6:30 AM
Rahul stood frozen in the dim room, staring at the man sprawled across a wooden table near the window.
The man's face was buried in a pile of yellowed newspapers, his breath coming out in slow, uneven snores. The empty whiskey bottle lying on the floor completed the picture.
This is who Manish Sir sent me to?
Rahul's hand hovered over the man's shoulder. Instinct screamed at him—wake him up, ask for help—but doubt gnawed at his chest.
What if he doesn't know anything? What if this is all a mistake?
His fingers barely brushed the man's shirt when—
Thud.
Something landed on the windowsill.
Rahul spun around, heart lurching.
A cat. Fat, orange, eyes glinting like coins in the dim light.
It stared for one tense second—then launched itself straight at his face.
"Shit—!"
Rahul stumbled back, arms flailing. His shoulder slammed into the bookshelf beside the table. Pain exploded through the injured joint.
Crash.
Books tumbled off the shelf, hitting the floor in a chaotic rhythm—thud, thud, thud—spreading like a paper avalanche.
The cat hissed, twisted mid-air, and darted into the next room.
Rahul pressed a hand to his shoulder, panting hard.
And then—
The man stirred.
A low groan, a cough.
He lifted his head slowly from the table, blinking against the faint light. His hair stuck up in clumps, his face lined and tired, jaw rough with stubble. Bloodshot eyes squinted at Rahul.
"Who… the hell are you?"
Rahul straightened, wincing. His voice came out tight. "I… I'm the one Manish Sir sent."
The man stared for a long moment, unfocused. Then his brow furrowed.
"So you're the one he's been babbling about."
Rahul blinked. "I—yes, sir. He gave me this address. He said—"
"That idiot," the man muttered, rubbing his face roughly. "Never tells me a damn thing. Just 'help him,' he says. 'He needs you,' he says." He looked Rahul up and down with sleepy irritation. "Doesn't even tell me who you are or why you're here."
Rahul hesitated, unsure what to say.
The man yawned, stretched, his bones cracking audibly. He glanced at the chaos of books and sighed deeply.
"What time is it?"
Rahul checked his watch. "Seven-thirty."
The man froze.
"Seven-thirty?!"
He shot to his feet so fast the chair skidded backward.
"Bloody hell—I'll be late again."
He kicked the empty bottle toward the corner and hurried to the back room. "You—put those books back where they were. I'll be out in five minutes."
Before Rahul could respond, the door slammed shut. Water started running loudly inside.
Rahul stood there, confused and alone.
What just happened?
He looked down at the scattered books, then sighed and crouched to gather them.
Old. Torn. Dog-eared.
He stacked them neatly—but as he picked up the third one, something caught his eye.
Crime Chronicles: Unsolved Cases of 2004
Rahul frowned. Picked another.
The Anatomy of Killers
Then another.
Forensic Psychology: Understanding the Criminal Mind
His pulse quickened.
Why does he have all these?
The inner voice coiled up from the dark corners of his mind.
You know why. Because it's a trap. Manish Sir sold you out.
"No," Rahul whispered. "That doesn't make sense—"
Doesn't it? You're in a stranger's house surrounded by books about murder. You really think that's a coincidence?
His hands shook as he stacked the books, his thoughts spinning faster.
There had to be an explanation. There had to be—
He glanced around the room again. The messy desk. Piles of old newspapers. A dust-covered typewriter in the corner.
And then his gaze froze.
A photo frame sat half-hidden beneath a crumpled newspaper.
Rahul reached for it.
Two men smiled from the photograph—arms over each other's shoulders. One younger, familiar. The same man from this house.
And beside him—Manish Sir.
Rahul's breath caught.
He flipped the frame. On the back, faded ink read:
To my best friend, Devaraj Sen. Happy Birthday. —Manish
Devaraj Sen.
That's his name.
Rahul stared at their smiles. They looked genuine. Brothers in everything but blood.
Maybe this wasn't a trap. Maybe… Manish Sir actually trusted this man.
His chest loosened slightly. The panic ebbed.
The door creaked open.
Rahul quickly replaced the frame and turned.
Devaraj stepped out, freshly dressed in a faded shirt and trousers. Damp hair combed back, face still shadowed with fatigue but more alive.
He grabbed a worn leather bag from a hook and slung it over his shoulder.
"Come on," he said briskly, heading for the door.
Rahul blinked. "Wait—where are we going?"
"You'll see."
"But—"
"Come on."
And just like that, he was gone.
Rahul hesitated, uncertainty twisting like a knife in his stomach.
Should I follow him? What if this is a mistake? What if he's taking me somewhere worse?
But he had no other choice.
He grabbed his bag and followed.
Outside, the morning was damp and gray. Mist still clung to the narrow streets. Somewhere nearby, a tea vendor clanged a steel cup against his kettle, the smell of chai drifting through the air.
Devaraj stood beside a beat-up scooter that looked older than Rahul. He kicked the engine. It coughed twice before sputtering to life.
"Get on," Devaraj said without looking back.
Rahul hesitated.
Is this safe? What if he's taking me to the police? What if Manish Sir made a deal?
The inner voice whispered, cold and poisonous.
You trust too easily. That's why you keep bleeding.
Rahul climbed on anyway. The scooter jerked forward, rattling through narrow gullies lined with half-open shutters and stray dogs nosing at garbage. The engine screamed over every pothole.
Rahul's mind churned with questions.
Where is he taking me? Why won't he explain?
His pulse pounded. Each turn felt sharper, every street more dangerous.
Then, finally—
The scooter slowed.
They stopped in front of a tall, worn-out building. Paint peeled off its walls. A rusted board creaked above the gate.
DAILY TRUTH NEWSPAPER
Rahul's stomach dropped.
A newspaper?
Panic rose in his throat.
They'll recognize me. My face must be everywhere. If someone sees me—it's over. I'm finished.
Devaraj killed the engine, utterly calm.
"You coming or not?" he asked.
Rahul's voice was barely a whisper. "Why are we here?"
Devaraj turned, one eyebrow raised. "Because I work here."
Then he walked inside without another word.
Rahul sat frozen on the scooter, heart thundering in his chest.
The inner voice whispered again, softer this time.
You're done now.