his number. He was watching the investigation. He was moving faster than Devraj could react.

            And worst of all - He wasn’t hiding. He was inviting Devraj into his game. The night air pressed against him, cold and suffocating, as if the city itself was holding its breath.

            The guard whispered behind him: “Sir… is that from the kidnapper?”

            Devraj didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His entire mind was consumed with one terrifying realization: Anika had become the second puppet. And the puppeteer had just pulled his first string on Devraj.

            Devraj stood rooted beneath the awning, rain drumming loudly above him, his phone still glowing faintly in his trembling grip. The messages repeated in his mind, word by word, like echoes in a long, empty hallway.

 

Stop Following.
The More You Seek The Truth, The Closer The Eyes Will Come To You.
She Is Not Dead. Yet.

 

            Each line pressed against his chest with a weight he had never known in his years as an officer.

The guard standing beside him finally whispered, “Sir… what do we do now?”

 

            Devraj turned slowly, the cold air swirling around him like a warning. He inhaled deeply, letting the numbness settle, letting his training take over, forcing emotion to the background where it could not dictate decisions.

 

            “We go back inside,” he said quietly. “And we start again.”

 

            He didn’t need to shout. The firmness in his voice carried enough authority to make the guard straighten immediately.

 

            But as Devraj walked back toward the hospital entrance, there was a strange sensation creeping up the back of his neck - like something was following behind him, matching his steps, invisible but very much present.

 

            He did not turn around. He didn’t dare.

 

            The hospital corridors felt narrower than before, as if the building itself had shrunken in fear. The lights hummed overhead, too bright, too white, making every shadow appear sharper.

            When Devraj re-entered the morgue area, two constables were already waiting. They stepped aside when they saw his expression.

            One of them spoke nervously. “Sir, the supervisor says the entire hospital is sealed. No one left the building.”

            “No one human,” Devraj murmured under his breath.

            The constables glanced at each other, unsure if they had heard him correctly. He pushed open the morgue door again.

            The emptiness hit him harder the second time. The cold metal table. The scattered instruments. The overturned tray. The sheet abandoned like shed skin. And the terrible absence of two people. He approached the metal table and placed one hand upon it. It was freezing. Too freezing. The room’s temperature had fallen even more. He looked at the AC panel. It still read 18°C. Yet the metal burned his skin with cold.

            He rubbed his palm as the thought blurred into clarity:

            Whatever took Anika and the body… touched this table.

            He circled the room slowly, scanning the tiles, the corners, the surfaces. No footprints. No smudges. No signs of forced entry. Nothing a normal intruder would leave behind.

            But in the far-left corner - right where the CCTV footage had briefly shown the silhouette - Devraj noticed something faint. Almost invisible. A thin smear on the tiles. Not soot. Not dirt.
Not blood. Something darker. Something almost oily. A smear that shimmered faintly when the overhead lights hit it at the right angle. He crouched beside it, leaning close. The smear seemed to pulse with a faint iridescence. He touched it lightly with the tip of a pen. The pen shook. A tingling shot up its metal body. Devraj instinctively dropped it. The pen clattered across the floor, rolling until it hit the foot of a cabinet.

            The constable behind him flinched. “Sir… what was that?”

            Devraj didn’t answer.

            He reached out, grabbed a nearby tongue depressor, and carefully scraped a tiny bit of the smear into a sterile vial. The material clung to the wooden stick for a fraction of a second, then slipped inside the vial with a strange, smooth motion.

            As if it were alive.

            He sealed the vial and pocketed it.

            He didn’t know what it was, but he did know one thing:

            It didn’t belong to anything this hospital had ever seen.

            Or anything this city had ever encountered.

            Devraj stepped out of the morgue again and walked down the hallway until he reached the deserted visitor’s seating area. He sank onto one of the metal chairs, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly.

            He rarely let himself feel the heaviness of cases; discipline demanded distance. But tonight, that distance shattered. The messages. The vanished body. The glowing eyes. The photo of Anika unconscious.

            A single truth gnawed at him:

            He was dealing with an enemy who not only understood fear, but knew exactly how to use it.

            He pulled out his phone again. Opened the image. Anika, unconscious. Those faint, glimmering eyes watching. He zoomed in slowly, even though he knew nothing more would be revealed. His throat tightened.

            Devraj cared for his team - deeply. He never said it aloud, but he did. Anika was not just a colleague; she was smart, steady, kind, and one of the few who could challenge him without fear.

            The thought of her being dragged into whatever nightmare this was -

            He shut his eyes, teeth clenched. He had lost people before. Too many. He would not lose her. Not like this. Not to something that moved like a shadow. Not to someone who enjoyed playing games with fear. Not to eyes that glowed in the dark.

            He opened his eyes again and exhaled slowly.

            The dread remained.

            But resolve rose with it.

            At the far end of the hall, a sound broke the silence. A single footstep. Soft. Measured. Out of place. Devraj straightened instantly. Another footstep followed. And another. Not running. Not rushing.
Just walking. Like someone taking a slow stroll down the corridor at three in the morning.

            Devraj stood silently, muscles tensing. He reached instinctively for the gun holstered at his side. The footsteps grew clearer, moving steadily closer.

            Then -

            They stopped. Right around the corner. Devraj held his breath, listening - every nerve on alert, every ounce of his training sharpening. For a moment, nothing moved. Then something brushed the wall. A whisper of sound. Like fingers trailing along the paint.

            Devraj lifted his gun.

            “Who’s there?”

            Silence. He took a step forward.

            The corridor around the bend was dimly lit. A flickering bulb created a strobe effect on the walls, making shadows dance in irregular patterns.

            He took another step. Then another. He turned the corner quickly - Gun raised -Breath steady -
Heart pounding - And froze. The corridor was empty. Utterly empty. But a strange, cold imprint lingered in the air - like someone had been standing there only seconds ago.

            Watching. Waiting. Choosing. Devraj lowered the gun slowly. Then something caught the corner of his vision. A shape. On the wall.

            He turned sharply. And his breath left him in a single, hard exhale. There, drawn on the pale paint - with the same charcoal streaking from the photograph - were two eyes. Large. Oval. Sharp.
Gazing directly at him.

            Below them, a new scrawl: YOU ARE NEXT

 

 

            The hall stayed unnaturally still as the minutes crawled by, the quiet broken only by the faint buzz of a tube light protesting somewhere near the ceiling. Inspector Jaiswal remained beside Sharma, one eye on the tremors running through the man’s fingers and the other on the doctor who had - five minutes ago - looked confident but now seemed more hesitant than any man of science liked to be.

            Dr. Khatri wiped his forehead. “I… need to check something,” he murmured, almost to himself.

            “Check what?” Jaiswal asked, arms crossed.

            The doctor hesitated. His gaze slid toward Sharma, then shifted back. “It’s just… I’ve seen seizures caused by trauma, by stress, by neurological imbalance, but this pattern - this sudden collapse after violence, followed by intense sensory hallucination - this… this doesn’t sit in any familiar category. And his pupil dilation...” He exhaled sharply.

            “What about his pupils?” Jaiswal pressed.

            “They’re not responding to light correctly. One contracts. The other stays… fixed. Almost frozen. That usually indicates either serious brain damage... or…”

            “Or what?”

            The doctor shook his head. “Or something external has interfered with neurological functioning.”

            “External as in what?” Jaiswal asked. “Drugs? Toxins?”

            Dr. Khatri didn’t answer immediately. His lips tightened, forming a thin line of concern.

            Sharma swallowed hard. “Sir… sir please don’t leave me alone. Don’t let the lights go off. I feel it. Something is watching.”

            “It’s just your mind…” the doctor began.

            “No!” Sharma’s voice cracked. “When I close my eyes I see it. When I open them I feel it behind me. I swear, sir… it’s not my imagination.”

            The officers exchanged tired looks, but there was something about the raw fear in Sharma’s face—a terror not of police, not of guilt, but of some invisible presence - that made even the seasoned constables uneasy.

            One of them cleared his throat. “Sir… maybe we should shift him to the main station. This staff room… it’s too dim. It’s also the site of…” He stopped himself.

            The site of the earlier incident. The place where the blood had spilled.

            Jaiswal nodded slowly. “Yes. Prepare the vehicle.”

            When the constables left, only three people remained: Jaiswal, the doctor, and the trembling Sharma whose nails were digging half-moons into the desk beneath him.

            “Sharma,” Jaiswal said quietly, leaning closer, “just tell me the truth. Did someone force you to do this? Someone real? Someone alive?”

            The teacher’s voice was barely a whisper. “I don’t know if it was alive.”

            A silence followed.

            Then - A thud.A sharp, sudden thud against the wall just outside the staff room door. Jaiswal snapped his head toward the sound. His hand instantly reached for his holster.

            “What was that?” the doctor breathed.

            “Stay here,” Jaiswal ordered, stepping out.

            The corridor stretched out, dim and narrow, lined with old notice boards covered in dusty announcements. A few moths fluttered near the tube light at the far end. But there was no movement. No footsteps. No intruder.

            Yet something felt wrong.

            He had been in countless buildings, schools, hostels, barracks, homes - places filled with the scents and routines of human life. But this corridor felt as if someone had exhaled a shiver into it.

            He stepped forward cautiously.

A paper lay on the floor. A small slip, like a page torn out of a notebook. He picked it up. The handwriting was shaky. Almost jagged.

            I… can see you.

            A chill crawled through his spine.

            “Constables!” he shouted from the doorway. “Any one of you dropped this?”

            “No, sir!” came the distant reply. “We’re at the gate!”

            Dr. Khatri’s voice rose from inside the room. “Inspector, is everything…”

            A sharp gasp cut his sentence in half.

            Jaiswal rushed in.

            Sharma had gone rigid - completely rigid - like someone had drained the softness out of his muscles and replaced it with stone. His eyes were open wide, but not seeing the room. Not seeing anything earthly.

            He was staring at a corner. A perfectly empty corner. The way people stare when something is standing there. Something only they can see.

            Jaiswal grabbed his shoulder. “Sharma! What is it?”

            Sharma’s lips trembled. No sound came out.

            Then his mouth formed a single word, barely audible.

            “…again.”

            And before Jaiswal could react, Sharma’s entire body jerked violently, struck the back of the chair, and collapsed to the floor.

            “Doctor!”

            Dr. Khatri rushed forward, examined the pulse, the eyes, the breath. “He’s fainted - but this is not normal syncope. Something triggered him. Something strong.”

            “No one touched him,” Jaiswal said firmly.

            The doctor didn’t reply. He kept checking the vitals, but his hands were shaking.

            Sharma remained unconscious, breath shallow, fingers curled like he had clawed at something invisible before collapsing.

            Jaiswal wasn’t a man easily rattled. But even he felt his jaw tighten. Something was wrong with this man. Something much deeper, much darker, than shock or guilt. He knelt beside the unconscious teacher.

            “Who are you running from?” he whispered. “Who’s pulling your strings?”

            No answer came. Only the faint flutter of breath.

            Outside, somewhere on the far end of the campus, a dog began barking uncontrollably - long, high-pitched howls that didn’t sound like a dog warning a stranger. They sounded like an animal who sensed something humans couldn't.

            Jaiswal stood slowly.

            “This is not an ordinary case,” he murmured.

            And for the first time that night, he truly felt it. This murder wasn’t just a crime. It was an opening move. A signal.

            A puppet’s first dance - pulled by a hand no one had yet seen.

            And the eyes that Sharma spoke of… those glowing, impossible eyes…

            They were not done.

            The night was far from over.

            The constables returned with the stretcher, but the moment they entered the staff room and saw the expression frozen on Sharma’s unconscious face, even their footsteps softened. It looked like he had fainted while still in the grip of a terror too large to fit inside a human mind. His brows were twisted, jaw clenched, as if the thing he had seen in that corner was still watching him through the veil of unconsciousness.

            “Careful,” Jaiswal said quietly. “Lift him gently.”

            They raised the teacher’s limp body, but his right hand remained curled into a tight fist. It took both constables several attempts to loosen his fingers.

            Something small fell to the floor. It made a soft, dry clicking sound. Everyone looked down. A tiny piece of chalk. No blood. No dirt. No hair. Just white chalk - the kind teachers used every day. Jaiswal stared at it long enough for the doctor to notice.

            “Inspector?” he asked.

            “Sharma didn’t have chalk when he collapsed.”

            “So?”

            “So where did it come from?”

            His voice was low, controlled, but cold anger simmered beneath it — not toward Sharma, but toward the puzzle taking shape around him.

            “Sir,” one constable said hesitantly, “this is a school. Chalk could be anywhere—”

            “Not in his fist,” Jaiswal cut him off. “Not like that.”

It wasn’t the chalk itself. It was the way it was held. Crushed. As though Sharma was clawing at something - or someone.

            “Sir,” another constable said, glancing toward the door, “we should leave. The ambulance is waiting.”

            The staff room felt smaller suddenly, as if something unseen had stepped closer. The air thickened in the corners. The light flickered for half a second, and even that tiny shudder made everyone tense.

            “Yes. Move,” Jaiswal ordered.

            They carried Sharma into the corridor.

            As they passed the corner where the chalk scrap had fallen, the constables unconsciously increased their pace, their boots clicking faster against the floor. The building seemed to stretch and sink at the same time - empty corridors always held a strange power at night, but tonight it felt amplified, deliberate.

            When they reached the campus courtyard, the air finally opened up. The breeze was cool, and the faint sound of distant traffic reminded them that the world outside still existed. The dog that had been barking earlier was nowhere to be seen now.

            Sharma was loaded into the back of the ambulance. The doctor climbed beside him.

            “I’m coming with you,” Jaiswal said.

            The doctor looked like he wanted to argue, but he saw something in the inspector’s eyes - not fear, but determination sharp enough to cut through whatever darkness was circling them.

            The ambulance doors shut.

            The siren remained off - there was no emergency, only urgency - and the vehicle rolled forward, tyres crunching over the gravel. Constables followed in the police jeep.

            Inside, the ambulance lights bathed Sharma’s face in a pale, sickly glow. His eyelids twitched now and then, like he was trapped in a nightmare he could not wake from. A thin sheen of sweat covered his forehead.

            Dr. Khatri murmured, “He’s slipping into intermittent fugue states.”

            “Meaning?”

            “He’s drifting between consciousness and dissociation. Something is overriding his physiological control.”

            Jaiswal stared at the unconscious man.

             “Doctor… can trauma make someone see things?”

            “Yes. Visual hallucination during shock is possible.”

            “What about synchronized hallucinations?” Jaiswal asked quietly.

            The doctor blinked. “What do you mean?”

            “Earlier tonight, when Sharma said he saw… glowing eyes…”

            His voice softened.

            “Do you know two different people reported the same thing in two separate complaints in the last three months?”

            The doctor froze. “…same description?”

            “The same.”

            Silence filled the ambulance.

            Then the doctor said, “Human minds are capable of copying each other’s fears. A rumour spreads… and imaginations do the rest.”

            “Maybe.”

            But Jaiswal’s tone didn’t sound convinced.

            The doctor hesitated. “Inspector… are you suggesting someone is deliberately causing these visions?”

            “I am suggesting,” Jaiswal said, “that whoever made this man kill - if someone did - might not have used a weapon. They might have used something else.”

            The doctor swallowed. “Hypnosis? Drugs?”

            “I don’t know.” His eyes darkened.

            “But Sharma isn’t lying.”

            The ambulance took a sharp turn.  For a moment, the vehicle shook -  and Sharma’s eyes snapped open. They weren’t normal. They were wide, wild, staring straight at the doctor -  not seeing him, but seeing through him.

            “Sir -  he’s awake!” the doctor said.

            Jaiswal leaned in. “Sharma? Can you hear me?”

            Sharma’s lips parted. A whisper escaped - dry, broken, terrified.

            “Don’t let… him… come.”

            “Him who?” Jaiswal demanded.

            Sharma blinked - no, not blinked - flinched. Violently. As if he had been struck by invisible  hands. Then his eyes rolled upward and he slammed against the restraints like some unseen force had grabbed his spine and twisted.

            “Hold him!” the doctor shouted. “He’s convulsing!”

            But it wasn’t a seizure. Jaiswal knew seizures. He had seen them in accident victims, diabetics, injured soldiers. This was different. This was… responsive. Sharma jerked as if reacting to something in the air. Something close. Something closing in. His breaths became rapid bursts.

            “He’s going into shock!” the doctor warned.

            “Sharma!” Jaiswal barked. “Look at me!”

            The teacher’s eyes trembled, then aligned with Jaiswal’s face.

            “Tell me who made you kill.” Jaiswal’s voice was firm, controlled, precise.

            Sharma’s fingers clawed into the stretcher’s sides.

            “…not… a… man…”

            Cold washed through Jaiswal’s veins.

            “Then what?” he asked.

            Sharma’s eyes widened, stretching beyond natural fear. His voice cracked like a breaking wire.

            “Eyes… in the dark… behind my thoughts… not outside… inside.”

            The doctor froze. Jaiswal didn’t.

            “Inside your mind?”

            Sharma nodded - a twitch more than a nod.

            “It… watches… from the back… of my skull…” A sob racked through his chest.
“…and when it wants… it steps forward.”

            His breathing turned ragged.

            “I didn’t kill him… sir… I swear… it used me… like—”

            His body jerked violently.

            “…a puppet.”

            Then he collapsed. Unconscious again. The ambulance jolted over a bump. But Jaiswal didn’t feel the movement. He only felt a sinking realization spreading inside him like ice cracking through glass. Sharma wasn’t talking like a murderer. He was talking like a man hijacked from within. Something new.
Something unseen. Something with patience. And eyes that glowed where eyes shouldn’t exist.

            The doctor took a shaky breath. “Inspector… we need neurological tests. Brain scans. Chemical analysis. Something… anything… to explain this.”

            Jaiswal stared ahead through the windshield as the hospital building appeared in the distance.

            “There is an explanation,” he murmured.

