Three years had passed since that dreadful night.
The city had changed little, but Lamya Rahman was no longer the frightened college student who had fled an alley with blood on her hands.
She had graduated, found her footing, and built a career in journalism. Her name had gradually become familiar to television audiences, and her face appeared regularly on evening broadcasts.
She was now an investigative reporter, known for covering stories that others were often reluctant to touch.
Her programme, Behind Closed Doors, had gained considerable popularity. It focused on social injustice, institutional negligence, corruption, and the stories of people who had been silenced.
But among all the subjects she covered, none mattered more to her than the plight of women who had suffered sexual violence.
She understood their silence.
She understood their hesitation.
And, perhaps more than anything, she understood what it meant to be disbelieved.
Unlike many reporters, Lamya rarely interrupted her interviewees. She allowed them to speak at their own pace, sometimes sitting through uncomfortable silences without asking another question.
She never wanted her guests to feel as though they were being interrogated.
She wanted them to feel heard.
Her colleagues admired her dedication, although some considered her obsession with such cases unhealthy.
Farhan, her senior producer and closest colleague, was particularly concerned.
"You know, you could cover something cheerful for a change," he remarked one afternoon, looking through the latest programme schedule.
Lamya continued examining her notes.
"Such as?"
"Anything. Education, business, entertainment. Perhaps a cooking show?"
She chuckled.
"I'll consider it."
"You've been saying that for two years."
"Then you should know not to take me seriously."
Farhan shook his head.
"One day, you're going to get yourself into trouble."
Lamya looked up.
"Perhaps trouble is where the interesting stories are."
He sighed and returned to his desk.
Her latest investigation concerned a young university student named Nadia.
Nadia had accused the son of a prominent businessman of sexually assaulting her. According to her statement, the incident had occurred after a university gathering.
Initially, she had reported the matter to the authorities.
But things had taken an unexpected turn.
Her complaint was delayed. Witnesses began withdrawing their statements, and her family received several anonymous warnings.
Eventually, Nadia was advised to remain silent if she wanted to protect her family's reputation.
She refused.
By the time Lamya learned about her situation, Nadia had already become the subject of public ridicule.
Social media was flooded with accusations against her. Some questioned her character, while others claimed she was attempting to extort money from an influential family.
Nobody seemed particularly interested in hearing what had actually happened.
Lamya arranged a private interview.
Nadia arrived wearing a simple scarf, keeping her face away from the cameras. Her hands trembled as she sat opposite Lamya.
"Would you like some water?" Lamya asked.
Nadia nodded.
After a moment, Lamya began.
"Before we start, I want you to understand something. You don't have to answer anything you're uncomfortable with. We can stop whenever you want."
Nadia looked at her.
"Do you think people will believe me?"
Lamya paused.
"I can't promise that everyone will. But I can promise that I'll give you the opportunity to tell your story."
The interview began.
Nadia spoke about the incident, the investigation, the pressure placed on her family, and the humiliation she had experienced since filing her complaint.
At one point, she stopped speaking.
Tears gathered in her eyes.
"Perhaps I should have remained silent," she whispered.
Lamya put down her pen.
"No."
Nadia looked at her.
"You shouldn't have to regret speaking about something that was done to you."
"But everyone says I brought this upon myself."
"Everyone?"
"My relatives. His friends. People online. Even some people who don't know me."
Lamya remained quiet for a moment.
Then she spoke gently.
"People can say whatever they want. It doesn't change what happened to you."
Nadia lowered her head.
For the first time during the interview, she began to cry.
Lamya understood that she wasn't simply interviewing another victim.
She was looking at a younger version of herself.
The programme aired two days later.
Within hours, it became one of the most discussed broadcasts of the week.
The accused man's family threatened legal action against the television station. Several influential individuals publicly criticized Lamya's reporting, accusing her of damaging an innocent man's reputation.
The station's management became nervous.
Farhan, however, was delighted.
"Congratulations," he said, entering her office with two cups of coffee. "You've managed to upset half the city."
"Only half?"
"Give it another day."
She smiled.
But her attention was drawn to the television mounted on the wall.
A discussion panel was debating Nadia's allegations.
One of the guests, a well-known social commentator, suggested that young women should exercise greater caution before making accusations that could destroy a man's future.
