"If I don't wipe that fake smile off your face, then I'm not Vedant. You remember Michael and his friends, don't you? They were your batchmates."
This time Vedant smiled, and Kabir's smile faded for a moment.
"No one knows where they disappeared. But I have enough evidence to prove who you collaborated with to make those four friends vanish—or maybe even kill them."
Kabir's eyes widened in shock, and his smile vanished completely. Vedant stood up and walked toward him.
"What did you think, Mr. Politician? That I was chasing you without preparation?"
"Then why haven't you given that evidence to the media yet?"
"Because your power and money can buy them too. I'm waiting for the right moment. I still have to wrap the Writer into this mess with you. Just wait a little longer."
Kabir let out a soft laugh. His smile and expression returned to their usual calm. Vedant looked at him in surprise.
"Oh my little Odyssey. Damn. You've really hit my heart. Now I feel like spending not just two but maybe ten years with you. Walking into a lion's den and challenging it is truly foolish. You know what I'm capable of doing to you."
"You'll have me killed, right? I don't care," Vedant said with a faint smile.
"But I care. That's why instead of killing you, I'll turn you into the toy kept in my room. Something I can play with. You know how exhausting politics can be. If I get a healing cream like you, it'll feel like heaven."
Vedant's face had hardened, while Kabir kept looking at him with a smile. On the TV, Kabir's images were playing—hands folded, that innocent face he always showed to the world.
Rishi was staring at the exquisite decorations in that hall, the kind he had only ever seen on television or in movies. Although he had come across a few of these items during his project work, they had been very limited. Today, for the first time, he was seeing all of it right in front of him. But what was the point of such dazzling luxury when no one came here and no one left? What was the meaning behind the writer choosing to live in such a strange, creepy place, so far away from the city, surrounded by nothing but forest?
When he had stepped outside at night, he hadn't seen a single manmade path. Even in the darkness, he could tell that this place was somewhere deep in a dense forest. But he had no clue about the exact location. A beautiful house like this, in the middle of such wilderness, with a massive library and such priceless decorative items—it all felt like a strange sign. How had all these things been brought here? It was beyond his understanding.
"You need to fill your stomach before you can think too much. So let's have lunch first," the writer's voice suddenly brought him back to reality. Rishi turned around and saw the writer setting lunch on a two-seater dining table. His eyes went straight to the bowl of chicken curry and another bowl filled with rice. He looked directly at the writer.
"Yes, I know you're vegetarian, so your food is separate," the writer said, bringing another bowl from the kitchen. By now, Rishi had walked up to the table. The writer began serving lunch. The table was adorned with European Herend company's 24-carat gold-gilded, hand-painted floral porcelain plates, and small plates from Bernardaud's luxurious French collection with gold-outlined classic designs. There were also Bernardaud's constant rim soup bowls with emperor-style oak and laurel leaf designs, typically used only by select royal families. Rishi was stunned, staring at the dining crockery. He knew about these items because he had worked on several successful projects involving such luxury brands.
"Do you usually eat lunch standing up?" Rishi looked at the writer.
"I understand you've never seen anything like this before. But now that you're here, you'll see it every day. Shall we eat first?" The truth was, Rishi had only seen such things on rare occasions, and he genuinely wanted to observe them closely. It wasn't greed—these things sparked his curiosity. He wanted to understand why rich people were so fond of owning such expensive items.
Rishi took a deep breath and sat down on the chair placed opposite the writer's, which was slightly simpler than the writer's own. The writer lifted the lid off the second bowl, revealing a vegetable soup and another bowl with roasted paneer. There was also roti and rice. Rishi stared at the food in surprise. He couldn't even remember the last time he had eaten homemade food. His eyes welled up slightly, but he held himself back. The writer glanced at him briefly, then began serving food onto his plate.
"I'll serve myself," Rishi said, his voice barely audible, as if something inside him had just snapped. The writer smiled, and the dimple on his cheek flickered like a warning light.
"I know. But I want to do this."
Rishi didn't respond. He took a spoonful of soup, placed a piece of roasted paneer in his mouth, and looked up. The writer was watching him intently. Their eyes locked. The writer raised his eyebrows. Rishi flinched.
"Come on, give me a compliment. You've been throwing shade since you arrived."
"It's... fine," Rishi muttered.
The writer leaned in slightly.
"Just fine?"
"What do you want? A glowing review? Should I write a full article praising your cooking?"
"Of course. I need that. You're good at writing things that sound real."
Rishi blew on his food and began eating, but the tension between them didn't fade. The writer chuckled softly and joined him. Silence fell, but it wasn't peaceful, it was thick, like fog before a storm.
Later, the writer was at the sink, washing dishes. Rishi stood beside him, drying them with a tissue, his eyes darting around the room like a trapped animal.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Only two questions," the writer replied without turning.
"Is there anyone else living here? Yesterday, I saw two staff members. Where are they now?"
"They went hunting."
Rishi stopped wiping the plate. His eyes narrowed.
"If you don't want to answer, fine. But don't insult my intelligence with nonsense."
"I saw shadows on the windows last night. Whose were they? Who else is here?"
"Spirits."
Rishi's grip tightened on the plate. He almost threw it.
"That plate costs ninety thousand," the writer said calmly.
Rishi froze. His breath was heavy, his chest rising and falling like a warning siren.
"Disruptive Mood Dysregulation Disorder."
"What?"
"Symptoms of pathological irritability. Caused by stress, lack of sleep, depression, anxiety, bipolar disorder, PMS, autism spectrum disorder."
Rishi stared at him, stunned. The writer took the plate from his hand and placed it in the cabinet with eerie tenderness, like storing away a secret.
"I think you're the one who's sick. You say whatever you want about people."
The writer smiled again, but this time it wasn't warm it was calculated.
"Understanding human behavior is how I write books. You think they became bestsellers by accident? I observe. I collect. I know."
"You know nothing. You just hide your twisted truths behind fancy words."
"My sweet Aphrodite, do you know how beautiful you look when you act like a jealous girlfriend?"
Rishi stepped back, pointing a trembling finger at him. The writer grabbed his hand instantly. Rishi tried to pull away, but the writer twisted it, pressing Rishi's back against his chest. He was tall, and he leaned down, whispering into Rishi's ear. His long curls brushed against Rishi's neck like a threat.
Rishi squirmed, but the grip tightened. His ears burned red. That same cryptic smile returned to the writer's lips. Rishi shrank, like prey sensing the predator's breath.