            The doctor looked at him. “What?”

            Jaiswal didn’t blink.

            “This isn’t the first puppet.”

            The ambulance rolled into the hospital gates.

            The night had only just begun sharpening its claws.

            The ambulance doors swung open with a metallic creak that carried too far into the night. Hospital staff rushed forward with a stretcher, their hurried footsteps echoing off the empty driveway. Even before they reached him, Inspector Jaiswal stepped down and scanned the surroundings with trained instinct - habit sharpened by years of dealing with the unexpected.

 

            But tonight, the unexpected had evolved into something deeper, something that slithered between the cracks of logic.

 

            The air around the hospital felt normal - sterile lights, distant voices, the faint smell of antiseptic - but beneath it all there was an undercurrent of unease, like a vibration just outside human hearing.

 

            “Shift him to Emergency Neuro,” Dr. Khatri instructed as he hopped out of the ambulance.

            Two ward boys nodded and lifted Sharma, whose limp form appeared lighter than it should. His hands dangled off the stretcher, fingers twitching faintly, as though reaching for something in a dream he couldn’t wake from.

            Jaiswal followed them inside. The hospital corridors were brightly lit, but for Sharma they might as well have been caves - his eyelids flickered, reacting to colours and shadows that had no shape.

            “Inspector,” the doctor said, lowering his voice, “we need a full neurological panel immediately. Toxicology, cranial CT, MRI, EEG - everything.”

            “You’ll have whatever you need,” Jaiswal replied.

            But as they turned the first corner, Sharma’s body jerked violently on the stretcher.

            “Careful!” Dr. Khatri barked.

            One ward boy stumbled, but the other tightened his grip. The doctor hurried to the patient’s side.

            Sharma’s eyes fluttered open… barely. His lips parted.           A hoarse breath escaped.

            “Lights…” he whispered.

            The doctor leaned closer. “What?”

            “Don’t turn… off… the lights… sir… please…”

            His voice trembled and faded, the words nearly dissolving into air.

            The doctor nodded quickly, “They won’t be turned off. Just rest.”

            But shielded behind the doctor’s shoulder, where Sharma couldn’t see, the ward boy muttered, “Sir, he’s scared of his own shadow.”

            Jaiswal shot him a warning glare. This wasn’t the moment for casual remarks.

            They reached the neuro ward. Machines beeped softly, monitors glowed with green and blue lines, and the fluorescent lights washed over everything with hospital coldness.

            Sharma was lifted onto the examination bed.

            The doctor’s team got to work.

            Electrodes. Blood pressure cuff. Pulse oximeter. Saline line.

            Jaiswal stood by the foot of the bed, arms folded, watching every detail. Nothing here looked supernatural, nothing looked abnormal - yet everything was.

            “Doctor,” he said slowly, “I want you to tell me honestly. Is it possible for a man to commit murder under hypnotic influence?”

            Dr. Khatri stiffened but kept working. “Highly unlikely.”

            “Unlikely doesn’t mean impossible.”

            The doctor placed a stethoscope on Sharma’s chest. His heartbeat was fast - too fast.

            “No form of hypnosis can force a person to act against his core nature,” the doctor said. “It can manipulate perception, yes. Suggest things, yes. Influence choices, yes. But overriding a moral boundary as strong as taking a life?” He shook his head.

            “That requires something else. Something stronger than suggestion.”

            Jaiswal absorbed every word.

            “And the hallucinations? The glowing eyes?”

            “Could be trauma. Could be panic. But the intensity…”
He frowned. “…it’s abnormal.”

            They both glanced at Sharma.

            The teacher’s face had gone pale, as if all the colour had drained out from beneath his skin. But it wasn’t fear alone. It was something deeper—something hollowed, like parts of him were missing.

            Missing… or taken.

            The ECG monitor beeped rapidly.

            “Doctor,” a nurse called, “his pulse is spiking.”

            “Adrenaline surge,” Khatri muttered. “He’s reliving the trauma.” He leaned over.
“Sharma? Can you hear me?”

            Sharma’s eyes flickered.

            “…don’t…” he breathed.

            “Don’t what?” the doctor asked gently.

            Sharma’s mouth opened in a trembling whisper.

            “…don’t let it in…”

            The doctor froze.

            “Let what in?” Jaiswal asked, stepping closer.

            Sharma’s pupils contracted sharply, reacting to something not in the room. His right hand rose slightly on the bed, fingers shaking as they pointed, slowly, towards the far corner of the ward. The corner with the window.

            Jaiswal turned immediately.

            The window was closed. Curtains drawn back. Nothing stood outside. Just the dim hospital backyard with a few trees and a boundary wall. But the glass carried a faint reflection of the room. A reflection that appeared… darker.

            Jaiswal stepped closer. The reflection shifted with him. It was normal. Just light distortion. Yet something felt wrong. The air around the window was a little colder. Not the entire room. Only that corner.

            “You feel that?” he asked.

            The nurse blinked. “Feel what, sir?”

            “Cold.”

            “No, sir. It’s normal.”

            But it wasn’t normal. He knew what normal felt like. This was different. On the bed, Sharma wheezed.

            “It’s here…”

            His chest rose and fell sharply.

            “…it followed me…”

            His back arched suddenly.

            “Doctor!” Jaiswal barked. “Do something!”

            But before the doctor could react, Sharma’s eyes snapped fully open. They weren’t looking at any person. They were looking at the window. His voice cracked into the stillness of the ward…

            “IT’S WATCHING!”

            The monitors screamed to life. Heart rate spiked to a dangerous rhythm.

            The doctor grabbed him.“Hold him down!”

            But Sharma was thrashing, not violently, but as if fighting someone inside his own skull. The air around him felt heavier, thicker.

            “Sedative!” the doctor yelled.

            A nurse rushed to prepare it.

            Sharma’s head twisted, his breath broke into shuddering bursts.

            “It wants -  to -  come -  back -  inside…”

            His body tensed…and then collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been cut. The monitor flatlined for two seconds before stabilizing into a weak but steady rhythm.

            The doctor inhaled sharply, sweat lining his forehead. “He’s going into hypoxic shock. We need to intubate.”

            The nurses scrambled. But Jaiswal wasn’t looking at Sharma anymore. He was staring at the window. The faint fog that had momentarily formed on the glass was gone. Completely gone. Not faded. Gone in a blink. As if something had been there.  Breathing. And had pulled back the moment Sharma collapsed.

            “Doctor,” Jaiswal said quietly, “what if he isn’t hallucinating?”

            The doctor didn’t respond.

            “How do you explain a man describing something watching him from inside his mind?” Jaiswal asked.

            The doctor bit his lip. “Inspector, we need scientific…”

            “What if this is scientific?” Jaiswal cut sharply.

            The doctor stared at him.

            Jaiswal continued, “…but not the science we’re familiar with.”

            Before the doctor could reply, a phone began ringing.

            A ward boy ran in, holding it out.

            “Inspector saab… h-headquarters. They said it’s urgent.”

            Jaiswal took the phone.

            “This is Jaiswal.”

            The voice at the other end was tense. “Sir… we have another report.”

            “What report?”

            “A man in Banswara. A factory worker. He attacked his supervisor with an iron rod an hour ago.”

            “And?”

            “And before collapsing, he said the exact same thing.”

            Silence pooled thick around Jaiswal.

            “What did he say?” he asked.

            The officer on the phone swallowed audibly.

            “He said… he saw a pair of glowing eyes.”

            Jaiswal closed his eyes for a brief second.

            This was bigger. Much bigger. The first puppet had not been alone. A pattern was emerging. One that didn’t belong to any known criminal method. One that didn’t belong to any human method.

            “Inspector?” the voice asked hesitantly.

            Jaiswal’s eyes opened—calm but carrying a storm beneath.

            “I’m on my way.”

            He hung up.

            The doctor stared at him. “Another case?”

            Jaiswal nodded. “Exactly the same.”

            The doctor exhaled shakily. “This is… impossible.”

            “Not anymore,” Jaiswal said.

            He turned one last time to look at Sharma.

            The teacher lay unconscious, chest rising and falling softly, the ghost of terror still etched into his features.

            He looked like a man who had been used - and discarded.

            A puppet whose strings had snapped. But the puppeteer was still out there. Watching. Waiting. Practicing.

            The inspector walked out of the ward with a new heaviness in his steps - a heaviness that didn’t come from fatigue, but from realization.

            Someone was collecting minds.

            And this night of blood…

            …was only the beginning.

§   

 

            The moment Vikram stepped out of the interrogation room, the corridor outside felt heavier than before  -  almost as if the building itself had sunk deeper into the earth, burdened by the weight of the truth Raghav’s last line had forced into the open. The man’s words kept playing in loops inside his mind, unbroken, disturbing:

            He doesn’t steal from them… He steals them from themselves.

            The station’s lights flickered. Somewhere behind him, a printer groaned out another fading sheet. A constable carried tea in metal cups, the smell of burnt leaves spreading into the corridor. Everything seemed normal, yet Vikram could feel the invisible shift - the case had crawled into a darker territory, one where facts resisted logic and logic resisted peace.

            He paused at the end of the corridor, breathing hard. Not because he was tired - but because something inside him had changed.

            He had been a detective for twelve years. He had seen murder born of jealousy, greed, rage, sometimes even misguided love. But this… This felt like walking into a fog where even the concept of crime didn’t behave like crime anymore.

            He leaned against the wall, rubbing his temples.

            A soft voice broke his silence.

            “Sir… are you okay?”

            It was Meera. She stood there with a file clutched against her chest, her hair tied back loosely, strands falling across her forehead. She looked concerned, but beneath that concern was something else - something sharper, aware, intuitive.

            “The constables said you haven’t left that interrogation room for the last two hours,” she added.

            Vikram exhaled slowly. “He’s not lying.”

            Meera blinked. “About what, sir?”

            “That he saw someone… but not the way one sees a person.” He hesitated.
“More like… experiencing someone.”

            Meera frowned slightly, that delicate crease between her brows deepening. “Sir, the moment we go down the route of visions and senses beyond the senses, the case becomes a circus for the media.”

            “I know,” he said. “That’s why we won’t say a word.”

            She stepped closer, lowering her voice. “What exactly did he tell you?”

            Vikram handed her the paper where he had scribbled notes - a page full of broken descriptions, half-formed sentences, and symbols that didn’t belong to any investigative vocabulary.

            Meera read it slowly.

He sees through minds.

He feeds on fear.

No footsteps.

No face.

The silence walks before him.

A shadow without angles.

            Her eyes rose from the paper.

            “Sir… this looks like something a poet would write, not a witness.”

            “Yes,” Vikram agreed. “But Raghav isn’t a poet. He’s a bus driver who never took a sick leave in fifteen years.”

            Meera closed the file, her expression growing solemn.

            “What are you thinking, sir?”

            “That we’re dealing with someone who doesn’t need to be seen to be present.”

            For a moment neither of them spoke. The quiet of the corridor enveloped them like a layer of dust.

            Then Meera said softly, “Sir, the pattern… maybe it was never about the victims. Maybe it’s about what he does to them.”

            Vikram looked at her, impressed by how quickly she caught on. “Yes. He doesn’t just abduct them. He rewrites them.”

            Meera felt her stomach tighten.

            “But why?”

            “That,” Vikram said, “is the question.”

            He pushed himself off the wall.

            “Let’s go,” he added.

            “Where?”

            “To the morgue.”

 

The Cold Room

            The morgue was quiet, colder than usual, its metallic surfaces gleaming faintly under the white fluorescent lights. The attendants had left, and only a guard sat outside, half-asleep with a newspaper draped across his knees.

            As Vikram and Meera stepped inside, the air felt sterile - scentless except for the faint smell of disinfectant and metal drawers.

            Vikram walked toward body chamber #12.

            “We exhumed him three days ago,” he said quietly.

            Meera’s breath hitched.

            “You mean… the man from last year’s file? The one they said drowned in the canal?”

            “Yes,” Vikram replied.

            “The autopsy said drowning. But…”

            He opened the drawer.

            The body lay wrapped, but Vikram pulled the sheet down just enough for the face to show - pale, expression frozen, eyes glazed, mouth slightly open as if in the middle of a scream he never managed to complete.

            “Sir…” Meera whispered. “This is…”

            “Look behind the ear.”

            He tilted the head. A faint, almost invisible line - like a burn mark curved in a shape that wasn’t exactly circular, nor linear - something undefined.

            “We found this same mark on the last three victims,” Vikram said. “And you know what’s worse?”

            Meera didn’t respond.

            “He was declared dead by drowning. There was no sign of struggle. No broken nails. No bruises. No water in the lungs.”

            Meera stared at him. “That means…”

            “He didn’t drown,” Vikram completed. “He was drained.”

            Meera felt coldness spread down her spine. “Drained of what?”

            Vikram looked at her. “Of himself.”

            And then he pulled another sheet. This time Meera stiffened.

“Sir… this is… this is the boy.” She recognized him instantly. The first disappearance in the current chain.

            “His mother said he was a bright kid,” Vikram murmured. “Confident. Sharp. Academically unbeatable.”

            “And now he looks…”

            “Like a shell,” Vikram said. “A shell left behind.”

            Meera swallowed tightly. “Sir, what do we do now?”

            Vikram stepped back, eyes scanning the cold bodies, connecting dots that made less and less sense the more he understood them.

            “We stop thinking of him as a criminal,” he said. “And start considering the possibility that he is something else.”

            Meera stared at him.

            “What… something else, sir?”

            “I don’t know yet,” he admitted. “But Raghav is not the first witness who described him in senses rather than shapes.”

            Meera felt her pulse racing. “Sir… do you think he chooses people who are mentally stronger? Or weaker?”

            “That’s what we need to find out.”

            Vikram closed the drawers gently, with the deliberate care of someone who respected the dead more than the living.

            Then he turned toward her.

            “Meera… tomorrow morning we’re reopening the 2017 file. All of it.”

            Meera didn’t ask why. She already knew.

            Because the killer - the one they had been chasing for days - wasn’t born with this method. He had been practicing for years.

            Perfecting it.

§   

The Silent Bridge

            Later that night, as the city lay under a blanket of thin mist, Vikram drove alone across the old bridge near Ramganj. His thoughts spiraled like dark threads weaving a net he couldn’t escape.

            He lowered the window slightly. The cold air whipped through, biting at his skin, clearing the fog inside his mind.

            The river below glistened in dull silver, its current slow, almost ghostlike in the moonlight.

            He found himself whispering into the quiet:

            “What are you…?”

            Not who. What.

            Because a man leaves footprints. A man makes mistakes. A man has motives. But this thing - whatever it was - seemed to exist in a space where motive didn’t matter and mistakes weren’t possible.

            He parked the jeep and stepped out. The bridge groaned under the stillness. From somewhere behind him, a dog barked - once, twice, then fell silent abruptly, as if its voice had been swallowed mid-air. Vikram’s hand moved instinctively to his holster.

            He felt watched. Not by eyes. But by attention. There is a difference - a chilling one - and this was unmistakably the latter. He scanned the length of the bridge.

            Nothing. No figure. No shadow moving. No silhouette hiding in the mist.

            And yet…

            For the first time since the case began, Vikram felt truly unsettled.

            As if something hovered just past the edge of perception, observing him with the patience of a hunter who doesn’t chase - but waits.

            Waits until the exact moment when fear becomes ripe.

§   

When He Returned to the Jeep

            His phone rang -Meera.

            He answered.

            “Sir?” Her voice sounded urgent, breathless. “You need to come back to the station.”

            “What happened?”

            “It’s about Raghav.”

            Every muscle in Vikram’s body tightened.

            “What about him, Meera?”

            “He’s unconscious,” she said. “He collapsed ten minutes after you left. The doctors are saying… they’re saying it looks like a seizure but not exactly.”

            Vikram’s voice dropped into a whisper.

            “Did he say anything before collapsing?”

            There was a pause. A short one. A dangerous one.

            Then Meera said:

            “Yes. One line.”

            “What line?”

            And her answer froze the entire night around him.

            “He said, ‘He is already inside the station.’”

 

§   

 

 

            The jeep screeched into the station compound, tyres grinding against gravel as Vikram leapt out before the vehicle had fully stopped. His pulse hammered against his ribs, the night air slicing cold across his face. The station looked exactly as he had left it - quiet, still, fluorescent lights flickering in their usual sickly rhythm.

            But nothing felt usual now. Not after the line Meera had spoken.

            He is already inside the station.

How could Raghav have known? The man was locked inside a guarded room, miles away from any access to observation or communication. And yet he had sensed something. Something Vikram could no longer deny.

            He pushed open the station door.

            The familiar smell hit him - old paper, steel cupboards, warm circuitry overheating from years of neglect, the faint scent of tea that had spilled on someone’s desk hours ago. But beneath all of that was something else.

            A thread of cold. A subtle shift in the temperature. As if the air inside had been occupied by someone - or something - that did not belong.

            He moved down the corridor, steps echoing softly on the stone floor.

            “Sir!” A constable stood up abruptly, almost startled to see him. “Madam Meera is with Raghav. They are inside the infirmary.”

            Vikram started toward the room, but the constable added something that made him pause.

            “Sir… we heard a noise. About fifteen minutes ago. In the records section.”

            “What kind of noise?” Vikram asked.

            “Like… like someone opened a drawer and shut it again. But when I went to check, the room was empty.”

            Vikram didn’t respond. He simply stared at the constable for a long moment before turning away.

            He would inspect that room later.

            Right now, he needed answers.

§   

The Infirmary

            The small medical room was lit by a single tube light that flickered more than it shone. Inside, Raghav lay unconscious on a narrow examination cot. His arms twitched occasionally, as though reacting to something that wasn’t happening in the room at all.

            Meera stood beside him, her expression carved with worry and restrained fear. The doctor attending him looked equally unsettled - not by the symptoms, but by their nature.

            “What happened?” Vikram asked.

