It was nighttime. In that dimly lit room, Rishi and the Writer stood face to face. The Writer's eyes burned with fury, and Rishi stared back just as fiercely. Yet something about the Writer's expression made Rishi tremble inside as if death itself had etched its mark across his face.
With a flick of his wrist, the Writer's sword morphed back into a dagger. He slipped it into his pocket and tied the blood-red charm around his wrist. At that moment, calling him the emperor of demons wouldn't have been an exaggeration.
"How dare you, Writer? Who do you think you are locking people up like this? You're not human. You're a beast born in the guise of a man. It's people like you who make this world unsafe for women. You deserve to be dragged into the streets and punished. Your truth is out now. I know everything I needed to know. Let me go, I need to tell the world what you really are."
"And you think I'll just let you walk out? Do I look that stupid to you? Is that why I brought you here? Oh wait! this time, you came on your own, Rishi Thakur. I didn't drag you here. But when you leave… that's for me to decide. After what you did today, I doubt you'll be leaving at all."
"Just shut up, okay? Do whatever you want, I'm getting out of here, and I'm taking the others with me."
"Oh really? And how do you plan to do that?"
"You think you can kidnap people and I'll just sit back and watch?"
"You can't do anything, Rishi. Nothing. Except watch. You have no choice left."
The Writer chuckled softly, but it quickly escalated into a maniacal laugh, like a demon who had just found his prey. Rishi's skin crawled. That laugh was terrifying, monstrous, like a predator ready to play with its first victim.
Rishi stumbled back a step, then suddenly bolted toward the door. He fumbled with the latch, desperate to escape. But in the next moment, the Writer grabbed his wrist and slammed him against the wall. Rishi struggled, but the Writer pinned both his arms above his head. There was barely space for air between them. The Writer looked calm but cruel. Rishi's trembling body and pounding chest were pressed against him, the fear palpable.
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He gripped both of Rishi's wrists with one hand, while the other traced along Rishi's neck and clenched the fabric of his T-shirt at the shoulder.
"What did you call me? Hmm? What names did you throw at me? Devil! Monster! Psycho! Kidnapper… and rapist! Now let me show you what a real monster looks like."
He yanked at Rishi's shirt, tearing it at the shoulder. Rishi cried out in shock.
"Let me go! I'm gonna kill you, Writer!" he shouted, but the Writer remained unfazed.
"Please!!!" Rishi struggled, but he couldn't break free. The Writer leaned in close, pressing his face against Rishi's neck. Rishi screamed again, this time, tears streamed down his face, thick and uncontrollable.
"Please! Please! Please! Let me go. I don't want this dirty touch. It's painful. It's killing me," Rishi cried.
The Writer lifted his head, having already left two wounds on Rishi's neck. He looked at Rishi's tear-soaked face, silently watching him for a few moments as the tears streamed down, drop by drop, faster and faster.
Suddenly, the Writer let go of him. Rishi collapsed to the floor, burying his face in his knees and sobbing uncontrollably.
The Writer punched the wall in rage. The impact was so strong that Rishi felt the wall behind him tremble.
"Next time, think twice before doing anything reckless. Learn to live by my rules, not yours. And don't even think about leaving this house, not even by mistake. I have no idea how this will end," the Writer said before storming out of the room.
Rishi remained there, clutching his head, crying. He was one of those boys who had never even looked at a girl with ill intent. But this, this was the first and most terrifying experience that had left a deep scar on his soul.
The Writer stormed into the library. He slammed his laptop shut and rushed into the hall. It was the first night of his life that he had stopped writing, his nights were usually consumed by it. From his bar, he grabbed his most expensive bottle of whiskey: a Yamazaki 1964, a sixty-year-old imported spirit. Smashing the seal, he carried it into his room.
Standing by the window, he took two deep gulps. It was also the first time he had ever swallowed alcohol straight down his throat. Normally, whiskey would trickle into his mouth, playing on his tongue. The oak and dark chocolate notes burned his throat but somehow, that's exactly what he wanted. He had never imagined that the bottle he'd saved for a special occasion would be shattered like this. Deep down, he mourned the loss of that rare whiskey, but even more, he was furious at Rishi's actions. Or maybe… it was something else.
He pressed the broken mouth of the bottle to his lips, and the glass scraped against his soft skin. But he had to drink. So he drank and drank so much that half of it spilled onto his clothes. Within moments, he was completely intoxicated. It was the first time in his life he had drunk so heavily that the alcohol overtook him. He staggered, and with a loud crash, collapsed to the floor. The bottle shattered beneath him. Everything on the table fell onto his head. Now he lay motionless on the ground.
The loud noise startled Rishi, who had been crying with his face buried in his knees. He rushed out, checking every room, he still didn't know which one belonged to the Writer. But it didn't take him long to find it. Seeing the Writer lying flat on the floor, Rishi froze. His limbs went numb. He screamed.
"Writer!!!" He ran forward and covered his mouth in shock. The Writer was lying face down, blood seeping from his abdomen.
Rishi stepped forward, trembling. Without wasting a moment, he turned the Writer over. Thankfully, the glass hadn't pierced him too deeply. The bottle had shattered violently, but its crushed shape had spared him from larger shards. Somehow, Rishi managed to lift the Writer and place him on the bed.
He rummaged through the drawers and finally found the first aid box. Thankfully, the Writer had kept everything necessary inside. Rishi had undergone life safety training, he knew how to respond in situations like this. And now, that training was helping him save the very man he had wanted punished.
With shaking hands, he removed the Writer's shirt and began treating his wounds, praying it wasn't too late. The Writer was still breathing, muttering incoherently words Rishi couldn't understand. Every movement Rishi made was filled with anxiety and unspoken fear.
His eyes fell on the Writer's lips, where blood still lingered. He gently cleaned them and applied ointment. After finishing everything, he covered the Writer with a blanket.
He didn't know why he had saved him. Wasn't it justice he wanted? Wasn't it punishment he had come for? In frustration and confusion, Rishi pulled at his own hair.
"Why? Why am I helping this monster?" he whispered.
He looked at the Writer. Tears still shimmered in Rishi's eyes, and his heart was torn. He stared at the Writer's face, there was a strange pain etched across it. It shook Rishi to his core. The Writer had drifted into sleep, likely overwhelmed by the alcohol and medication. But the lines of suffering were still visible.
"Is there another story behind this cruelty? Something I haven't seen yet? That girl… was she right? What is really happening here?"
He took a deep breath. It felt like he couldn't leave the room. He got up and lay down beside the Writer. Why? He didn't know. Maybe if the Writer woke up and collapsed again, he'd be there. He'd return to his own room before the Writer noticed.
And as these thoughts swirled in his mind, he didn't even realize when sleep took him in its arms.