The darkness of the night made that Red Pine feel like a haunted house straight out of Hollywood. Outside, there wasn't a trace of any bird, let alone a nest. Even crickets seemed to have no connection to that place. Perhaps every living creature feared it the way a mouse fears a cat. But inside the Red Pine, the atmosphere was far from calm. At that moment, there was a strange, deeply terrifying presence. Because the Red Pine wasn't just home to the writer—it was inhabited by many restless spirits. And that was the truth. There were so many shadows there that even imagining them could send a chilling shiver down anyone's spine.
In one of the rooms, the writer sat on a chair. In one hand, he held a burning cigarette, and in the other, a spiked, razor-sharp whip. He took a deep drag from the cigarette and swung the whip. A piercing, agonizing scream shook the very walls of the Red Pine. And along with it, more trembling shadows seemed to emerge—dead souls quivering in fear.
"I told you, didn't I? I didn't bring her here to scare her. She's my necessity. You were the one who opened that door that day, weren't you? Hungry for human blood, are you? Today I'll satisfy all your hunger," he said, swinging the whip again. The scream grew louder.
"You all tried to drive her away. She's my most precious character, idiots. The right to scare her belongs only to me. Now that she's not here, I have all of you to play with." His smile was cruel. He swung the whip again, and this time it seemed to strike many at once. One scream shattered into many.
But the writer wasn't merciful—he was ruthless toward them.
"You thought I didn't know what you did just because I stayed quiet for two days? You opened the hall window, didn't you?" The writer lashed out again and again. The screams shook the walls of the Red Pine like an earthquake. But the merciless writer didn't stop until his own hands began to bleed. He was drenched in sweat and now exhausted. He threw the whip down, staggered toward the table, picked up the bottle of liquor, and stepped out into the black darkness.
For the writer, it was the first time he had ever put a bottle to his lips. Because for him, alcohol wasn't a drug—it was a form of entertainment. He could spend an entire night with just one glass. But tonight, whether it was rage or something deeper, only the writer knew.
About a week had passed like this. Rishi had tried many times to meet Kabir and Vedant, but Kabir hadn't held a single press conference, nor had he allowed any questions during his rallies. He continued campaigning relentlessly, but Rishi couldn't get anywhere near him. He even went to the building, but wasn't allowed past the tenth floor. Vedant had told him everything he had seen in that penthouse about Kabir's truth. But even then, Rishi couldn't do anything. He had spoken to several media houses, but without evidence, they couldn't act. At that moment, no one wanted to mess with Kabir anyway. In fact, mainstream media portrayed him like some kind of superhero.
Rishi had realized that things wouldn't work out this way.
The truth was, ever since returning from Red Pine, he hadn't been able to spend even a moment peacefully in his room. A strange restlessness gripped him—one he couldn't shake off. He had tried to find that path again countless times over the past week, but had failed every time.
It was seven in the morning. Just last evening, Vedant had told him that Kabir had called him for a meeting, and now he stood outside that same penthouse. A part of him was afraid—what if Kabir wanted to kidnap him too? But meeting Vedant was important. Even if he did get kidnapped, at least he'd be with Vedant. He was still lost in thought when suddenly the door opened. But there was no one at the door, which surprised him. In a state of confusion, he stepped inside.
The dazzling, heavenly penthouse was filled with luxurious and extravagant items.
"Just looking at this house, you can tell he must be the writer's friend. Both have similar tastes—except for one thing. One loves darkness, the other loves brightness," he muttered, standing near the sofa and gazing around the hall. The hall alone was as big as the entire house he rented.
"You've come well-prepared, knowing your writer so thoroughly," said Kabir, who was now standing on the staircase. Rishi looked at him. Dressed in boxers and a white T-shirt, Kabir looked nothing like the writer. His lips held a deep smile, and his face radiated calm and intensity. Rishi threw his bag onto the sofa and quickly walked up to Kabir. He grabbed Kabir's T-shirt by the collar.
"Where's Vedant?" Kabir smiled. He didn't even try to free his collar.
"Now look, if you stay this close to me, it'll be difficult for me. You see, I really like boys like you. Aromantic!" The moment Kabir said that word, Rishi's hand automatically let go of his collar.
"I don't want to hear your nonsense. Just tell me where Ved is." Kabir didn't respond. Instead, he looked upward. On the glass wall above, Vedant was watching both of them.
"You have only half an hour…" Kabir hadn't even finished his sentence when Rishi dashed upstairs. Kabir shook his head and walked into the hall. He entered the kitchen and began preparing breakfast for himself.
Meanwhile, the automatic door to the room opened on its own. Rishi rushed inside and immediately hugged Vedant.
"Ved, you okay man?" He was panting heavily—perhaps he had run a bit too fast.
"I'm fine. Why are you so worried? Are you okay?" Rishi nodded. He went and sat on the bed while Vedant settled on the sofa. For a while, both sat in silence, as if there was nothing left to say.
"What are these two really? What are they trying to do together? I just don't get it, Ved," Rishi finally broke the silence.
"Kabir's intentions are clear. He's one of those corrupt politicians who seem born just to suck the blood of the people," Rishi said, exhaling deeply.
"But there's something hidden between the two of them. Something very serious that connects them," Rishi added.
"I think the writer has helped Kabir several times."
"But how? He never even shows up."
"Thinking about them gives me a creepy feeling."
"Did you find out anything about the writer?" Rishi shook his head.
"Before I could learn anything, I ended up sabotaging myself."
"So you wanted to be kidnapped?"
"That's not the point. What could I even do from the outside? That writer—he's like some alien from another planet. Where does he live? What's his location? I know nothing. I've tried searching everywhere, but it's like he's vanished from the face of the earth. On Google, there's nothing but his books—and even that isn't true."
"So what now? Kabir must be stopped, Rishi."
"I know, but the elections are two months away—we'll figure something out by then. But I think it's better for you to stay here. You can gather far more information from the inside than we ever could from the outside," Rishi said.
"But I can only observe. My phone doesn't have anything that lets me record. Apart from your calls, I can't use anything on it—not even the camera. So even if I get some evidence, how do I collect it?" Vedant's voice carried frustration.
"I'll call you in the evening," Rishi said in a way that sounded like a coded message. The two were still talking when suddenly the door opened again, and Kabir walked in with a smile.
"Here comes the unwanted guest again," Vedant muttered to himself, while Rishi chuckled softly.
"So boys, time's up," Kabir announced, and both of them stared at him simultaneously.
"Whoa… don't look at me like that, guys. I get scared," he said playfully. Rishi and Vedant both shook their heads indifferently. Rishi stood up, hugged Vedant, and walked out. But as soon as he entered the hall, he stopped. Kabir followed him.
"If you want to say something, go ahead. I know you want to ask about the writer."
"I need to know a few things about the writer."
"Then you can leave," Kabir replied casually. Rishi immediately turned back.
"Don't tell me about him, but please at least tell me the way to his house."
"I don't know that either," Kabir said. Rishi stared at him.
"I swear, baby, I don't know the way to his house," Kabir added. Rishi closed his eyes in irritation.
"Then how do you go there for dinner? Do you fly? Vanish into thin air?"
"The writer himself takes me there."
"He's your friend. You must at least know where he lives!"
"I don't. Because he's the writer. No one knows anything about him—not even me. I'm just a character to him. But I'm special, because I'm his friend," Kabir said.
At that, Rishi stomped his feet and walked out. Kabir chuckled softly.
"You missed your chance, Rishi Thakur. You shouldn't have left," he said to himself. The main door closed automatically, and once again, Rishi returned empty-handed.