Lamya watched in disbelief.
Farhan noticed her expression.
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't call the studio and start another argument."
She looked at him.
"He's discussing a case he knows nothing about."
"That's television."
"That's the problem."
She turned away.
That evening, Lamya received an anonymous message.
Stop digging. You don't know whose lives you're disturbing.
She read it twice.
Then she placed her phone on the desk.
She wasn't particularly surprised. Threatening messages had become an unfortunate part of her profession.
However, this one contained something unusual.
The sender had mentioned Nadia's family and referred to a private conversation that had never been broadcast.
Lamya immediately took a screenshot and forwarded it to Farhan.
"Can you find out where this came from?"
"I'll try. But don't respond."
"I wasn't planning to."
She returned to her investigation.
What she discovered over the following days was disturbing.
The accused man's family had connections to several influential people, including a charitable organization associated with a highly respected spiritual leader.
The organization operated schools, orphanages, and community centres. Its founder, known publicly as a compassionate and humble man, commanded the devotion of thousands of followers.
His followers referred to him as their spiritual guide.
He rarely appeared in political discussions, but his influence extended far beyond the institutions he controlled.
Several businessmen funded his charitable activities. Public figures attended his gatherings, and local authorities frequently sought his cooperation during community events.
At first, Lamya found no direct evidence connecting him to Nadia's case.
But she noticed something.
The businessman whose son had been accused of assault was among the organization's most generous donors.
She made a note of the connection.
It was not evidence of wrongdoing, but it was worth investigating.
A week later, another incident made the headlines.
A young woman had died after reportedly jumping from the rooftop of her apartment building.
Her family claimed she had been suffering from severe emotional distress following an alleged assault.
The police registered an unnatural death case.
The newspapers published a brief report.
And then the story disappeared.
Lamya read the article several times.
She requested further information from her sources and discovered that the young woman had previously attempted to file a complaint against a man connected to the same social circle as Nadia's accused attacker.
She felt a familiar heaviness in her chest.
Another life.
Another family.
Another story that would soon be forgotten.
That evening, she sat alone in her apartment, staring at the photograph of the deceased woman.
She wondered how many people had to suffer before anyone decided that enough was enough.
Her phone rang.
It was an unfamiliar number.
She answered.
"Hello?"
There was a brief silence.
Then a man's voice spoke.
"Ms. Rahman, I believe you're asking questions that could create unnecessary trouble for yourself."
"Who is this?"
"Someone who would prefer to see you continue your work without complications."
Lamya leaned back in her chair.
"Then perhaps you should stop creating them."
The man chuckled.
"Be careful. Not everyone you investigate is an ordinary businessman."
The call ended.
Lamya stared at the phone.
For a moment, she considered reporting the threat.
Then she opened her notebook and wrote down the time of the call.
She had learned something over the years.
People rarely threatened journalists unless they had something to hide.
That night, another man disappeared.
His name was Kamal Hossain, a former university administrator who had previously faced allegations of sexual harassment.
Several women had accused him of exploiting his position to manipulate students.
An internal investigation had once been initiated, but the complaints were eventually dismissed.
His body was discovered several days later.
The police found no immediate connection between his death and the earlier incidents.
But the newspapers began noticing a pattern.
Men accused of serious offences were dying under suspicious circumstances.
Some had escaped prosecution. Others had influential connections.
The public began speculating.
Was someone targeting them?
Was it a personal vendetta?
Or was the city witnessing something far more disturbing?
Lamya read the reports with an expressionless face.
She switched off her laptop and walked towards the window.
Three years earlier, she had committed her first act of violence.
Since then, she had told herself that it was an isolated incident, something that would never happen again.
But the darkness had never truly disappeared.
It had simply learned to wait.
She looked at the reflection in the glass.
The journalist standing before the camera was admired by thousands. She was respected, articulate, and seemingly devoted to justice.
Nobody knew what existed behind that carefully constructed identity.
Nobody knew what she had done.
And nobody knew what she was becoming.
Lamya returned to her desk and opened a fresh notebook.
On its first page, she wrote three names.
Then she closed it.
The city had begun searching for a killer.
And the killer was sitting right in front of them.