            Meera handed him a slip of paper. “This is what he scribbled seconds before collapsing.”

            Vikram unfolded it.

            The writing was shaky, uneven, almost childlike.

He walks without sound.

He stands without shape.

He thinks inside me.

I heard him whisper.

Vikram looked at Meera. Her face had lost color.

            “That last line… did he say it aloud?”

Meera nodded.

            “Yes. Right before he fell.”

            The doctor cleared his throat. “Sir, this is not a typical seizure. His neural activity is… strange. Almost hyperactive. Like his brain is responding to something we can’t measure.”

            “Hyperactive?” Vikram repeated.

            “Yes. Almost like he’s experiencing input at an abnormal intensity.”

            “Input from what?” Meera whispered.

The doctor hesitated.

            “I don’t know.”

            Raghav suddenly jerked, his fingers curling into the bedsheet. His breathing quickened for a moment, then steadied again.

            Vikram stepped closer, staring at the man’s face.

            “What did you see, Raghav?” he murmured under his breath. “What did you hear?”

Meera touched Vikram’s sleeve.

            “Sir… Raghav shouldn’t have been able to sense anything happening in the station. He was locked away. No sounds. No movements from outside. Nothing.”

            Vikram nodded slowly.

            Which meant the killer - or whatever this presence was - hadn’t done something physical. He had triggered something inside Raghav’s mind.

§   

The Tape Recorder

            On a small table beside the cot lay a digital recorder. Vikram’s brows furrowed.

            “What is this doing here?” he asked.

            Meera swallowed. “Sir… Raghav asked for it. Right before you left. He said he wanted to dictate something. Something he couldn’t trust himself to remember.”

            Vikram stared at her.

            “Did he record anything?”

            Meera nodded.

            “He pressed the button just before he gave that warning.”

            Vikram picked up the device, pressed play, and held it close to his ear.

            The room filled with sound. Not words. Not breathing. Not even movement. It was something else - a faint, distant hum, like the vibration of a wire under pressure. A subtle resonance that shouldn’t have existed in a room as silent as a grave.

            Then came a voice. Raghav’s voice. Barely a whisper.

            “He sees through the spaces where silence lives.”

            Vikram froze. The recording continued.

            “He does not enter… he appears. Like a thought you never invited.”

            Meera’s hand flew to her mouth.

            Then - suddenly - another voice. Not Raghav’s.

            A second voice, softer, deeper, almost layered as though spoken from inside a tunnel.

            A voice that made the hair on Vikram’s arms rise.

            “You are too late.”

            The recorder clicked off.

            Meera stared at Vikram, eyes wide.

            “Sir… that wasn’t Raghav.”

            “No,” Vikram said quietly.

            “And it wasn’t anyone in this building.”

He rewound it, listened again. Same voice. Same eerie calmness.

            “You are too late.”

            The voice sounded like it didn’t vibrate through air - but through the mind. As if it didn’t need space, lungs, or breath.

            Meera whispered, “Sir… do we tell the Commissioner?”

            “No,” Vikram said sharply. “We tell no one.”

            “Why?”

            “Because if this voice… this entity… knows that we know, it might change its pattern.”

            Meera hesitated. “Sir, I think it already has.”

            Vikram turned.

            “What do you mean?”

            Meera pointed to Raghav’s arm.

            A faint mark had appeared near his wrist - the same undefined burn-like mark they had seen on the earlier victims.

            But this one was fresh. Still warm.

            Vikram’s breath stilled.

            “He was marked here,” Meera whispered, “inside the station.”

            Which meant…

            The presence was here. Had been here. Maybe still was.

            Vikram slowly looked around the room - at the corners where shadows pooled, at the spaces where silence felt deeper than it should, at the door slightly ajar.

            A sensation crept up his spine. Not fear. Not panic. Recognition.

            The same feeling he had experienced on the bridge - the sensation of being watched by something without eyes.

            Meera’s voice trembled.

            “Sir… is he gone?”

            Vikram shook his head slowly.

            “No,” he whispered.

            “The kind of thing that enters minds doesn’t ‘go’. It lingers.”

            And as he said this, the lights above flickered - once, twice, then dimmed.

Not fully off. Just lowered enough to suggest that something else had quietly entered the room’s electricity. A drop in voltage. A shift in air. A silence that thickened as though absorbing sound, not merely containing it.

            Meera stepped closer to Vikram.

            “What do we do now?”

            His jaw tightened.

            “We find out why he was here.”

            “And Raghav?”

            “We protect him,” Vikram said. “He’s the only one who has seen - or sensed - the presence directly.”

            Meera nodded, but her eyes remained fixed on the faint mark on Raghav’s wrist.

            It was no longer warm.

            It had begun to turn cold.

§   

The Records Room

            Fifteen minutes later, after ensuring a constable stood guard outside the infirmary, Vikram and Meera walked toward the records room at the far end of the station.

            The corridor felt darker. Oddly quiet. As if every sound had been pressed down by an unseen hand. Meera reached for the light switch and flicked it on. The tube light sparked to life…then died.

            “Bulb must have fused,” Meera murmured.

            “No,” Vikram said. “Not fused. Interrupted.”

            He switched on his torch.

            The beam cut through the darkness, landing on the files stacked along the metal shelves.

            Everything looked undisturbed.

            Except…

            A drawer stood slightly open. Drawer 17C.

            Meera noticed it too. “That wasn’t open earlier.”

            Vikram stepped closer, pulling the drawer slowly. Inside were old case files - bundled, yellowing with age. He reached in and pulled out the top folder.

            Case File: 2017/242

            Subject: Samar Khurana (Missing)

            Meera gasped. “That case again.”

            Vikram opened the file. The first page showed Samar’s photograph - a young man in his mid-twenties, bright eyes, confident smile.

            Meera frowned. “Why this file, sir? Why did he…”

            “Look here,” Vikram whispered.

            On the inside of the file cover was a mark. The exact same undefined burn-like shape. Fresh. Still faintly glowing under the torchlight. As if someone - or something - had touched it moments ago.

            Meera gripped Vikram’s arm. “Sir… he wasn’t just here.”

            Vikram nodded slowly.

            “He was looking for something.”

            Meera’s voice dropped to a whisper. “But what?”

            Vikram stared at the mark, a realization beginning to form - vague, incomplete, but dangerous.

            “We’re not just uncovering his pattern,” he said quietly.

            “He is uncovering ours.”

§   

 

            The drawer remained half open, the stale air inside it slowly mixing with the faint trace of cold that lingered around the fresh burn mark. Vikram didn’t touch it at first. He simply stared at the file, at the outline of the strange, undefined shape scorched into its surface.

            “Samar Khurana…” he murmured.

            Meera watched him carefully. “Sir, this can’t be a coincidence. First, the mark appears on Raghav—and now here. That too on a seven-year-old missing case?”

            Vikram didn’t reply immediately. His mind was racing, cataloguing connections, rejecting the weak ones and isolating the ones that refused to disappear.

            He finally spoke.

            “This isn’t random. And it isn’t symbolic.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “Symbols are meant to be understood,” Vikram said, lifting the file slightly. “But this… this is not a sign left for us to decipher. It’s more like…”

            He paused, searching for the right word.

            “…more like residue.”

            “Residue?” Meera repeated.

            “Yes. As if something touched this file. Something that leaves impressions not on surfaces, but on the fabric of… whatever it interacts with.”

            Meera’s throat tightened. “Like a fingerprint?”

            “No. A fingerprint is physical. This is… something else. A mental footprint, maybe. A trace left by presence, not contact.”

            They both stared at the glowing mark once more. It pulsed faintly. Almost like a heartbeat.

§   

The Missing Case

            Vikram opened the file.

            Yellowed pages held years of dust and neglect. But the content was unsettlingly familiar. The first page contained the missing person report.

Name: Samar Khurana.

Age: 26.

Occupation: Freelance coder and software consultant.

Last seen: Udaipur (Subhash Nagar), 14 November 2017.

Status: Missing. Presumed dead after 6 months of search.

            Meera frowned. “Sir, why would the presence care about a missing coder from years ago?”

            Vikram flipped to the second page - the last statement recorded. It was given by Samar’s roommate.

“He complained for weeks that he felt someone was ‘inside his head’ - whispering things, showing him flashes of light. Sometimes he said he saw a shadow walking behind him even when he was alone.”

            Meera exhaled sharply. Vikram continued.

“Two nights before he disappeared, he told me he dreamt of two glowing circles watching him from a dark tunnel.”

            Meera spoke before she realized it. “Eyes…”

            Vikram nodded grimly. He turned to the final page. A photograph of Samar’s last known location. A dark alley. A broken lamp. A faint outline of a figure at the far end - blurred, indistinct. But what caught Vikram’s attention was not the figure. It was the light above it. A soft, unnatural glow.

            Almost like…

            “Sir…” Meera whispered, seeing the same thing he saw. “Is that the same kind of glow the teacher described?”

            Vikram brought the picture closer to the torch beam.

            It wasn’t a camera defect. It wasn’t a reflection. It was a signature. A presence captured by accident. A warning that no one had understood.

            Yet someone - or something - had come back for this file.

            “Why now?” Meera asked.

            Vikram closed the file gently.

            “Because Samar might have been the first one who resisted,” he said quietly. “And anything that resists becomes dangerous.”

§   

A Sudden Realization

            Meera swallowed hard. “Sir… do you think…”

            “Yes,” he said, finishing her thought.

            “I think Samar Khurana was the first puppet. Maybe even the first experiment.”

            “But he didn’t kill anyone.”

            “No,” Vikram replied. “He disappeared before he could be turned.”

            The room went silent. A cold draft slipped in through the gap beneath the door, brushing against Meera’s ankles. She shivered.

            “Sir… what does it want?” she asked softly.

            Vikram turned off the torch, plunging the room into temporary semi-darkness. Only the thin blue glow from the corridor filtered in.

            He looked at the floating dust in the beam of light.

            “The same thing anything that invades a mind wants,” he answered.

            “Control.”

§   

The Corridor

            As they stepped out of the records room, Meera felt something prick the back of her neck. She turned sharply.

            The corridor was empty. Silent. Too silent.

            “Sir… wait.”

            Vikram paused. Meera tilted her head slightly. “Do you hear that?”

            He listened. There was nothing. Absolutely nothing. Not even the usual hum of wiring in the walls. Not the faint buzzing of the distant ceiling fan. Not the murmured voices of constables at their desks. Just… emptiness. A vacuum.

            Vikram’s expression hardened.

            “It’s here.”

            Meera’s voice was barely more than breath. “Inside the station?”

            “No.”

            He looked straight down the corridor.

            “Inside the silence.”

            They both felt it then. A pressure. A weight. Not heavy, not suffocating - just present. Occupying. Like an invisible figure standing far away, watching. Waiting. Thinking.

            Meera involuntarily stepped closer to Vikram.

            “Sir… how do we fight something like this?”

            He kept his gaze locked on the darkness.

            “We don’t fight it,” he said. “Not yet.”

            “Then what do we do?”

            “We learn its rules.”

§   

Back to the Infirmary

            When they returned, the constable outside the infirmary stood ramrod straight, trying to appear unaffected by the unnerving silence.

            “Anything unusual?” Vikram asked.

            The constable hesitated. “Sir… I don’t know if it’s unusual, but…”

            “What?”

            “I thought I heard someone whispering inside.”

            Meera stiffened. “You’re sure?”

            “Yes, madam. But… when I checked the window, there was no one.”

            Vikram stepped inside.            The infirmary lights were dimmer than before - only slightly, but enough for him to notice. Raghav still lay unconscious. But something had changed. The mark on his wrist.
It had spread. Just a little. Barely an inch. Like creeping frost.

            Meera’s face paled. “Sir… is it growing?”

            Vikram stepped closer. The mark wasn’t growing…It was evolving. Soft lines had begun to form within it, branching faintly. Like veins. Or roots. Or circuits.

            “Sir…” Meera whispered, voice trembling. “What is happening to him?”

            For the first time that night, Vikram didn’t answer immediately. He touched the stethoscope left on the table by the doctor. Then placed it gently over Raghav’s chest. He listened. Not to the heartbeat. To the silence. Because silence was no longer empty. It was humming. A faint, rhythmic, deliberate hum.
Just like the one in the recording.

            Meera knew, even without hearing it, what he had just confirmed.

            “Sir… he’s not alone in there anymore, is he?”

            Vikram slowly removed the stethoscope.

            “No,” he said quietly.

            “He’s not.”

            He stared at the growing mark, at the unnatural pulse beneath it.

            “Someone got inside his mind.”

            Meera swallowed a gasp.

            “Then what is this?” she whispered, pointing to the spreading pattern.

            Vikram answered in a voice barely above the stillness.

            “It’s the signature a puppeteer leaves when he begins to pull strings.”

 

            The infirmary felt colder now  -  not in temperature, but in presence. The kind of cold that settles in the bones quietly, without warning. Raghav lay motionless, but there was a tremor in the air around him, a ripple of something unseen responding to his unconscious state.

            Meera watched the mark on his wrist, her breath held. The lines branching off the burn wound looked too organic, too deliberate, like a living script being written beneath the skin.

            “Sir…” she whispered, “is it… feeding?”

            Vikram didn’t answer at first.

            He pulled up Raghav’s sleeve carefully, revealing more of the branching pattern. The lines were faint, but they weren’t random. They curved, bent, and converged like a design.
Not biological. Not accidental. Intentional.

            Vikram’s voice was low. “This doesn’t look like infection. It looks like mapping.”

            “Mapping?” Meera whispered.

            “Yes. Like something charting its territory. Claiming neural space.” He exhaled slowly.
“As if it’s plotting the layout of his mind.”

            Meera tremblingly ran her fingers through her hair. “Sir… what could do this? Drugs? Chemicals? A virus?”

            “No,” Vikram said quietly. “No chemical leaves marks that reorganize themselves.”

            He felt the air near Raghav’s arm.

            It was slightly warmer. Not fever warm. Electrically warm - the warmth of activity. Of process. Of work being done. Inside a brain.

            “We need the doctor back,” Meera said suddenly. “He needs to see this.”

            “No,” Vikram replied.

            Meera turned sharply. “Why not?”

            “Because the moment we tell someone who doesn’t already know, this case will be taken out of our hands. And the people above us will label it delusion, hysteria, psychosis - anything that keeps the system stable. Which means the truth will be buried…” He looked at the spreading mark.
“…and whatever is doing this will move freely again.”

            Meera was silent.

            He wasn’t wrong.

            “Then what do we do?” she asked.

            “We observe,” Vikram said. “And document everything. Quietly.”

            Meera nodded, swallowing her fear.

            “Sir…” she whispered, staring at Raghav’s fingers, “his hand moved.”

            Vikram leaned in. A faint twitch. Followed by another. Then Raghav’s index finger curled slightly - not randomly, but as if gripping something invisible.

            “Is he waking?” Meera asked.

            “No,” Vikram said. “That movement wasn’t voluntary.”

            The twitch was followed by a soft exhale escaping Raghav’s lips - not whisper, not words, but something with rhythm. Almost syllables.

            Meera leaned closer. “Sir… I think he’s trying to say something.”

            “No,” Vikram murmured again. “It’s not him.”

§   

The Words That Aren’t Words

            Raghav’s lips parted.

            A faint sound emerged - layered, distant, hollow.

            “—nnn… no… no… no—”

            It was barely formed. Barely human. The kind of sound someone makes when trapped between waking and dreaming, between fear and paralysis.

            Then, suddenly, the sound sharpened.

            “St… st—”

            A gasp. Another. Then a broken syllable:

            “Sta… nd…”

            Meera froze. “Stand? Stand what?”

            Raghav’s face twitched violently, as though something inside was pulling at muscles, trying to shape language with hands that had never held a voice before.

            “St…and… be…hind…”

            The temperature in the room dropped.

            Meera’s eyes widened. “Sir…”

            Vikram didn’t move.

            He simply said, “He’s not talking to us.”

            Raghav’s eyes fluttered but didn’t open.

            His jaw clenched, then loosened.

            One more fragment escaped:

            “Wait… in… silence…”

            Then he fell still again, breathing slowly, painfully.

            A moment later, the tube light above them flickered, humming irregularly as though responding to the words.

            Meera backed away from the bed.

            “Sir… that sounded like a message.”

            “It was,” Vikram said.

            “But not meant for us.”

            “Then for whom?”

            “For someone listening.”

            Meera’s breath shook. “Listening from where?”

            He didn’t answer. Because he didn’t know.

            And that terrified him more than anything else tonight.

§   

The Security Camera

            A sudden thought struck him.

            He stepped out of the infirmary and turned to the constable. “Where is the CCTV feed from the infirmary stored?”

            “In the monitoring room, sir.”

            “Show me.”

            The constable led them quickly down the corridor. The monitoring room was dim, lit only by the soft blue glow of multiple screens stacked in a row. Most screens showed empty hallways, the compound gate, the reception counter. One screen showed the infirmary. Vikram inhaled sharply.

            The footage showed Raghav lying unconscious, exactly as they had left him -
but the timestamp was wrong.

            “Why is the feed five minutes behind real time?” Vikram asked.

            The constable blinked. “Sir… it isn’t. It’s live.”

            “No,” Vikram said firmly. “It isn't.”

            He pointed. The marks on Raghav’s wrist. On the footage, the branching pattern was smaller - exactly how it had looked when they returned to the infirmary.

            But in reality, it had grown further. In the present moment, more lines had appeared.

            Meera whispered, “Sir… the camera is showing us the past.”

            Vikram nodded slowly.

            “Or someone prevented the present from being recorded.”

            The constable stammered. “Sir… is it malfunctioning?”

            “No.”

            He stared at the screen.

            “It was tampered with.”

            Meera felt her stomach twist. “By who?”

            Vikram didn’t blink as he answered.

            “By something that doesn’t want us to see what happens while it works.”

            He stepped closer to the screen.

