Darkness hung heavy. Only the faint sound of footsteps echoed through the silence. Someone was coming, but the shadows swallowed them whole.
"Turn on the light… someone, please!" a voice murmured softly, almost carried by the wind.
When the light flickered on, 6–7 people stood there—suits, polished shoes, looking like businessmen—but their eyes glimmered with something dangerous. Each step they took stretched their shadows across the walls, and an invisible tension filled the air.
A figure stepped forward, masked, revealing someone seated in a chair. Their hands were cuffed. Without asking, the masked person lifted the victim's head and struck their face squarely.
From somewhere inside, a shaky voice whispered:
"1… 2… 3… 4… I can't… I'm scared."
Eyes opened. The person in the chair looked at their hand—the cuffs were still there. Anger flashed in their gaze at the attacker, who froze for a moment, surprised. Narrowing their eyes, they said:
"Ah… you woke up, Muna, nice and easy?"
"Damn… what should I even say?" came the reply, laced with frustration.
The masked figure turned and walked away, drawing a gun.
"Who… who are you?" the cuffed man asked, lifting his head. Blood trickled from his nose, glass shards catching the dim light. Confusion and anger battled in his eyes.
"Why are you acting like some Indian mother? Are you insane?" he muttered to himself.
The gunman approached, calm but commanding:
"Let me explain this place to you. First, take this handkerchief and wipe your blood, or it'll keep flowing."
The man grabbed the cloth, pressed it to his nose, muttering:
"You didn't even check that thing… it stinks… the sweat."
"Nope. Why are you thinking so much?" came the reply.
"Forget it. Who are you?"
Another blow to the face made him flinch, and the man in the chair responded,
"Chetan Morya, 28, unmarried, a P.T. teacher at a small private school in Mumbai—Mipubha."
Another strike followed.
"Wait… are you a girl? You have hair like a heroine. Don't get angry," someone joked.
A kick sent the attacker sprawling. "Pick him up," someone ordered.
The man in the chair was lifted, tension in the room thick as he muttered:
"Can't you tell from my voice? Stop the drama, this isn't some filmi scene."
"Throw him in the room near Gater," came the command.
Chetan stammered, "I'm scared… and it stinks in here. Why am I here? At least give me some medicine, it's getting late."
Suddenly, someone jabbed him with an injection from behind. His head spun. The world blurred. Sleep crept in, pulling him under.
---
Scene shift
"Where is Chetan Morya, the P.T. teacher?" someone demanded.
This was no ordinary school; by their standards, every school was the same—but this one ranked in India's top 20.
"Miss Anaya Varma, music teacher, where is he? You live near him, right?"
"Yes, sir. But I don't know where he went," she replied, puzzled.
"Where could he be? If Chetan isn't here, we lose the post."
"Let it be, someone find him. That's the priority," the teacher said.
Miss Anaya hesitated: "Sir, what about Chetan? He held this position. Are we replacing him without asking?"
"He'll find another school job. For now, we need someone here. Go now," came the order.
---
Back in the dark room, the masked figure sat on the sofa. Slowly, the mask was removed, revealing a girl—long hair, cold gaze, a half-smile curling on her lips.
She opened a pack of noodles in front of her. A file lay on the table:
'Kabir Roy'
"Changing your name doesn't change the truth…" she whispered.
The camera zoomed in. Beneath the file, it read:
DNA Match: Kabir Roy = Chetan Morya
Darkness swallowed everything again.
This To be continued