It was nighttime. Rishi sat on the rooftop, a laptop open in front of him and a mug of coffee by his side. Once again, he had scoured the internet for any trace of the Writer, but came up empty-handed. More than a week had passed. He had tried everything—web forums, the dark web, old articles, even the Writer's own books. But the result was always the same: nothing. Itwas as if the Writer didn't exist on thisni earth.
He had tried to bring Vedant out too, but now he understood—there was only one way to uncover the truth about both of them. He had to reach the Writer himself. And for that, he had to find him first.
Kabir refused to say anything. He pretended as if he didn't even know who the Writer was.
Rishi emptied his coffee mug in one swift gulp, but peace still eluded him. He slammed his laptop shut and stood up. Within seconds, he was out of the house. There was only one path left—the forest. A place he knew nothing about.
He pulled out his bike and within minutes was speeding down the deserted road that led to the woods. He stopped at one point, but the entire stretch gave no indication of where the forest actually began. There was no trail, no signpost. Only moonlight lit the silence. Not a single leaf stirred. The trees lining the road stood like demonic sentinels, lifeless and ancient.
Fear gripped his body, but he summoned his courage and got off the bike. A bag hung from his shoulder. He parked the bike near the roadside bushes and, without a second thought, plunged into them. There was no path, but he had no other choice.
He disappeared into the thick foliage. The deeper he went, the denser the jungle became. Something had possessed him—he didn't know what. Like a madman, he kept pushing forward into the heart of the forest.
He pulled out his phone, but the network had vanished. He tried switching on the flashlight, but it refused to light up. It was as if the forest had swallowed everything. The place already felt cursed, and now that feeling was growing stronger.
Sweat trickled down his forehead. His breathing grew heavier. Still, he pressed on like a man obsessed. The deeper he went, the darker and more terrifying the forest became.
He now held a stick in his hand, using it to beat away the thorny bushes. His arms were shredded, bleeding from deep cuts. But he didn't care. When he turned back, the bushes behind him had returned to their original state, as if no one had passed through. His footprints were vanishing on their own.
He was convinced now—either he would die here tonight, or he would find the Writer.
His legs trembled. The cold was biting, as if an icy mountain loomed nearby. There was no wind, yet the chill and dread were palpable.
Suddenly, his foot slipped. He tumbled down a slope, rolling over and over until he landed on flat ground.
The bushes were gone, but massive, monstrous trees loomed around him, ready to devour him. In the moonlight, their shadows looked even more menacing. His breath was ragged from fear and exhaustion.
Had he taken the right path? Nothing here felt familiar. Was this even the route the Writer had once taken? What if he had come to the wrong place? What if he never found the Writer?
Questions flooded his mind, but he had no hope of answers.
He brushed off the dirt from his clothes, now soaked in mud. Blood dripped from his arms and legs. But he had to stay strong.
He looked around. Every direction looked the same. He had no idea where he was or which way he had come from. His mind was shutting down.
He chose a direction at random and limped forward. He walked for what felt like hours, but the path never ended. The forest was eerily empty—no animals, no sounds. It felt like a haunted graveyard.
Exhausted, he stopped. He drank some water and leaned against a tree trunk, gasping for breath.
He looked up. The branches stretched into the sky like towering skyscrapers. Suddenly, an idea struck him. He climbed the tree like a serpent, reaching the highest branch in no time.
What he saw made his heart sink.
The forest stretched endlessly in every direction. No rivers, no mountains, no roads, no trails—just trees. Nothing else.
He had no idea where he was or where to go. Even a single light in the distance would have given him hope, but there was none.
He climbed down. His legs felt lifeless. He screamed.
"Where the hell are you hiding, Writer?"
His voice echoed through the trees. He sat down, defeated. He needed rest. He was sleepy, but the cold was unbearable.
He pulled out a jacket from his bag and wrapped himself tightly, curling up behind the tree. A brief moment of sleep came, but then raindrops hit his face.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
He woke up. The rain intensified rapidly, soaking him to the bone. Water flowed like streams through the forest. Visibility dropped to near zero.
He was drenched. His strength was fading. He tried climbing the tree again, but it was too slippery, as if coated in oil.
He sat in the rain, tears mixing with the water. He had lost all hope—of survival, of finding the Writer.
Sleep tugged at him, but the cold and rain kept him awake.
Suddenly, two glowing red eyes appeared in front of him.
Rishi froze.
He stumbled backward, clutching the tree trunk. The beast shook itself, flinging droplets from its fur like dew. Its tongue hung out, drooling.
Rishi stared death in the face, helpless.
The creature scraped the ground with its claw, then lunged.
His scream pierced the silence of the forest.
And then… everything went quiet again.
"No one knows what happened there. Has Rishi lost his life?"