            The static around the edges of the infirmary footage pulsed faintly - almost like a heartbeat.

            “It’s not only entering minds,” he said quietly.

            “It’s entering machines.”

            Meera’s voice trembled. “But how?”

            Vikram exhaled, eyes fixed on the shifting static.

            “Because whatever this is…” his voice dropped, “…it isn’t bound by the same rules as us.”

§   

The Whisper in the Room

            The static jumped. Just for a second. Just enough to distort Raghav’s face.

            Then -

            Something else appeared. A shape. A blur. A distortion in the corner of the infirmary for a single frame of footage. A silhouette without features.

            Meera gasped. “Sir…did you see that?”

            Vikram froze. “Yes.”

            He pressed rewind. Paused. Zoomed.

            The blur remained faint, shapeless - like a shadow without a source. A presence that didn’t occupy physical space, but still affected the light.

            “Sir…” Meera whispered, “is that… him?”

            “No,” Vikram said slowly.

            “It’s not him.”

            “It’s the space he occupies.”

            Meera felt her throat go dry.

            The constable whispered shakily, “Should we call for backup?”

            Vikram turned to him, his face unreadable.

            “Backup won’t help,” he said.

            Then he faced the screen again.

            “We need understanding. Not reinforcements.”

            Meera swallowed hard. “Sir… what now?”

            Vikram’s expression hardened.

            “Now,” he said,

            “we pull every file related to Samar Khurana.”

            “And then?”

            “And then,” he whispered, “we find out how a missing coder from 2017 became the first signal of a puppeteer who kills through minds.”

            The corridor outside the interrogation rooms had fallen into an uncanny stillness. Even the hum of the overhead lights seemed muted, as if the building itself were listening. Inspector Advik stepped out from the observation chamber and found himself staring through the glass panel into the dimly lit hallways of the station - a place he had worked in for years, yet tonight it felt slightly alien. The shadows were longer. The silence was heavier. The ordinary looked unfamiliar.

            He wasn’t sure if the discomfort came from the crime itself, the teacher’s impossible confession, the blood-soaked classroom the forensic team had just sealed, or the strange, creeping sensation he had felt in the observation room - the one that made the back of his neck prickle like something unseen had been standing behind him.

            He rubbed his face with both hands, trying to shake the feeling off.

            Before he could gather himself, Sub-Inspector Kesar emerged from the adjoining hallway, her boots striking sharply against the concrete floor. She carried a folder under her arm, her expression pensive, her jaw tight.

            “You look like you need sleep,” she said quietly, walking beside him.

            “I need answers,” he replied.

            Kesar offered a slow nod, her gaze drifting to the closed interrogation door where Raghav sat trembling and ruined inside.

            “He is deteriorating,” she said. “Fast. A man who had a stable life, no debts, no addictions, no history of violence - now rambling about… glowing eyes?”

            Advik let out a breath, long and tired. “Something’s off. Someone used him. Controlled him. Directed him. I can feel it.”

            Kesar glanced sideways. “Mind control? That’s not something we put in an FIR.”

            “I don’t care what we put in an FIR,” he murmured. “I care what’s real.”

            For a moment neither of them spoke. The building felt colder, as if a draft had seeped through cracks no one could see.

            Then Kesar extended the file she was holding. “Forensics sent these preliminary images.”

            He opened the folder slowly. High-resolution photographs lay inside - captured angles of the classroom at Shishu Gyan Mandir School. Blood splattered across a whiteboard in arcs that formed a haunting pattern. A toppled chair. A shattered window. A trail of footprints that matched the teacher’s shoes exactly. But the strangest image was the one taken near the back wall of the classroom.

            A faint scorch mark. A pattern almost like an imprint. Circular. Slightly uneven.
As if something had pressed itself into the wall for a fraction of a second.

            “What the hell is this?” he whispered.

            Kesar swallowed. “Bolte hain… maybe the lamp overheated, or…”

            “No lamp makes a pattern like this,” he cut her off. “This looks like…”

            He stopped himself, his throat going dry. He didn’t want to finish the sentence. It sounded ridiculous even inside his mind.

            Kesar waited. “Like what?”

            “A lens,” he said finally. “Or… an eye.”

            Kesar stiffened. “…An eye? On the wall?”

            “Not literally,” he corrected. “But a shape that resembles the circular outline of an iris. Human eyes don’t glow, but lenses can reflect. Devices can project. But even then… how does that explain the scorch mark?”

            Kesar’s eyebrows drew together. “What if someone was using an advanced projection tool? Something that emits heat? A disguised machine? Holographic tech?”

            “Holograms don’t scorch plaster walls,” Advik replied.

            They both stared at the photo again in silence. A quiet dread settled between them.

            At last Kesar exhaled softly. “You know what I think?”

            “What?”

            “That the eyes he saw may not have been eyes,” she said. “But something that looked like eyes. Something designed to appear in a specific moment for a specific purpose. Something he wasn’t prepared to see.”

            “Something used to trigger him,” Advik completed her thought.

            Their gazes locked for a moment.

            And in that unspoken understanding, a chilling possibility began forming in both their minds:

            Whatever had pushed Raghav into violence had not been physical coercion. Not threat.
Not blackmail. It was something more invasive. Something that bypassed logic. Something that entered his mind. Something that overpowered choice. Something that could be used on anyone.

            A low thunder rumbled outside, barely audible but deep enough to vibrate faintly against the station windows. The first drop of rain tapped the glass.

            Kesar spoke again, her voice bordering on a whisper. “We can’t let him go home. If he collapses psychologically, if he harms himself…”

            “He won’t go home,” Advik said firmly. “He stays under supervision until we know who the hell sank their claws into his mind.”

            They began walking down the hallway, the station lights above flickering once as they passed. The atmosphere continued to feel charged, as if an invisible pressure pressed against the walls.

            Just then, a constable jogged toward them, slightly out of breath.

            “Sir—ma’am—there’s someone here to see you.”

            Advik’s eyes narrowed. “At this hour?”

            “Yes, sir. He says he’s a counsellor from the district trauma unit. Claims he was sent after the news of the school incident reached the board.”

            Kesar frowned. “We didn’t request anyone yet.”

            “I know, ma’am,” the constable said nervously. “But he insists he has clearance.”

            Advik exchanged a look with Kesar, then asked, “Where is he?”

            “In the lobby.”

            They followed the constable toward the front of the station. Rain had begun to fall harder now, streaking the glass doors in shimmering sheets. The lobby lights flickered once, then stabilized.

            A man stood near the reception counter. Tall. Slim. Wearing a charcoal suit that looked too refined for government therapy staff.

            He turned as they approached.

            His glasses reflected the lobby lights for a second - catching an unnatural glint. Not glowing. Not suspicious. Just… too sharp. Too controlled.

            “Inspector Advik,” he said smoothly. He smiled in a way that showed no warmth. “I heard you needed assistance with the mental state of your suspect.”

            “Nobody from your department was asked to come,” Advik replied cautiously.

            The man tilted his head slightly. “Perhaps there was a miscommunication.”

            Kesar watched him carefully. “Your name?”

            “Dr. Nirav Deshmukh,” he answered without hesitation. “Certified trauma specialist.”

            Advik’s eyes drifted over him again - perfectly pressed suit, expensive shoes, no ID displayed openly, and a briefcase that looked too well-constructed for routine paperwork.

            “You have documentation?” Advik asked.

            “Of course,” the man replied, opening his folder gracefully.

            The papers were neatly arranged - official stamps, signatures, authorization slips. Flawless. Almost… too flawless.

            Kesar leaned closer, scanning the ID card. “Which sub-division did you say you’re from?”

            “Udaipur District Mental Health Supervisory Wing,” he replied.

            Her eyes narrowed. “There is no supervisory wing. Only a district unit.”

            He smiled again. “Then perhaps I misspoke.”

            He didn’t flinch. He didn’t fidget. He didn’t correct himself. Just stared back at them, calm as water. Advik felt something sink inside his stomach. A feeling he trusted more than logic.
Instinct. And that instinct whispered:

This man should not be here.

This man is hiding something

This man knows more than he is admitting.

            He stepped slightly in front of Kesar, positioning himself between her and the visitor.

            “Thank you for coming,” Advik said politely. “But we won’t be needing your services tonight. We’ll contact your department tomorrow.”

            For the first time, something faintly shifted in Dr. Nirav’s expression - not irritation, not surprise, but something quieter and colder.

            “Are you certain?” he asked softly.

            “Yes,” Advik said.

            The man’s gaze lingered for a second too long - like someone evaluating, calculating. Then he snapped the folder shut.

            “As you wish,” Dr. Nirav replied, giving a small nod. “But I must warn you: time is a fragile thing in matters of the mind. The longer you delay intervention… the harder it becomes to salvage what remains.”

            He turned toward the door.

            Before he stepped out, he paused - his voice calm, almost gentle.

            “Take care of your suspect tonight. His mind has been… tampered with.”

            Advik froze. Kesar’s breath caught.

            But when they looked up sharply - ready to question him further - the man had already stepped outside, umbrella opening against the rain. Within seconds, his figure blurred into the downpour, swallowed by the night.

            The doors closed behind him with a soft mechanical hiss. Silence thickened.

            Kesar whispered, “Advik… how could he know the mind was tampered with? We didn’t mention it. Not even once.”

            Advik stared at the rain-soaked glass.

            Because Dr. Nirav Deshmukh wasn’t a counsellor. He wasn’t from any district unit.
And the words he had just spoken weren’t a guess.

            They were a message. A warning. Or worse - A confirmation.

            The automatic doors whispered shut behind the mysterious counsellor, leaving a lingering chill in the lobby - something that did not belong to the rainy night outside. Something that felt… deliberate. As if the man had carried a fragment of coldness with him and left it behind.

 

            Inspector Advik stood still, rooted to the spot for a few seconds, watching the rainfall blur the world beyond the glass. Every drop hit the pavement with a kind of urgency, as though nature itself wanted to drown out whatever had just walked away.

            Kesar finally broke the silence. “Who the hell was he?”

            Advik didn’t answer immediately. His jaw was clenched. The muscles along his neck were taut. The storm inside him was sharper than the one outside.

            Instead of replying, he turned and walked back toward the hallway. Kesar followed. They entered the dim-lit corridor leading back to the interrogation chambers, both of them mindful of every flickering light and every transient shadow.

            “Advik,” Kesar said in a lower voice, “something’s happening here that doesn’t fit into any framework we know. Someone is watching us. Someone is moving faster than we are.”

            He didn’t deny it.

            He didn’t need to.

            They both felt it - the station had become a stage, and someone in the dark was directing the scene.

            When they reached the observation room, Advik closed the door behind them and ensured the latch clicked firmly. The one-way glass separated them from the interrogation chamber where Raghav sat slumped over the table, motionless except for the occasional tremor.

            Advik leaned both palms on the counter in front of the glass.

            “Did you notice his shoes?” he asked quietly.

            Kesar blinked. “Whose?”

            “That man. Dr. Nirav.”

            She frowned. “What about them?”

            “They weren’t wet.”

            The words landed with the weight of a stone dropped into still water. Kesar’s breath caught.

            “He came from outside,” she whispered. “Through a storm. It’s pouring out there. His umbrella was dripping. His coat sleeves were damp. But his shoes…”

            “Perfectly clean,” Advik finished. “Not a single drop. Not a trace of mud or water.”

            Kesar stared at the floor, the realization creeping through her like a slow cold tide.

            “That means…”

            “It means he wasn’t walking through the rain,” Advik said. “Or he wasn’t walking from outside. Which raises the question: where did he really come from?”

            Kesar inhaled sharply. “Inside the building? That’s not possible. You can’t just appear in a police station.”

            Advik didn’t respond. Because neither of them had an explanation - and that was the worst part. Something about the man’s presence had been inherently wrong. Not in an obvious way, but the wrongness you feel in your bones, like a note played slightly off-key yet somehow powerful enough to shake the air.

            “He knows something,” Advik said finally. “Something about how Raghav’s mind was tampered with.”

            “And he didn’t ask a single question before he said that,” Kesar murmured. “He didn’t inquire about the crime, the suspect, the scene. Nothing. He already knew.”

            Advik straightened up, his eyes cold with determination.

            “We’re sealing all access points. No visitors. No unofficial entries. No one goes near Raghav except us.”

            Kesar nodded. “And that man?”

            “We find out who he is. And why he knew exactly what happened inside Raghav’s head.”

            They both fell silent again. The storm’s roar against the roof filled the heavy pause.

            Then, suddenly -

            A sharp sound cracked through the hallway. A metallic clang. Followed by a thud.
Then another. Kesar’s hand instinctively moved toward her firearm.

            “What was that?” she whispered.

            Advik motioned for her to follow, his posture tense. They stepped out into the hallway, listening intently. The station was a maze of echoes at night, but this sound - this was unmistakably close.

            A third thud sounded, this time clearly from the rear side of the building. They moved swiftly but silently. Another thud.

            And then - A desperate cry. A man’s voice. Pained. Strangled. Followed by a crashing noise. This time, Advik broke into a run.

            He sprinted down the corridor, turning sharply toward the rear storage aisle where old case files and broken furniture were kept. The lights flickered wildly here, casting erratic shadows on the walls.

            He reached the storage room door - slightly ajar.

            Advik pushed it open.

            The smell of dust and metal filled the air.

            And on the floor lay Constable Ritesh - one of the youngest officers in the station - curled on his side, clutching his head. His entire body trembled violently as though he were fighting something inside him.

            “Ritesh!” Kesar knelt beside him immediately.

            The young constable’s eyes were wide - too wide - and filled with raw terror.

            “They… they’re here,” he choked. “The eyes…”

            Advik stiffened. Kesar froze.

            Ritesh’s hands clawed desperately at his temples, as if trying to tear out invisible threads pulling at his mind.

            “Stop! Stop - make them stop!” he screamed, his voice cracking under the strain.

            Kesar held his shoulders. “Ritesh, look at me! What eyes? Who is here?”

            But Ritesh wasn’t hearing her. He was staring into the corner of the room - toward the darkness.

            Both officers turned. Nothing. Just shadows. Silent. Cold. Still.

            “Ritesh,” Advik said firmly, bending down. “Focus on my voice. No one is here. You’re safe.”

            But Ritesh’s gaze remained locked on that corner, pupils dilated, breath shaking.

            “They’re watching,” he whispered hoarsely. “They’re everywhere. Just like he said…”

            “Who said?” Advik demanded.

            Ritesh’s lips quivered.

            “The teacher…”

            Advik and Kesar exchanged a horrified glance.

            Before they could say another word, Ritesh convulsed again - back arching, fingers tightening, breath rising in frantic bursts.

            “Get medical!” Kesar shouted toward the doorway.

            Advik grabbed Ritesh’s wrists, trying to steady him, but the constable’s entire body was shaking with such violence that it felt as though he would break apart.

            His voice turned into a trembling whisper:

            “They know you saw them…”

            Advik’s heart stopped for a fraction of a second.

            “Who?”

            Ritesh forced out the words, barely audible.

            “The ones… behind the eyes.”

            And then he collapsed. Not unconscious. Not asleep. But suddenly, eerily still - his breathing slow… too slow.

            Kesar pressed two fingers to his neck. “Pulse faint. He’s slipping.”

            They lifted him and rushed him toward the infirmary room behind the main desk. Two other officers joined, helping carry him.

            As soon as they laid him on the medical cot, his body twitched again - but differently this time, as if something inside had just snapped loose.

            His eyes rolled back.

            Then - Something horrifying happened. Ritesh’s mouth opened slowly, unnaturally wide, and he whispered -

            “They’re coming for the next one.”

            Advik felt ice crawl up his spine.

            Kesar clutched the edge of the bed. “Next one? Who?”

            Ritesh’s head tilted to the side, as though listening to something no one else could hear.

            Then his lips moved again - barely.

            “The puppet-master. He needs another mind… before sunrise.”

            Silence. Stillness. The storm outside crashed harder.

            And before Advik could ask another question, before Kesar could call for medical support again, before they could comprehend the enormity of what they had just heard - Ritesh’s body went limp. His breathing steadied. And then - He began to speak…

            In a voice that was no longer his.

Something colder. Something hollow. Something that did not belong to him.

            “Inspector Advik,” the voice whispered, “you’re already too late.”

 

 

            The infirmary room felt suddenly smaller, as though the very walls had leaned inward to listen. A soft hum from the old ceiling fan blended with the storm outside, but even that familiar sound seemed warped - stretched thin, like it could tear any moment under the weight of what had just happened.

            Ritesh lay motionless on the cot, his chest rising and falling in shallow, eerie precision. His eyes were half-open, but unfocused, as if staring at something beyond the physical world. Something only he could see.

            Inspector Advik felt the air tighten around him.

            The voice that had just spoken - cold, hollow, alien - still echoed inside his bones. It was not the trembling, terrified voice of a young constable breaking under stress. It was not a man suffering a panic episode. It was not a person in shock.

            It was deliberate. Measured. Almost… spoken through him.

            Kesar stepped back unconsciously, her hand instinctively moving toward her holster.

            “Advik…” she whispered. “That wasn’t him.”

            “I know,” he replied softly.

            Ritesh’s fingers twitched - slow, puppet-like movements. The fluorescent light above flickered again, then steadied. Every flicker felt like a pulse of something unseen drifting through the room.

Advik approached the cot carefully. Not out of fear - but out of instinctive respect for something far beyond comprehension.

            “Ritesh,” he said firmly, keeping his voice calm, steady. “You’re safe here. Just breathe.”

            Ritesh did not blink.

            Instead, his lips parted again - that same unnatural voice sliding out like smoke.

            “Inspector… why do you still pretend…?”

            Advik froze.

            Kesar’s breath hitched. “Pretend what?”

            The voice replied instantly, almost amused.

            “That you are in control.”

            Ritesh’s eyes slowly shifted upward, fixating on the stained ceiling as though it held some secret script only he could read.

            “You are already inside the web,” the voice said. “You just haven’t seen the threads yet.”

            “What threads?” Advik demanded.

            Silence.

            Then -

            “The ones wrapped around your mind.”

            Kesar stepped forward. “Enough. Whoever you are - stop using him. Stop speaking through him.”

            The voice laughed. A hollow, breathless sound that did not belong to a twenty-two-year-old constable.

            “A poor vessel,” it said. “Too weak. Too frightened. He breaks too easily.”

            Ritesh’s body twitched again - a jerk, like a marionette pulled by unseen strings.

            Advik leaned closer, eyes sharp. “Who are you?”

            “For now… consider me the whisper behind the eyes.”

            The phrase slammed into the room with a chilling weight. Eyes. Again the same word. The same symbol. The same nightmare tearing through two minds in one night.

            Advik pressed further. “You made the teacher kill. You made this constable collapse. Why? What do you want?”

            Ritesh’s head turned slightly toward him - a painfully slow rotation - as if controlled by an external force.

            “A mind is a door,” the voice said. “Some doors open easily. Others… require persuasion.”

            “You manipulated them,” Advik said. “You forced them.”

            “No,” the voice corrected. “I revealed what already lived beneath. Every human carries darkness. I simply… unlatched it.”

            Kesar hissed softly. “You’re lying.”

            “There is no lie,” the voice whispered. “Only layers.”

            The storm crashed outside, thunder shaking the building’s foundation. For a moment, all three of them seemed to feel the vibration in their bones.

            Advik narrowed his eyes. “What do you want from him?” He pointed at Ritesh.

            “Nothing anymore.”

            “Then why did you use him?”

            “I needed his eyes.”

            Kesar’s skin crawled. “For what?”

            “To see you.”

            A cold rush shot through Advik’s spine.

            The voice continued lazily, almost with a sense of fascination.

            “You’ve been asking the wrong questions, Inspector. You look for motives, suspects, fingerprints, cameras… all your earthly notions of crime.”

            Ritesh’s breath hitched.

            “But the mind…” The voice lowered. “…the mind is the perfect crime scene.”

            Advik clenched his fists.

            “And who are you,” he asked again, “to trespass into people’s minds?”

            Ritesh’s mouth curved slightly—an expression far too foreign for his face.

            “I am the one who listens. The one who collects. The one who rewrites.”

            “Rewrites what?” Kesar pressed.

            “Impulse.” A pause. “Memory.” Another pause. “Intention.”

            “You’re describing brainwashing,” Advik said.

            “No,” the voice responded calmly. “Brainwashing is primitive. Clumsy. Inefficient. I am beyond such crude fabrications.”

            “Then what are you?”

            Ritesh’s eyes turned toward him - And for the briefest fraction of a second, just a flicker, just a pulse, just long enough for fear to crawl down Advik’s throat - something glinted deep in the pupils.
Something unnatural. Something reflective. Not light. Not emotion.
Something that looked almost like…

            “…a lens,” Advik whispered under his breath.

            Kesar caught his expression. “What did you see?”

            But before he could answer, the voice spoke again, sharper now.

            “You’re asking questions you are not ready to understand.”

            “Then help me understand,” Advik snapped.

            Silence. Then the voice lowered to a chilling whisper.

            “The puppet-master doesn’t reveal himself so easily.”

            Kesar stepped closer. “Puppet-master? Who is…”

            But the voice cut her off.

            “You will meet him soon.”

            Advik felt his throat dry out. “Why soon?”

            Ritesh’s lips moved -

            “Because the next mind… is already chosen.”

            Kesar’s heart slammed against her ribcage. “Who?!”

            Ritesh’s body fell suddenly still. A quiet breath.

            Then -

            “You.”

            Kesar stumbled back, her hand gripping the edge of the table.

            “Me?” Her voice cracked.

            But the voice continued:

            “He likes the disciplined ones. The ones who pretend they’re immune. The ones who believe they can resist the pull.”

            Kesar shook her head. “I’m not weak.”

            The voice whispered sweetly:

            “That’s what the teacher said.”

            A shiver ran through the room. Advik stepped protectively in front of her, eyes locked on Ritesh.

            “Why her?” he demanded.

            “She thinks in straight lines,” the voice answered. “Easy pathways. Predictable patterns. Simple to bend.”

            Kesar’s jaw tightened. “I don’t break that easily.”

            “Everyone breaks,” the voice replied. “It’s just a matter of finding the correct fracture point.”

            Advik slammed his fist on the table. “Stop talking in riddles! Answer me - why are you doing this?”

            This time, the voice softened, almost kindly.

            “Because no one sees the mind as a weapon anymore. Everyone has forgotten its power.”

            The storm thundered outside, louder now - as if the night itself had leaned in close.

            “And the puppet-master…” The voice paused. “…he wants the world to remember.”

            Advik felt a chill run down his spine like a blade.

            “What is he planning?”

            “Repetition,” the voice murmured. “Replication.” A slow breath. “Revelation.”

            Kesar swallowed. “What does that even mean?”

            “You will understand,” the voice said, “when the next puppet wakes.”

            Advik leaned in, voice steady but burning.

            “And who will that be?”

            Ritesh’s eyes shifted toward him - slow, unnatural, guided.

            “You already met him.”

            Advik’s heart thudded painfully.

            “Who?”

            The voice whispered: “The man in the suit.”

            A shock rippled through the room. Dr. Nirav. The counsellor who wasn’t a counsellor. Before either of them could respond, before they could process the horror of what they’d just heard - Ritesh convulsed violently.

            His back arched. His hands clawed at the air. His limbs jerked like strings pulled by invisible hands.

            Kesar screamed his name. Advik grabbed his shoulders.

            Then - Ritesh’s entire body collapsed in one sudden motion. Still. Silent. Motionless. His breathing returned to normal. His eyes closed.

            The presence - whatever had been speaking through him - was gone. Like it had stepped out of him. Like Ritesh had been nothing but a door.

            Kesar stood frozen, trembling.

            Advik whispered, almost to himself:

            “The man in the suit… is the next puppet.”

            But even as he said it, a deeper fear gnawed at him.

            What if the man in the suit…was not the puppet?

            What if he was something else entirely?

            Something worse.

            The rain outside had turned relentless. Sheets of water hammered the station roof, drumming a chaotic rhythm that seemed to echo the turmoil inside Advik’s mind. Kesar leaned against the edge of the cot, pale and trembling. Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the metal frame, trying to process what had just happened with Ritesh.

            Advik stood motionless, staring at the ceiling. The words - the voice - the revelation - it kept looping in his mind: “The man in the suit… is the next puppet.”

            A heavy silence fell. Not the calm that follows, but the kind of silence that waits. Thick, expectant, loaded with something invisible. Something patient.

            Kesar broke it first. “We… we can’t leave him alone tonight,” she whispered. “If the puppet-master is real… and he’s targeting Dr. Nirav, then - then we’re next.”

            Advik’s eyes narrowed. “We’re already in his game. This isn’t about being next. This is about surviving it.”

            Kesar flinched at the tone. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t command. It was raw calculation. A cold clarity that made her stomach twist.

            “And how do we survive someone - or something - that enters minds?” she asked. “How do we even fight it?”

            Advik finally turned to her, his face pale but determined. “We don’t fight it in the way we think. We observe. We prepare. And we learn its rules before it learns ours.”

            Her gaze dropped to Ritesh again. He lay still, eyes closed, almost peaceful - but Advik knew that peace was fragile. The slightest thought, the slightest presence, could awaken the puppeteer inside him again.

            Then the station’s lights flickered violently. The hum of the fluorescent tubes buzzed, dipped, and jumped erratically. Kesar jumped back, hand instinctively moving to her holster. Advik’s eyes scanned the hallway.

            Nothing.

            Yet the flicker wasn’t random.

            It was deliberate.

            Advik felt it before he could rationalize it - the unmistakable awareness of being watched. Not physically. Not in any conventional sense. But inside. Inside the mind.

            “Sir…” Kesar’s voice trembled. “It’s him. He’s here.”

            Advik didn’t respond immediately. He slowly walked toward the hallway leading to the lobby, his senses alert. Every shadow seemed to shift as he passed, the lights overhead flickering in rhythm with his pulse.

            Then he saw movement.

            A figure. Standing perfectly still. At the far end of the hallway.

            The man in the suit.

            Dr. Nirav.

            His umbrella was gone. His coat was dry. He didn’t walk. He didn’t run. He simply… appeared.

            Advik’s throat went dry. The air felt heavier, thicker, as if gravity itself had shifted.

            “Inspector Advik,” the man said softly, the words flowing smooth and cold, “you shouldn’t have stayed up tonight.”

            Advik stepped forward, cautiously. “What are you? What do you want?”

            Dr. Nirav’s eyes glinted, reflecting the flickering fluorescent lights. Not warm. Not human. Calculating. Infinite.

            “What I want,” he said, voice calm, almost conversational, “is for you to see. To understand. To witness.”

            Kesar stepped beside Advik. “Witness what?”

            The man tilted his head slightly, studying them both. A smile crept over his face - subtle, almost polite.

            “Control,” he whispered.

            Before Advik could react, the lights flickered again - and the hallway around Dr. Nirav seemed to ripple, distort, as though space itself bent in response to his presence.

            A shiver ran down Kesar’s spine. “This… this isn’t possible.”

            Advik’s jaw tightened. “It’s happening. And it’s real.”

            Dr. Nirav took a slow step forward. Each footfall was silent, yet Advik could feel it in his chest - as though the sound existed not in the air, but somewhere deeper, vibrating inside the nervous system.

            “Your friend,” he said, nodding toward Ritesh, “was merely a door. A test subject. But you… you are something else entirely.”

            Advik’s eyes narrowed. “Something else?”

            “Yes,” Dr. Nirav replied. His voice softened, almost taunting. “A mind that resists. That questions. That seeks understanding. A mind worth breaking. Or bending. Or… elevating.”

            Kesar’s hand trembled as she whispered, “Why him? Why you? Why now?”

            Dr. Nirav’s eyes gleamed, and for a fraction of a second, Advik swore he saw something - something not human - lurking behind them.

            “Because the first puppet has awakened,” he said. “And every awakening demands a witness.”

            Advik’s pulse raced. “You’ve been controlling people. Teacher. Constable. Ritesh. You’re… you’re the one behind all this carnage!”

            Dr. Nirav shook his head slowly. “Carnage is a word for the uninitiated. For those who cannot see the design. For those who cannot appreciate the… art of the mind.”

            “Art?” Kesar’s voice cracked. “People died!”

            “They were shadows,” he said, almost dismissively. “Obstacles. Imperfections. Every mind has cracks. Every mind has a fracture point. I merely… locate them.”

            Advik swallowed hard. “And the glowing eyes? The teacher saw them. Ritesh heard them. Are they real?”

            Dr. Nirav smiled faintly. “Real enough to convince. Real enough to act. Real enough to teach obedience.”

            The lights flickered violently again. The shadows of the hallway twisted unnaturally. Advik could feel it pressing in - the station itself bending in subtle, imperceptible ways.

            Kesar whispered, voice trembling, “He can enter their minds. He can… manipulate thoughts, force action…”

            “Yes,” Dr. Nirav said softly. “And soon, I will need another mind.”

            Advik’s fists clenched. “Not hers,” he growled.

            Dr. Nirav’s eyes shifted to Kesar. A faint smirk. “Why not?”

            Advik took a step in front of her, protective. “Because she’s one of us.”

            Dr. Nirav laughed - soft, cold, echoing in the hallway like wind through dead trees.

            “All are vessels,” he said. “All are tools. But some are… more interesting than others. And curiosity… curiosity is a dangerous thing.”

            The air thickened. The storm outside roared. And in that instant, Advik understood the horrifying truth:

            This wasn’t just manipulation. It wasn’t just control. It was orchestration.

            And they were in the middle of the symphony.

 

            The hallway seemed to contract around them. Every fluorescent tube flickered in unison, casting sharp shadows that clawed at the walls. Advik could feel the weight of Dr. Nirav’s presence like a physical force pressing into his chest. Kesar’s breath came in shallow, rapid bursts, but she refused to step back. The protective instinct warred with terror.

            Dr. Nirav’s gaze lingered on them, sharp, cold, precise. “Do you feel it?” he asked softly. “The tension? The pulse of thought? Every heartbeat is a whisper. Every fear a message. I hear them all.”

            Advik’s fists clenched. “Stop talking in riddles. What do you want from us?”

            Dr. Nirav smiled faintly, a slow, deliberate curve of his lips. “I want… engagement. Observation. Participation. Witnesses understand more. They retain more. They resist, and resistance teaches me. Resistance sharpens the mind. Resistance… creates the perfect puppet.”

            Kesar’s eyes narrowed. “You’re insane.”

            “No,” Dr. Nirav replied smoothly. “Sanity is a fragile veneer. I operate beyond it. Beyond morality. Beyond law. I don’t kill for pleasure. I orchestrate for… evolution.”

            Advik’s pulse raced. “Evolution? By turning men into murderers?”

            He stepped slightly forward, blocking the faint shadow between Kesar and the man. “Stop using people.”

            Dr. Nirav’s eyes glinted. “People are tools. Minds are canvases. Actions… consequences… they are lessons in form. Look closely. Even the teacher… he thought he was acting of his own will.”

            Advik’s stomach twisted. “You made him kill.”

            Dr. Nirav nodded slowly. “I revealed what was already present. Fear, desire, impulse… the mind is fertile soil. I plant the seed. The outcome is inevitable.”

            Kesar swallowed hard. “And the constable? Ritesh?”

“They were conduits,” he said. “Lessons. Test subjects. Proof that the mind bends, and bends again. And now…” His gaze fixed on her. “…you are next.”

            Advik felt a shiver crawl up his spine. “She is not a puppet. Not for you.”

            Dr. Nirav tilted his head, faintly amused. “Ah… resistance. How fascinating. It’s the one trait that makes certain minds more… malleable than others. Curiosity, defiance, calculation… all paradoxically create openings. You resist, and yet, you will watch. You will witness. And in witnessing… the mind begins to fracture.”

            Kesar’s heart hammered. “You’re sick.”

            “Perhaps,” he murmured. “But consider: I do not lie. I do not cheat. I simply… guide what is already there. The potential exists. I merely unlock it.”

            Advik’s jaw tightened. “You manipulate. You invade. You destroy. That is not unlocking. That is criminal.”

            Dr. Nirav’s lips curved again, faintly. “Criminal, yes… or necessary. The world forgets the mind’s power. The potential in thought, in fear, in action. I am… the reminder.”

            A long silence fell. The storm outside bellowed, rain lashing against the glass with relentless fury. The shadows around Dr. Nirav shifted subtly, impossibly, like smoke obeying a direction no one could see.

            Then he took a single, slow step forward. “Look at me closely, Inspector. Can you see it?”

            Advik’s brows knitted. “See what?”

            “The shimmer,” Dr. Nirav whispered, tilting his head under the flickering light. “The pulse of thought. Every fear, every impulse… every calculation you hide from the world. I see it all. And one day soon… I will step inside.”

            Kesar whispered, “He can’t be real. This isn’t possible.”

            Advik’s fists clenched. “It is possible,” he said softly. “Because we’ve already seen it. Teacher. Ritesh. The marks. The eyes. He exists in the gaps… in the cracks… in the thoughts you can’t control.”

            Dr. Nirav’s smile deepened faintly. “And now you know. You are aware. That awareness will guide you… until the next awakening.”

            Advik’s pulse hammered in his ears. “Next awakening? What does that mean?”

            The man’s eyes glinted, reflecting the flickering lights like a prism of knowledge no human should possess. “The first puppet has been moved. The second will be shaped. And the third… well… the third… is already listening.”

            Kesar’s blood ran cold. “Third? Who…”

            Dr. Nirav lifted his hand slightly, almost imperceptibly. The air seemed to shift. The shadows in the hallway deepened unnaturally. “Names are irrelevant. Identity is optional. I am patient. I choose carefully. But the mind I select next… will be one you least expect.”

            Advik swallowed, his throat dry. “And if we stop you?”

            Dr. Nirav’s smile never wavered. “Stop? Ah… my dear inspector, you misunderstand. There is no stopping what is already inside. I do not act alone. I act within. Within thought. Within impulse. Within the hidden corridors of will and fear.”

            Kesar whispered, voice trembling, “He’s saying we can’t fight him. Not like normal criminals.”

            “No,” Advik said grimly. “Not like normal criminals. He’s something else entirely. A predator that hunts the mind itself.”

            The lights flickered one last time, plunging the hallway into near darkness. The storm outside surged as if echoing the tension in the room. When the lights returned, Dr. Nirav was gone.

            No footsteps. No shadow retreating. Just… gone.

            Advik and Kesar stood frozen, heartbeats loud in their ears. The weight of realization pressed down on them:

            The puppet-master had chosen his next target. And they were closer to being caught in his web than they had ever imagined.

            A single, chilling thought settled between them:

            The next mind he touches… could be ours.

 

 

            The station was eerily silent after Dr. Nirav vanished. Even the storm seemed to hesitate outside, as if pausing to watch the events inside the walls. Advik and Kesar remained frozen, each processing the reality that the man in the suit had not just invaded minds, but had orchestrated fear with precision.

            Advik finally broke the silence, voice low, measured. “We can’t ignore this. He’s not just a criminal. He’s… something else entirely.”

            Kesar ran a hand through her hair, tension coiling her muscles like a spring. “Something else? He’s human. He has to be. He can’t—”

            “Stop,” Advik cut in sharply. “Stop telling yourself that. Whatever he is… he’s capable of things no one alive should be. Teacher. Ritesh. And now… he’s testing us.”

            Her eyes widened. “Testing us?”

            “Yes,” he said grimly. “Every interaction, every word, every reaction - he learns. And he adapts. The next move, Kesar… it’s already decided. He’s calculating how to break us before the day ends.”

            Kesar swallowed hard, her mind racing. “How do we fight someone who can control minds? Who can make a man commit murder without warning, without remorse?”

            Advik’s jaw tightened. “We observe. We protect. And we understand the rules of the game before he teaches them to us… the hard way.”

            A faint beep came from the infirmary monitor. Ritesh’s pulse had stabilized, but the young constable’s breathing was shallow, uneven. His body twitched occasionally, as though small fragments of the puppeteer still lingered inside him.

            Kesar leaned over him, whispering softly. “Ritesh… can you hear me?”

            No response. Only the faint twitch of his fingers.

            Advik frowned, turning to the CCTV feed on the nearby monitor. The camera covering the lobby flickered momentarily, and for a heartbeat, he thought he saw movement. A figure… a shadow… the man in the suit? But the screen returned to normal instantly.

            “That was him,” Advik muttered. “I know it.”

            Kesar’s voice was tight. “We need to track him. If he’s planning the next… whatever he’s planning… we need to be ready.”

            Advik shook his head slowly. “We can’t track him in the conventional sense. He doesn’t move like a normal man. He’s inside the minds of others. He uses them. He’s already several steps ahead.”

            Kesar’s brow furrowed. “Then what do we do?”

            Advik paced the room. His mind raced through everything they had seen, heard, and felt tonight. Every instinct screamed danger. Every observation hinted at a pattern. And yet… no pattern was fully comprehensible.

            “We document,” he said finally. “Every detail. Every word. Every subtle movement. Every flicker of thought we can detect. If he’s manipulating minds, then he leaves traces. Tiny ones. Imperceptible ones. But they exist. And if we record enough, we can predict him.”

            Kesar exhaled sharply. “Prediction… that might be the only weapon we have against him.”

            Advik nodded. “And we need to protect ourselves. He’s targeting the next mind. And it could be one of us.”

            The thought hung in the air like a guillotine.

            Kesar swallowed hard. “You mean… he could enter our minds too?”

            “Exactly,” Advik replied. “And we don’t even know the rules yet. But we will. We have to.”

            A low rumble of thunder shook the building. The lights flickered again.

            Advik glanced at Ritesh. “We keep him under observation. Any irregularity, any twitch, any change… we record. He may be a vessel still. We cannot afford a second awakening tonight.”

            Kesar nodded, checking her watch. The hours were slipping away, and with each minute, the storm outside grew fiercer. Time was no longer a linear measure; it was a tool in the puppet-master’s hands.

            Advik’s eyes narrowed. “We need to review the school scene again. Every inch of it. Every angle, every shadow. There’s something we missed. Something that connects the first puppet to the second. Something he left behind, intentionally or not.”

            Kesar tapped the keyboard, pulling up the high-resolution images from the classroom. Blood splatters, overturned desks, shattered glass… and the faint circular scorch mark on the wall.

            “That scorch mark,” she whispered. “Do you think… it’s some kind of signal?”

            Advik leaned closer, studying the photo. “It’s not just a signal. It’s a signature. A method. And it’s how he communicates without words.”

            The storm outside intensified. Rain hammered the windows, wind rattled the frames, and somewhere in the distance, lightning split the sky. Inside the station, the atmosphere was electric, tense, and alive.

            Advik stood back, eyes scanning the room. “The first puppet… he’s gone. The second… Dr. Nirav… he’s preparing. And Ritesh… he’s just a shadow of what’s to come.”

            Kesar swallowed, her mind racing with fear and determination. “So… the next move? What do we do?”

            Advik’s voice was low, unwavering. “We wait. We observe. And we prepare. Because the moment he acts… the rules of the game will become clear. And we either survive… or we become the next puppet.”

            Outside, the storm raged on, relentless and indifferent. Inside, the seed of fear had been planted.

            And in the shadows, the puppet-master watched, patient, calculating… waiting for the next mind to awaken.

            The storm outside showed no signs of easing. The rain pelted the station roof like a thousand fingers drumming a warning. Inside, Advik and Kesar moved like shadows themselves, careful not to disturb the fragile balance that had settled over Ritesh and the station. Every instinct screamed danger, every flicker of light hinted at the unseen predator lingering just beyond perception.

            Advik walked to the window and stared at the rain-soaked streets of Udaipur. Even in the darkness, the city looked deserted, empty, as though it had been waiting for this night. The neon signs flickered against the wet asphalt, reflections bending in the puddles like distorted images of reality. And somewhere out there, Dr. Nirav moved silently, his next move carefully calculated.

            Kesar stepped beside him. “Do you really think he’s walking the streets? Or… is he already inside someone else?”

            Advik didn’t answer immediately. The thought was cold, chilling. “Inside someone else,” he admitted finally. “And possibly already several steps ahead. The first puppet… the teacher… he’s a warning. Ritesh… a lesson. And Nirav… he’s the map leading to the next stage.”

            Kesar shivered. “And the next stage… is?”

            Advik’s gaze hardened. “Direct confrontation. Not with weapons. Not with fists. With the mind. Whoever the puppet-master chooses, the mind becomes the battlefield. And we’re on the perimeter.”

            Kesar’s eyes narrowed. “So… what do we do now?”

            Advik turned sharply to her, eyes intense. “We prepare. Observation. Documentation. Analysis. We create our own framework. He has his rules… we need ours. Otherwise… we become prey.”

            The flickering fluorescent lights cast uneven shadows across the room. Advik moved toward the monitor showing Ritesh, who lay still, pale, and fragile. Tiny twitches betrayed the lingering presence of the puppeteer within him.

            “We need to monitor him continuously,” Advik said. “Even if he seems stable, even if his pulse is normal. We cannot allow another awakening tonight.”

            Kesar nodded, biting her lip. “And if he tries to contact… influence… again?”

            Advik’s eyes were unwavering. “We break the connection. We isolate the variables. And we watch.”

            A sudden noise made both of them freeze - a soft, deliberate knock at the station entrance. Not hurried. Not accidental. Deliberate. Calculated.

            Advik’s eyes narrowed. “He’s testing boundaries,” he muttered. “It’s too early for anyone else to come here. Too calculated for coincidence.”

            Kesar grabbed the radio. “I’ll check. Police check-in?”

            “No,” Advik said, raising his hand. “Do not call anyone yet. It’s a trap. Whoever it is… wants us distracted.”

            The knocking stopped. Silence replaced the sound, thick and heavy. And then… a single word, faint but audible, whispered through the station as if carried on the wind:

            “Watch.”

            Kesar’s hand trembled on the radio. “Did you hear that?”

            Advik nodded grimly. “I did. He’s reminding us. Always reminding us. The mind is the battlefield… and we’re being observed.”

            Kesar swallowed hard, her heartbeat echoing in her ears. “So… we wait?”

            “Yes,” Advik said. “We wait. And we anticipate. Every moment matters. Every second is a calculation. And the next move… will come from where we least expect it.”

            Outside, the storm roared, a relentless rhythm that seemed to echo the pulse of the invisible puppeteer. Inside, the tension coiled tighter with every passing second. Advik and Kesar both knew that tonight, nothing would be ordinary. Every thought, every glance, every heartbeat was being monitored—measured, assessed, and possibly manipulated.

            Then, a faint light flickered from the corner of the room. Not from the monitors. Not from the ceiling. Something external. Something deliberate.

            Advik’s gaze snapped toward it. His instincts screamed. “He’s here.”

            Kesar’s fingers twitched. “How? He vanished… we saw him vanish.”

            Advik’s jaw tightened. “That’s the point. He doesn’t move like us. He moves through the spaces we don’t perceive. He’s already inside the station… or he’s in someone’s mind controlling perception. Either way… we are not alone.”

            A long silence fell. Even Ritesh, unconscious or semi-conscious, was unnervingly still, as if sensing the invisible presence around them.

            Advik took a slow step forward. “He wants to see us react. He wants to test our minds. And tonight… he’ll get the results.”

            The room seemed to constrict further. Every shadow deepened. The flickering light painted illusions of movement across the walls.

            And then, in the faintest whisper—so soft that Kesar nearly didn’t hear it - a voice slid through the darkness:

            “You are next.”

            Kesar gasped. Advik’s eyes narrowed. Every hair on his neck stood up.

            “You said Ritesh… he’s done,” Kesar said shakily.

            “He’s done physically,” Advik replied. “But the presence - the will, the consciousness… it lingers. And now… he’s shifted his attention.”

            The storm outside reached a crescendo. The rain battered the building with merciless intensity, thunder shaking the windows, lightning slicing the sky.

            Advik and Kesar exchanged a glance. The unspoken understanding passed between them: tonight, nothing would be ordinary. Every moment could be a trap. Every sound could be a signal. And the next awakening… the next act of the puppet-master… was imminent.

            Kesar swallowed hard. “We need a plan.”

            Advik’s jaw tightened. “Plan? The only plan is vigilance. Observation. Documentation. Anticipation. Anything else… is a mistake.”

            Outside, in the chaos of the storm, shadows shifted. And somewhere, just beyond the walls of the station, Dr. Nirav—calm, composed, patient - watched, waited, and calculated the next move in a game that no one else even understood.

            And the first true battle of minds - the one that would define the night - was about to begin.

            The station felt alive in a way that was almost wrong. Every creak of the floorboards, every flicker of light, every drop of rain that splashed against the windows carried the weight of anticipation. Advik and Kesar moved cautiously, yet every instinct told them they were already too late.

            Advik’s eyes scanned the room again and again, never resting. His mind ran faster than his body could act, trying to anticipate a presence he couldn’t see. Ritesh lay under observation, a fragile husk of what had once been, and now the predator’s attention had shifted. The whisper still lingered in their minds: “You are next.”

            Kesar’s voice broke the silence. “Do you think he’s in our heads already?”

            Advik didn’t answer immediately. He didn’t need to. Every subtle shift in the room - the slight hum of the fluorescent light, the imperceptible tremor of the air - was an answer.

            “He can enter perception,” Advik said finally. “He doesn’t need to touch us. He doesn’t need to be visible. All he needs… is the space our minds create. And right now, we’re giving him plenty of room.”

            Kesar swallowed hard. “So… how do we fight that?”

            Advik’s jaw tightened. “We don’t fight. Not yet. We resist. We observe. And we anticipate the cracks before they appear. Because the moment we react instinctively… that’s when he wins.”

            A sudden flicker from the corner of the room caught their eyes. Shadows bent unnaturally. The faint impression of a man in a suit standing just beyond the edge of their perception. Not fully there. Not fully absent.

            Advik’s pulse surged. “He’s testing us.”

            Kesar’s grip tightened on the edge of the table. “Testing? How? He’s not even—”

            “He is,” Advik interrupted. “He’s already inside our minds. I can feel it. Subtle. Almost imperceptible. Like pressure against the skull. A suggestion… a trace of fear.”

            The air seemed heavier. Their own thoughts suddenly felt alien, as though someone - or something - was sifting through them, examining, cataloging, searching for weakness.

            A whisper, faint and melodic, slid through the room, not audible to the ears but to the mind.

            “Watch… listen… obey… or break.”

            Kesar froze. “Did you hear that?”

            Advik didn’t speak. He could feel the pulse of the voice vibrating against his consciousness, brushing against the edges of perception. The room seemed to tilt subtly. The shadows grew longer, darker.

            Suddenly, Ritesh stirred. His eyes opened - not the frightened, vacant gaze from before, but something colder, controlled. Something that wasn’t fully his own.

            “You are… predictable,” Ritesh’s voice intoned, hollow, unnatural. “Your thoughts… they betray you.”

            Kesar took a step back, hand to her mouth. “No… no, Ritesh, fight it!”

            Advik stepped forward, calm but firm. “Ritesh! This is still you. Control yourself!”

            The young constable’s body twisted unnaturally, as if pulled by invisible strings. “I… am… observer… now,” the voice said. Then, with a sudden jerk, he stopped, head tilting slightly, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the room.

            Advik realized then what he feared most: the puppet-master was no longer in the shadows. He had breached the first line of defense - the mind of another human - and used it as his tool. Every twitch, every flicker of expression, every hesitation now belonged to someone else.

            Kesar whispered, barely audible, “He’s inside him… completely.”

            Advik nodded grimly. “And if he can do that to Ritesh… he can do it to anyone. Including us.”

            Another whisper reached them - not through the ears, but through thought, sliding unbidden into awareness:

            “Resistance is the first step toward perfection… and the first step toward collapse.”

            Kesar’s knees weakened. “We can’t…he can’t…”

            Advik put a hand on her shoulder. “We can. We just need to anchor ourselves. Focus on the evidence. The physical world. The facts. The mind he invades is the battlefield… but our minds must stay grounded in reality.”

            The lights flickered violently. The shadows coalesced, forming shapes that bent and shifted impossibly. Advik could feel his own pulse accelerating, his own thoughts vibrating under the unseen pressure.

            Then, the whisper grew stronger, more insistent:

            “The next mind… will awaken soon. And you… will watch it break.”

            Kesar’s eyes widened. “Who? Who is he talking about?”

            Advik’s throat tightened. “Dr. Nirav. He’s the next target. And if we don’t intervene… he’ll become the second puppet.”

            A sudden sound made both of them jump - a soft, deliberate tap-tap-tap echoing through the station. Not from the outside. Not from any visible source. But from within. As though the building itself had become a conduit for the puppet-master’s presence.

            Advik whispered, “He’s moving closer. Testing the boundaries. Probing. Measuring fear, hesitation, reaction.”

            Kesar swallowed, voice trembling. “How do we stop him?”

            Advik’s eyes narrowed, scanning every shadow, every flicker of light, every corner of the room. “We can’t stop him. Not directly. But we can survive him. Observation. Documentation. Vigilance. And patience. Every move we make… every second we remain aware… is resistance.”

            The storm outside roared, lightning slashing through the sky, thunder shaking the building. Inside, every heartbeat, every flicker of thought, every twitch of muscle was a reminder: the puppet-master was patient, precise, and relentless.

            And Advik knew, with a cold certainty, that the true test was about to begin. Not Ritesh. Not Dr. Nirav. But them.

            Because tonight, the battlefield was the mind…and the puppet-master had already chosen his next game.

            The station was steeped in a charged silence. Every creak, every drip of water from the storm-lashed roof, every flicker of fluorescent light felt amplified - like the universe itself had slowed down, stretching each second into a taut wire, ready to snap. Advik and Kesar stood shoulder to shoulder, eyes scanning every shadow, listening to every subtle sound, their nerves strung tighter than piano wires.

Ritesh’s body remained still on the cot, but his breathing was shallow, deliberate. Every twitch of his fingers betrayed a lingering force inside him. A silent witness to the invisible puppeteer’s presence. Advik’s mind raced, cataloging possibilities. The man in the suit - the puppet-master - had shown them his power. He had turned a mild-mannered teacher into a killer, fractured Ritesh’s mind, and now he was moving toward the next stage.

 

            Kesar swallowed hard. “He’s… he’s everywhere. In everyone. How do we even…”

 

            Advik cut her off, voice low but firm. “Focus. Right now, the battlefield is here. In this room. Ritesh is the first indicator. He’s a warning. Not the main target.”

            A soft, almost imperceptible shift in the air made Advik freeze. Something changed in the room—a subtle vibration, a displacement that wasn’t physical but mental. He realized then: the puppet-master was testing the limits of their awareness, probing their thoughts, gauging their responses.

            And he had begun.

            Ritesh’s head jerked suddenly. His eyes flew open, but they were no longer his own. They glimmered with something cold, alien, almost reflective. Advik’s stomach dropped. The voice spoke again, but this time through Ritesh. Not whispered, not tentative. Clear, deliberate, unstoppable:

            “You are vulnerable. Your mind is open.”

            Kesar gasped. “Ritesh! Fight it! This isn’t you!”

            But Ritesh’s lips curved into a faint, unnatural smile. “I am… observer. Witness. And you…” The words stretched, distorted, the cadence unnatural. “You are… next.”

            Advik’s fists clenched. “No. Not her. Not anyone here.”

            The shadows in the room shifted with a subtle, impossible fluidity. The flickering fluorescent lights cast shapes on the walls that twisted unnaturally, bending like liquid. Advik felt the air pressing in around him, a weight that wasn’t physical but psychological.

            Kesar’s fingers trembled as she reached for her notebook, jotting details furiously. “He’s… he’s entering perception,” she whispered. “Not physically… but in thought. In consciousness. He’s probing… measuring fear.”

            Advik nodded grimly. “Every twitch, every reaction, every second of hesitation is data for him. And he’s already cataloging ours.”

            Ritesh rose from the cot, not moving with his own will but as if strings pulled him upward. The young constable’s movements were precise, fluid, unnerving. He turned slowly toward Advik and Kesar, voice flat, mechanical:

            “Prepare. Observe. Witness.”

            Advik swallowed hard. “Kesar… anchor yourself. Remember who you are. Resist instinctively.”

            She nodded, her jaw set, her mind forcing clarity in the maelstrom of psychological pressure. The room seemed to stretch and bend around them. Every shadow looked alive. Every sound carried intent.

            And then, the whisper slithered into their consciousness:

            “Curiosity is the first fracture point. Resistance is the second. Observation… is the trap.”

            Advik’s pulse thundered in his ears. “He’s… he’s inside the language we use. Inside thought itself. Every word we speak, every glance we give… he’s manipulating it.”

            Kesar’s notebook shook in her hands. “How… how do we fight that? How do we even know what’s real?”

            Advik stepped closer to her. “Ground yourself. Focus on the physical. The facts. The evidence. The measurable. He can invade thought, but he cannot touch the reality outside these walls. That’s our anchor. That’s our weapon.”

            Ritesh’s gaze fixed on them, still controlled, still a conduit. “Witness… the next… awakening…”

            Advik’s eyes narrowed. He realized what was happening. The puppet-master was not just preparing Dr. Nirav. He was using Ritesh as a conduit to practice his manipulation, to push them to the edge.

            The room’s lights flickered violently, and for an instant, Advik swore he saw the man in the suit’s reflection in Ritesh’s eyes - smiling faintly, patient, inhumanly calm.

            Kesar’s voice trembled. “He’s… in him… fully now. And he’s testing us.”

            Advik’s mind raced. “Then we fight the test. Every word, every reaction, every thought… resist. Anchor to reality. Nothing else matters.”

            The flicker passed. Shadows returned to their normal shapes. The storm outside roared, but inside, the air seemed to still, pregnant with anticipation.

            Ritesh stopped moving. His eyes blinked slowly, once, twice. And then, in a voice that was almost, but not entirely, his own:

            “You… cannot hide. You… cannot resist. You… are observed.”

            Advik swallowed. “He wants fear. He wants hesitation. He wants… control.”

            Kesar’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Then we don’t give it to him. We watch. We record. And we survive.”

            A long silence followed. The storm raged outside, the room held its breath, and Advik knew the truth:

            The first real mental confrontation had begun. And if they faltered, even for a second…

            They would become the next puppets.

            The station had transformed into something unrecognizable. The storm outside roared like an angry ocean, but inside, the true tempest was the invisible one - woven from thought, fear, and unseen manipulation. Advik and Kesar stood rigid, senses straining, hearts hammering, as the presence of the puppet-master pressed against the edges of their consciousness.

            Ritesh remained on his feet, but he was no longer fully there. His movements were precise, controlled, almost mechanical. Each blink, each subtle shift of weight, betrayed the invisible strings tugging at his mind. Advik could see it - the faint hesitancy between his intentions and actions - the traces of someone else manipulating him from deep within.

            Kesar’s notebook lay open, pages scribbled in frantic detail, yet her eyes were wide with terror. “He’s… he’s inside him completely,” she whispered. “There’s no margin for error. Every thought we have… he knows it.”

            Advik’s jaw clenched. “Then we do the only thing we can. We resist, not with instinct, not with emotion, but with calculation. Focus on the facts. Observe his patterns. Anchor ourselves to reality. That’s the only way he loses control.”

            The room darkened momentarily as the fluorescent lights flickered violently. The shadows bent unnaturally along the walls. Advik’s pulse raced. He knew the moment had come. The puppet-master had begun his first direct mental assault - not just through Ritesh, but on their minds.

            A whisper slid into their awareness, subtle, impossible to locate:

            “Fear. Hesitation. Curiosity. Your minds are open… and you do not know it.”

            Advik took a slow, deliberate breath. “Anchor, Kesar. Focus. Everything outside your head… the physical world… that’s ours. He cannot touch that.”

            Ritesh’s voice shifted again, blending his own tone with something colder, alien. “Observe… witness… resist… or break…”

            Kesar’s fingers trembled on the notebook. “It’s like he’s speaking directly to the thoughts we’re thinking!”

            Advik stepped closer, hand on her shoulder. “Exactly. That’s the battlefield. But we can fight it. Do not react instinctively. Measure, calculate, anchor.”

            A sudden flicker of light made Ritesh flinch. His hand twitched. Advik noticed a pattern: the puppet-master used external stimuli - the flicker, the shadow, the sound - to sync his manipulations. Every small change triggered a reaction. And every reaction was a test.

            Advik’s eyes narrowed. “He’s teaching us the rules. Every twitch, every hesitation, every blink… he’s cataloging. And soon, he’ll use it.”

            Kesar swallowed hard. “Then we fight it… by not fighting?”

            “By resisting inside the battlefield he’s created,” Advik said firmly. “Anchor to reality. Observe. Document. And wait. Wait for the moment we can act with clarity.”

            Ritesh moved closer, controlled by an invisible hand. Each step was precise, deliberate. Yet Advik noticed subtle traces of conflict - tiny micro-expressions that betrayed the faintest hint of his own will fighting through.

            Kesar’s voice was barely a whisper. “He’s… he’s using him to measure us… test us… teach us without touching us directly.”

            “Yes,” Advik replied grimly. “And the lesson is clear: the moment we falter mentally, emotionally… we give him an opening. And we cannot afford an opening.”

            A sudden low hum filled the room. Not electrical. Not mechanical. It resonated somewhere deeper, in the marrow of the bones, vibrating against the mind itself. Advik realized the intensity: the puppet-master was amplifying his influence, pressing, probing, and stretching their awareness to breaking point.

            “Focus!” Advik barked. “Everything you feel, everything you sense - label it. Identify it. Do not let it dictate your actions. It is the battlefield… but we are the observers.”

            Kesar nodded, gripping her pen like a lifeline. “Anchor to reality… observe… resist…” she whispered to herself.

            Ritesh stopped abruptly. His eyes flickered between their faces, and for a fraction of a second, Advik glimpsed the real him - frightened, trapped, struggling to regain control. And then the alien presence surged again, twisting his expression, bending his will.

            Advik clenched his fists. “We’re not just observing him. We’re observing the puppet-master himself. Every move, every pattern… it’s ours to learn. And we will use it against him.”

            The whisper returned, soft, almost caressing in its malice:

“Resistance is admirable… but temporary. Awareness is fragile… and fleeting. Witness the next awakening… and you will understand.”

            Advik’s pulse thundered. “Next awakening… Dr. Nirav. He’s preparing him already. And Ritesh… he’s only the practice.”

            Kesar’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Then we survive. We anchor. We fight the battlefield he’s created… without letting him know we’re fighting.”

            The storm outside seemed to mirror the turmoil inside. The air was thick with tension. Every heartbeat, every breath, every blink was a measure of control, a test of awareness.

            Advik realized the truth with chilling clarity:

Tonight, they were no longer merely observers. They were participants. The battlefield was inside their inds as well. And the puppet-master’s first direct assault had begun.

            The room fell into tense silence, punctuated only by the storm and the faint, unnatural movements of Ritesh. Advik and Kesar knew one fact with brutal clarity:

One wrong thought. One hesitation. And the game would claim them too.

            The fluorescent lights flickered again, casting the station into alternating shadows and pale brightness. Advik and Kesar stood frozen, aware that the slightest movement, the faintest misstep, could feed the puppet-master’s invisible grasp. The storm outside seemed to pulse in tandem with the tension, thunder shaking the building with violent insistence.

            Ritesh’s eyes remained fixed, vacant yet piercing, a chilling testament to the invisible strings guiding him. The moment hung suspended, like the still pause before a predator strikes. Advik could feel the presence now—no longer subtle, no longer distant—it pressed against the edges of their minds, insinuating itself into every thought, every breath, every heartbeat.

            A whisper threaded through their consciousness again:

“Observe… resist… the mind bends… and those who resist fracture…”

            Advik’s jaw tightened. “He’s testing us. Probing. Measuring fear, hesitation, and thought patterns. We stay anchored. We document. We resist instinctively.”

            Kesar swallowed, clutching her notebook. “But… it’s like he knows our thoughts before we do. How do we even begin to resist that?”

            Advik’s voice was low, controlled. “We ground ourselves in the physical. In reality. His influence works through the gaps in perception, the cracks in thought. Stay aware. Observe every detail, but never let it dictate your action. That’s how we fight him.”

            Ritesh moved closer, controlled, precise. But Advik noticed subtle microexpressions flickering across his face - tiny remnants of his own will fighting the invasion. The puppet-master wasn’t just controlling him; he was teaching, experimenting, and testing simultaneously.

            The whisper returned, this time clearer, urgent:

“The next mind awakens… and your resistance will be evaluated. Observe… the patterns… anticipate… or break…”

            Kesar’s voice trembled. “The next mind… that’s Dr. Nirav. He’s the target.”

            Advik’s fists clenched. “Exactly. And if we falter here, we give him another opening. He’s already several moves ahead. The first puppet… the practice. Ritesh… our test. And now… the real game begins.”

            The flickering lights cast shadows that stretched unnaturally along the walls. Advik realized that the puppet-master wasn’t limited to influencing the living - he manipulated perception itself, bending reality just enough to induce doubt, fear, and hesitation. Every twitch of a shadow, every flicker of light, every soft sound became a weapon in the invisible game.

            Ritesh tilted his head, voice hollow, monotone, repeating: “Observe… witness… resist… or break…”

            Kesar’s hands shook as she scribbled frantically in her notebook, cataloging patterns, noting deviations, trying to anchor her own mind to reality. “He’s… he’s attacking us through Ritesh. Every movement, every word… it’s shaping our perception.”

            Advik nodded grimly. “Then we turn it back on him. Observation becomes our shield. Documentation becomes our weapon. Every pattern we identify… is a step closer to regaining control.”

            Ritesh took a deliberate step toward them, each movement unnervingly fluid. The room seemed to pulse in tandem with his steps. Advik forced himself to breathe evenly, each inhale and exhale deliberate, anchoring himself to the here and now.

            The whisper slithered in again, almost caressing their minds:

“Resistance… is the precursor to collapse. Observation… is the trap. Witness… and understand…”

            Advik’s pulse thundered. “He’s creating mental tension deliberately. The more we try to resist instinctively, the stronger his influence becomes. We cannot react emotionally. Only strategically.”

            Kesar nodded, lips pressed tightly. “Anchor to reality. Observe. Measure. Resist instinctively, but act deliberately.”

            Ritesh stopped abruptly, head tilting unnaturally. Advik noticed something in the twitch of his hand—a trace of hesitation. A micro-expression. A hint that the real Ritesh, the one still trapped, was fighting back.

            Advik stepped closer, speaking softly but firmly. “Ritesh… hold on. Fight it. Remember who you are. Do not let him define you.”

            For the first time, a spark of humanity flickered in Ritesh’s eyes, fleeting, almost imperceptible. The puppet-master’s presence surged again, and the whispers intensified:

“Do you feel it? The fracture begins. Witness… anticipate… or break…”

            Advik realized the full scope. This was not just a test of strength or courage. It was a test of the mind itself, of will, perception, and awareness. Every reaction they made, every thought, every doubt was feeding the game.

            Kesar whispered, trembling, “We have to survive this… to help Ritesh… and to stop the next puppet.”

            Advik nodded grimly. “Exactly. We are the observers. The anchors. The resistance. And the moment we falter… we join him.”

            The storm outside erupted, rain hammering against the windows, thunder cracking the air. Inside, the battle raged quietly, invisibly, a war of thought and perception. Advik and Kesar understood the truth with a chilling clarity:

            Tonight, the battlefield was inside their minds. The puppet-master was patient, precise, and relentless.

            And the first true mental clash had begun.

            The room seemed to breathe, each shadow expanding and contracting as though alive. Advik and Kesar moved in unison, small, deliberate steps, aware that any sudden motion might feed the invisible predator manipulating Ritesh. The young constable remained rigid, controlled, yet tiny, almost imperceptible flickers betrayed the remnants of his own consciousness fighting to surface.

            Advik’s eyes scanned the space, tracking every subtle movement, every twitch, every shadow. “He’s testing perception,” he muttered. “Every sound, every flicker, every twitch is deliberate. He wants us to doubt our senses.”

            Kesar’s fingers were white on the edge of the table. “So… we rely only on facts. On observation. On what we can measure.”

            “Exactly,” Advik said, voice low. “He can invade thought, but he cannot alter the physical. Anchor there. Track patterns. Catalog everything. And we resist instinctively, but act deliberately.”

            A flicker in Ritesh’s eyes drew Advik’s attention. For a fraction of a second, the pale, controlled gaze softened, the real Ritesh shining through. The puppet-master’s influence was strong, but not absolute.

            Advik whispered to Kesar, “Do you see that? He’s not fully gone. The human mind fights back if it’s anchored. That’s our opening.”

            Kesar’s eyes widened. “Then we… we exploit that. Subtly. Anchor him. Reinforce his awareness of reality. Counter the influence.”

            Ritesh shifted slightly. His movements became jagged, uncoordinated for a heartbeat. A warning pulse went through the room, subtle, but enough for Advik to recognize it—the puppet-master sensed resistance.

            A whisper, more insistent now, threaded through their consciousness:

“Resistance… is temporary. Awareness… is fragile… Observation… is the trap…”

            Advik clenched his fists. “Then we break the trap. Observation is our tool. Awareness is our weapon. He relies on the gaps in our perception. We fill them with reality, clarity, control.”

            Kesar scribbled furiously in her notebook, noting every subtle twitch, every flicker of light, every word spoken by Ritesh. “I’m anchoring him… reinforcing the patterns… feeding his mind back to his own reality.”

            Advik nodded. “Good. Every second counts. If he falters - if the puppet-master senses hesitation - he adapts. We must remain precise.”

            Ritesh’s voice cut through the thick tension. “You… cannot resist… the mind bends… the will is mine…”

            Advik stepped closer, voice firm. “Ritesh! Fight it! Remember yourself! Every micro-expression, every movement… anchor to reality!”

            For a brief heartbeat, the young constable’s eyes cleared. The alien glint vanished, replaced by fear, confusion, and recognition. The puppet-master hissed softly, almost imperceptibly, through the shadows:

“Ah… resilience… fascinating… but temporary…”

            Kesar’s breath hitched. “He… he knows we’re resisting. He’s testing us harder.”

            Advik’s gaze hardened. “Then we raise the stakes. We anticipate. Every twitch, every hesitation, every micro-expression - we exploit patterns, anchor reality, and strengthen Ritesh’s control.”

            Ritesh’s movements became slightly more coordinated, though still under invisible influence. The room vibrated with tension, every shadow stretching like tendrils, every flicker of light a potential distraction.

            The puppet-master’s whispers intensified, threading into every thought:

“Curiosity… fear… hesitation… predictability… observe… break…”

            Advik’s pulse pounded. “He’s trying to overload us, split our attention. Ignore it. Anchor to reality. Reinforce control. Focus.”

            Kesar’s hands shook as she held the notebook. “We… we can do this. We can help him. We just need to… anchor everything… reinforce… resist instinctively, act deliberately…”

            Ritesh blinked rapidly. His head tilted, micro-movements signaling internal conflict. The puppet-master’s invisible strings tugged at him, trying to sway, but the human mind fought back, anchored by Advik and Kesar’s deliberate intervention.

            A long, tense silence filled the room. The storm outside roared in violent rhythm, but inside, the real clash was invisible - an unrelenting duel of will, perception, and control.

            Advik realized with grim clarity:

            The first true mental duel had begun. The puppet-master was patient, precise, relentless… but not infallible. And for the first time, resistance had a foothold.

            One misstep. One moment of hesitation. One fracture of focus. And they would lose - not just Ritesh, but themselves.

            Advik and Kesar stood firm. Eyes locked on the controlled figure of Ritesh. Minds stretched to their limits.

            And the invisible game continued, faster, sharper, more dangerous than either of them had ever imagined.

            The station had become an arena of shadows and whispers, every sound amplified in the minds of the three who remained conscious. Advik and Kesar moved carefully, deliberate, but the real battle was not physical. It was inside their heads, where perception itself had become weaponized.

            Ritesh stood in the center of the room, controlled, precise - but the ghost of his own consciousness fought in fragments. Advik noticed it in the tiniest flickers: a blink, a micro-twitch, the tension of a jaw, a hesitation in posture. The puppet-master was testing boundaries, probing weaknesses, measuring reactions.

            A whisper threaded into their awareness, subtle, almost serpentine:

“Observation… resistance… predictability… all temporary… your minds bend… and then break…”

            Advik swallowed, forcing calm over the rising adrenaline. “He’s testing us. Every twitch, every heartbeat, every thought… he’s measuring. We anchor to reality. Observation is our shield. Clarity is our weapon.”

            Kesar’s fingers shook as she scribbled rapidly in her notebook. “He’s… he’s attacking our minds directly now. Not just Ritesh. He’s trying to push us to fracture.”

            “Good,” Advik said quietly, a spark of grim determination in his eyes. “If he attacks, we respond by reinforcing reality. The more precise our observation, the weaker his influence. Every note you take… every detail you record… it’s ammunition.”

            Ritesh moved again, head tilting unnaturally, each movement almost alien in its fluidity. Yet Advik could see the cracks - the micro-indicators that the human mind was resisting.

            “Focus on him,” Advik said. “Every subtle micro-expression. Every involuntary twitch. That’s our guide. That’s where we anchor. That’s how we fight.”

            Kesar nodded, voice low but steady. “Anchor… observe… resist instinctively, act deliberately…”

            The whisper returned, louder, more insistent, threading into their thoughts like ice:

“Curiosity… hesitation… fear… resistance… all recorded… all measured… all exploited…”

            Advik’s pulse thundered. “He’s cataloging us. Every hesitation, every blink, every micro-reaction… he wants to predict our next move.”

            Ritesh’s eyes flickered again. A spark of recognition – familiarity - passed through them for a fraction of a second. Advik seized it, stepping closer.

            “Ritesh! This is you! Fight it! Focus! Anchor to what’s real!”

            The alien overlay of the puppet-master’s influence resisted, pushing back, but Advik saw a small victory: a micro-expression of fear - not his own, but human. The puppet-master’s perfect control was not yet complete.

            Kesar’s hand moved swiftly, reinforcing patterns in Ritesh’s awareness. “See the reality around you, Ritesh. The room, the storm, us. This is yours. Fight it!”

            Ritesh staggered slightly, uncoordinated. The invisible strings pulled, tugged, twisted—but the human mind fought, anchored by their deliberate interventions.

            The whisper slithered again, soft, insidious:

“Resistance is temporary… awareness is fragile… the first cracks… now visible…”

            Advik’s jaw tightened. “Good. Cracks appear. That’s our opening. Keep reinforcing reality. Observation is the weapon. Documentation is the shield.”

            Ritesh’s eyes cleared a fraction more. Movement became more tentative, less precise. The puppet-master hissed silently through the shadows, sensing the resistance.

            Kesar’s voice trembled, but she pressed on. “Anchor to reality. Every object, every sound, every sensation… reinforce it. Your mind belongs to you, Ritesh. Fight back!”

            The storm outside reached a crescendo, but inside, an invisible war was being waged with more intensity than any natural fury. Every breath, every thought, every heartbeat was measured, calculated, countered.

            Advik realized the truth with chilling clarity:

            The puppet-master’s power was formidable—but not absolute. Resistance, precision, observation - these were weapons no human could fully anticipate. And for the first time, they had found a foothold.

            The shadows receded slightly, Ritesh staggered but did not collapse, and a faint, almost imperceptible light of human will began to flicker within him.

            Advik whispered, almost to himself, but loud enough for Kesar to hear: “This is the first real victory. Not a defeat, not a surrender… a foothold. We push, we reinforce, we anchor. That’s how we survive him.”

            Kesar nodded, eyes wide but resolute. “Then we hold… and prepare for the next move. Whatever he does… we will be ready.”

            The storm outside raged, echoing the tension inside. The first mental clash had not ended—but the first victory, however fragile, had been achieved.

            And somewhere, in the invisible spaces of the mind, the puppet-master observed, patient, calculating… waiting for the next crack, the next hesitation, the next opportunity.

            The storm outside continued its relentless assault, rain slashing against the station windows with violent insistence, lightning briefly illuminating the room in stark white flashes. Inside, Advik and Kesar stood rigid, every sense straining, every thought calculated. The first victory - the small, tenuous foothold in Ritesh’s consciousness - hung over them like a fragile lifeline. One false move, one flicker of doubt, and it could vanish in an instant.

            Ritesh trembled slightly, but his eyes - clearer now than before - betrayed a growing awareness. The alien control had loosened, a fraction, enough to hint at the resilience of the human mind. Advik noted every detail: the twitch of an eyelid, the faint shift of weight from one foot to another, the subtlest hesitation before a movement. Each of these micro-indicators was a key, a guide to reinforcing Ritesh’s control over himself.

            Kesar’s pen raced across the notebook, capturing every nuance. “He’s… he’s weakening the grip. The first puppet isn’t fully under him anymore,” she whispered, almost breathless.

            Advik nodded grimly. “Good. But do not underestimate him. He’ll adapt. He always adapts. The puppet-master doesn’t lose control - he shifts strategies, finds new cracks, exploits new openings. We have to anticipate, not react.”

            Ritesh’s head tilted slightly, and for the first time, he spoke, his own voice bleeding through the overlay:

            “I… I remember… the classroom… my students… I…”

            The alien cadence wavered. The puppet-master hissed through the shadows, invisible yet omnipresent:

“Persistence… admirable… but fleeting. Resistance is the precursor to collapse. Observation… is the trap…”

            Advik stepped forward, voice low but firm. “Ritesh, focus. You are here. You are real. Remember everything you know. This room, the storm, us - this is yours. The strings cannot hold if you anchor yourself to reality.”

            Ritesh’s body jerked as if testing the limits of his regained will. Advik watched closely, heart hammering, noting every micro-expression, every blink, every subtle gesture. Each one was evidence, a foothold, a crack in the puppet-master’s perfect control.

            Kesar’s hands shook, but she forced herself to continue. “Focus on your surroundings… every sound, every shadow, every flicker of light… it’s real. You control your perception.”

            The whisper returned, more insistent now, threading through their consciousness with a serpentine precision:

“Awareness is fragile… resistance is temporary… the next phase… begins… now…”

            Advik’s eyes narrowed. “The next phase… he’s escalating. He’s preparing a new move, more dangerous, more precise. He won’t rely on Ritesh alone. He’s looking at us.”

            Kesar’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Then we must be ready. Reinforce Ritesh, anchor ourselves… anticipate, don’t react.”

            Ritesh took a tentative step forward, the alien control wavering with each micro-movement. For the first time, he seemed semi-independent, though still tethered. Advik realized the truth: this was not merely a struggle to free Ritesh, but a rehearsal - a mental test of them both. Every second, every action, every thought was being measured, cataloged, exploited.

            Advik’s pulse pounded in his ears. “He’s observing our resistance as closely as Ritesh’s. Every hesitation, every instinctive reaction… he learns. But we can turn it around. Precision, observation, clarity - these are our weapons now.”

            Kesar nodded. “We reinforce reality, reinforce patterns… anchor the mind… resist instinctively, act deliberately.”

            Lightning flashed through the room, illuminating the scene in stark white. Shadows twisted unnaturally, and Advik realized the subtle truth: the puppet-master was using perception itself as a weapon, bending reality just enough to induce doubt, fear, hesitation.

            Ritesh’s eyes cleared further. A spark of recognition – humanity - flickered within. The puppet-master hissed again, sensing the resistance:

“Curiosity… hesitation… resistance… patterns… all recorded… all exploited…”

            Advik clenched his fists. “We hold. Every second we reinforce reality, every observation we record… weakens his influence. This is our advantage. We fight not with strength, but with awareness, precision, and calculation.”

            The storm outside roared, but inside, the room held a different kind of violence: an invisible duel of minds. Advik and Kesar anchored themselves, every thought deliberate, every blink calculated. Ritesh’s regained awareness became their foothold, their weapon, their lifeline.

            For the first time, a faint smile appeared on Advik’s face, grim and resolute. They had held the first test. They had forced a foothold.

            But the whisper lingered, threading into their minds like a shadowy serpent:

“The next move… the first victory… ephemeral… the real game… begins…”

            Advik knew, with the cold certainty that had been sharpening all night:

This was not the end. This was only the beginning. And the puppet-master was far from finished.

 

§   

 

            The station trembled under the fury of the storm, but inside, a more insidious storm raged - a battle of minds. Advik and Kesar stood tense, every muscle coiled, senses stretched to the breaking point. The first foothold in Ritesh’s consciousness had been achieved, but the victory was fragile, temporary, a mere opening in the puppet-master’s intricate web.

 

            Ritesh swayed slightly, still tethered to the invisible strings, yet fragments of his own will flared briefly. The alien cadence in his voice had faded to a tremor, an almost human stammer:

            “I… I remember… my students… the classroom… the lesson…”

            Advik’s pulse surged. “Good. Anchor him. Reinforce reality. Every sound, every shadow, every object - his perception is his weapon, but also his shield. He must grasp it.”

            Kesar nodded, her pen racing across the notebook, documenting patterns, micro-expressions, any indication of regained control. “He’s resisting… slowly, tentatively. But the puppet-master won’t accept failure. He’s preparing something… next phase.”

            A sudden shift in the air, almost imperceptible, set Advik on edge. The shadows stretched unnaturally, corners of the room bending subtly. The whisper returned, slithering into their minds:

“Observation… resistance… temporary… next phase… begins… now…”

            Advik’s eyes narrowed. “He’s escalating. He’s testing us directly. Not Ritesh alone—us. Every hesitation, every micro-reaction, every blink… he catalogs, analyzes, exploits. He wants to destabilize the anchors.”

            Kesar swallowed, her voice low. “So we… reinforce… resist… and stay precise?”

            “Yes,” Advik said firmly. “Observation is our weapon. Documentation is our shield. Precision, clarity, awareness. Anchor to reality. Ignore instinctive fear. He feeds on hesitation.”

            Ritesh’s movements became less fluid, more erratic, a subtle rebellion against the invisible strings. Advik saw the pattern: the puppet-master’s control was strong, but not absolute. Tiny cracks were emerging, vulnerabilities that could be exploited.

            Then, lightning flashed, illuminating the room in harsh white. Shadows twisted unnaturally. For a heartbeat, Advik thought he saw the faint reflection of a man - tall, in a dark suit - hovering in the periphery. The presence was undeniable.

            The whisper intensified, almost venomous:

“Resistance… is admirable… but ephemeral. Awareness… is fragile… you are observed… and measured…”

            Advik’s teeth clenched. “He’s trying to intimidate us, make us doubt. Ignore it. Anchor. Observe. Act deliberately.”

            Ritesh blinked rapidly, struggling, micro-movements betraying internal conflict. The puppet-master hissed softly through the invisible connections, testing their resolve:

“Curiosity… hesitation… fear… all cataloged… exploited… now the real game begins…”

            Advik’s jaw tightened. “Then we fight the game on our terms. Reinforce Ritesh’s awareness. Focus on patterns. Anchor ourselves to reality. Every detail counts. Every micro-expression, every flicker of movement… is information we use against him.”

            Kesar’s voice was steady, though her hands shook: “Anchor to reality… reinforce… resist instinctively, act deliberately…”

            The storm outside roared in violent rhythm, but inside, the invisible war escalated. Every breath, every thought, every heartbeat was measured and countered. Advik realized the full scope: the puppet-master’s next phase wasn’t just Ritesh. It was them. Every instinct, every micro-reaction, every subtle fear would be used against them.

            Advik’s eyes met Kesar’s. “We survive this… by being deliberate. Observant. Precise. He wants panic, hesitation, instinctive fear… we give him none.”

            Ritesh staggered, faltering under the invisible pressure, yet still conscious, still human. The first true mental victory had been tenuous - but it had given them insight. The puppet-master’s power could be resisted. The mind could fight back.

            But Advik knew, with a cold certainty, that the real battle was only beginning. The puppet-master’s next move would be faster, sharper, more insidious. They would need every ounce of awareness, every shred of clarity, every fragment of human will to survive.

            The whisper faded into the storm, leaving a lingering threat:

“The first foothold… ephemeral… the real game begins… and soon… you will see… the puppet… cannot be undone…”

            Advik clenched his fists. “Then we prepare. Observe. Reinforce. Resist. And wait. He may be patient… but so are we.”

            Kesar nodded, her eyes resolute. “We hold… and we fight… mentally. Every second counts.”

            The storm raged outside. Inside, the battle of minds continued - unseen, relentless, merciless.

            And somewhere, in the invisible spaces of thought, the puppet-master waited…

 

§   

            The station air had grown thick, almost viscous, each breath heavy with tension. Every shadow seemed alive, stretching unnaturally across the cracked tiles. Advik and Kesar stood like sentinels, muscles coiled, senses taut, hearts hammering in rhythm with the storm outside. The first foothold in Ritesh’s mind had been achieved, but the puppet-master was far from finished.

            Ritesh swayed, his movements uneven, his eyes flickering between alien detachment and human awareness. Advik could feel the pulse of his struggle - the tiny micro-expressions, the imperceptible hesitation in his step, the faint quiver of his fingers. Each of these nuances was a lifeline, a fragile thread connecting him back to reality.

            Then the whisper returned - no longer subtle, no longer a soft intrusion. It slithered into every corner of their consciousness, cold, precise, and threatening:

“Resistance… is commendable… but temporary. Awareness… is fragile… you cannot protect the mind forever… the first fracture has begun…”

            Advik’s jaw clenched. “He’s escalating. The first foothold was a test. Now he’s shifting tactics. The pressure on our perception is deliberate. Every detail, every flicker, every hesitation - he catalogues and exploits.”

            Kesar’s pen raced across the notebook, capturing every twitch, every flicker of thought in Ritesh. “He’s… he’s pushing us harder. Testing the limits of our mental endurance.”

            Advik stepped closer to Ritesh. “Focus! Anchor yourself! Every object, every sound, every flicker of light… this is reality! Not him, not his influence. Yours. Remember that.”

            For the first time, a subtle defiance crossed Ritesh’s expression. His fingers twitched, not mechanically, but deliberately. The alien cadence of the puppet-master’s voice faltered within him, a brief, almost imperceptible pause.

            The whispers intensified, threading through Advik and Kesar’s minds simultaneously, venomous and precise:

“You are observed… measured… every reaction… every micro-expression… recorded… and exploited… the next phase begins… now…”

            Advik’s eyes narrowed. “The next phase… he’s engaging us directly. Not just through Ritesh. He’s probing our thoughts, our perceptions, our fears. We cannot flinch, we cannot hesitate. Anchor. Observe. Document. Resist instinctively, act deliberately.”

            Kesar’s hands shook, but she pressed on, voice steady. “Anchor… reinforce… every pattern, every micro-expression… make him see our awareness… resist…”

            Ritesh’s eyes cleared further. Humanity flickered through the alien overlay, fragile but undeniable. He shifted slightly, the alien influence tugging, pulling, trying to regain dominance—but Advik and Kesar were prepared, deliberate, precise.

            Lightning slashed through the storm, illuminating the room in stark white. Shadows twisted unnaturally, yet Advik saw the cracks in the puppet-master’s control, the subtle hesitation in Ritesh’s posture. Every micro-movement was a foothold, every blink a lifeline.

            The whisper, almost venomous now, warned them:

“The puppet… cannot be undone… resistance… is fleeting… awareness… fragile… the next fracture will be decisive…”

            Advik’s fists clenched. “Then we make it decisive - our own way. Reinforce Ritesh’s reality. Anchor ourselves. Observe every detail. Precision and calculation are our weapons. The mind can be fought, and we will fight it.”

            Kesar’s pen moved rapidly, documenting every twitch, every hesitation, every micro-expression. “We… we can hold him. We must hold him. We have a foothold. And we fight, deliberately, precisely…”

            Ritesh staggered slightly, but did not collapse. The alien cadence faltered again. The puppet-master hissed softly, almost imperceptibly, sensing resistance. But Advik could see the cracks forming -human will, anchored and reinforced, pushing back.

            The storm outside mirrored the chaos inside - the violent clash of natural and mental fury. Every breath, every heartbeat, every micro-movement mattered. Advik and Kesar knew one undeniable truth:

            The first foothold had survived.

            The puppet-master had escalated.

            And the next, deadlier phase of the game had begun.

            Advik’s voice was low, resolute, almost a mantra. “Anchor to reality. Reinforce patterns. Resist instinctively, act deliberately. This is our battlefield. We are not puppets.”

            Kesar nodded, eyes wide, determined. “And we will not break. We survive… we fight… we hold…”

            The storm raged, the shadows twisted, the whispers lingered - but inside, the first true battle of minds had reached a critical peak.

            And somewhere, unseen, the puppet-master observed, calculating, waiting for the next fracture… the next opportunity… the next mind to bend.

 

§   

 

 

 

            The storm outside had become a relentless roar, rain hammering against the station windows, lightning splitting the sky in jagged white scars. But inside, the real storm was silent, invisible, and far more dangerous. Advik and Kesar stood rigid, every nerve taut, every thought calculated, their focus entirely on the fragile thread of consciousness that was Ritesh.

            The young constable swayed slightly, still tethered to the puppet-master’s invisible strings, yet fragments of his own will flickered through the alien cadence. Advik’s eyes caught the micro-expressions: a slight twitch of a lip, a hesitation in the fingers, a subtle narrowing of the eyes. These were not mere reactions - they were signals of life, of awareness struggling to reclaim dominance.

            Then, without warning, the whisper returned - not serpentine this time, but a rush, a torrent, threading into every corner of their consciousness with cold precision:

“Resistance… is an illusion… control… is inevitable… the next fracture… will claim all…”

            Advik felt the familiar surge of tension pressing against his mind. This was no longer Ritesh’s struggle alone. The puppet-master had turned his full attention on them. Every blink, every breath, every fleeting thought was probed, measured, weaponized.

            Kesar gripped her notebook like a lifeline, voice low, steady despite the fear: “Anchor… reinforce… observe… resist instinctively, act deliberately…”

            Advik nodded, heart pounding. “We hold… every micro-movement, every shadow, every flicker… is information. We survive this by seeing everything, knowing everything, anticipating everything. Awareness is our weapon. Precision is our shield.”

            Ritesh staggered under the invisible influence, but human will flared through - brief, fragile, yet undeniable. Advik moved closer, voice firm, almost commanding:

            “Ritesh! Focus! This is reality! The storm, the room, us - this is yours. The strings cannot hold you if you anchor your mind!”

            For a heartbeat, the alien cadence faltered. The puppet-master hissed silently, sensing resistance, feeling the cracks. The room seemed to pulse with tension, shadows stretching, bending unnaturally, the very air thick with invisible pressure.

            The whisper slithered again, almost venomous:

“Awareness is fleeting… resistance is ephemeral… the fracture begins… and soon… all will bend…”

            Advik clenched his fists, feeling the weight of the invisible assault on his own mind. “We fight not with strength, but with awareness. Every micro-expression, every hesitation, every twitch… is a foothold. Reinforce reality. Reinforce him. Resist instinctively, act deliberately.”

            Ritesh’s eyes cleared further, the human spark growing brighter despite the alien influence. He took a hesitant step forward, micro-movements more controlled, posture regaining subtle strength. The puppet-master hissed again, sensing the unexpected pushback.

            Kesar’s pen raced across the notebook, capturing every movement, every flicker of thought. “We… we’re holding him. We’ve found a foothold. And we fight, deliberately, deliberately…”

            The storm outside mirrored the chaos inside. Thunder shook the station as Advik and Kesar anchored their awareness, every breath deliberate, every heartbeat calculated. Ritesh’s regained control became a weapon, a lifeline, a shield.

            The whisper faded, leaving a lingering menace in the corners of their minds:

“The first foothold… ephemeral… but temporary… the next fracture… is coming… and soon… the puppet… will claim all…”

            Advik’s voice was low, resolute, almost a mantra against the invisible pressure: “Anchor to reality. Reinforce patterns. Resist instinctively, act deliberately. This is our battlefield. We are not puppets. We hold… we fight… we survive.”

            Kesar’s eyes met his, determination hard and unwavering. “And we will. No matter what comes next. We survive… and we fight.”

            Lightning split the sky outside, illuminating the room in stark white. Shadows twisted, rain slammed against the windows, and somewhere, unseen, the puppet-master waited, calculating, patient, and deadly.

            The first true battle of minds had reached its climax. The night had tested them, pushed them to the edge, and revealed one undeniable truth:

            Resistance was possible. Awareness could be weaponized.But the real game - the deadlier, more insidious struggle - was only beginning.

            As the storm raged on, Advik, Kesar, and Ritesh braced themselves for what would come next. One thing was certain: nothing - and no one - would ever be the same again.