Shiva was deep in thought when his phone buzzed.
It was the call—the one he'd been waiting for. His first assignment.
They didn't say much over the line. Just told him to be at a meeting point tomorrow afternoon. No names. No details. Just a time and a place.
He went after class, expecting something shady—a warehouse, maybe a dark alley. What he found instead was a luxurious bakery nestled between a boutique and a florist.
Confused but unshaken, he walked in.
A woman stood at the register, calm and professional. He told her he was new. She nodded once, then led him to a plain white door at the back. Inside was a clean, minimal room—just a desk and a chair.
A man handed him a laminated card. It labeled him as a "Temporary Intern for Experience Purposes."
Then came the task.
No violence. No weapons. Nothing cinematic.
He was to go to an address, remind someone about a pending loan, collect a small box of medicine, and deliver it to a hospital.
It sounded easy—almost too easy.
But nothing was ever just what it seemed.
The medicine wasn't legal. It was imported through backdoor channels—highly effective, highly restricted. The hospital he was delivering it to wasn't just a hospital. It was a hybrid facility, half regular ward, half mental asylum.
And somewhere in between, it was also a front for something darker—something they didn't tell him about. Because that wasn't his sector.
He followed the instructions. Picked up the box. Delivered it. Didn't ask questions.
When he returned, he was taken to the same back room again.
This time, a suitcase was waiting for him.
Cash.
Beside it, a single-page contract.
The man from before placed it in front of him. "Read it," he said. "Then sign."
The contract was short. Direct. Clear.
---
Contract Clauses:
You are to do the assigned task and ask minimal questions.
Payment will be delivered after each task.
You must report instantly in case of an emergency summon.
No information is to be leaked under any circumstances.
You will be assigned one task per week.
You are not responsible for damages to any product.
Each person receives a Special Task once a month.
You are allowed to ask questions about Special Tasks only.
Upon signing, you and your immediate family receive protection from all rival groups.
---
He signed.
No hesitation.
Afterward, he was handed another paper—this one detailing his first Special Task.
It wasn't violent. Not even risky, at first glance.
He had to observe a man.
Middle-aged. Clean record. Nothing unusual.
The objective? Find out everything about him.
No threats. No theft. Just quiet, detailed surveillance over the next month.
Shiva accepted.
He didn't care much for the man. Didn't understand what made him worth watching.
But he would.
He'd soon find out exactly what made this man so special—and why he had been chosen to find out.
For a month, Shiva threw himself into the task.
This wasn't just casual surveillance. He treated it like a mission. A war fought with silence, patience, and precision.
He bought miniature drones—silent, agile, and easily concealable. In public, he used them to tail the man without suspicion. In private, he installed a hidden pinhole camera inside the man's apartment building—camouflaged as a light socket.
He studied everything: where the man went, who he met, what he ate, when he slept.
For two weeks, the results were frustratingly normal.
A near-perfect routine. Early riser. Commute to the office. Lunch with colleagues. Evening walks. Occasional restaurant visits. Nothing unusual.
But then, Shiva noticed something odd.
Every day, from 2:00 PM to 3:00 PM—complete silence in his office.
Not a shuffle. Not a click. Not a cough. Not even a chair moving.
At first, it seemed harmless. Maybe he was just meditating. Sleeping. Reading.
But Shiva knew better.
Humans aren't that quiet—not unless they're hiding something.
Now that he'd memorized the man's entire schedule, Shiva timed the window perfectly. On a Thursday, just after the man left for a business meeting, Shiva slipped into his office building.
He had exactly three hours.
No panic. No rush.
Inside, everything was polished and professional. Clean desk. Organized files. Family photo on the shelf.
Too clean.
He moved methodically—checking under desks, drawers, ventilation panels.
Then he found it.
A section of the wooden wall behind the bookshelf didn't echo right.
He pressed.
Click.
The shelf shifted.
A hidden room.
Shiva's breath slowed. He stepped inside.
It was sterile—white tiles, bright lights. But what lay inside wasn't clean at all.
Stacks of forged property documents. Ledger books showing massive cash movements. Maps with red circles around tribal land. Bank accounts under fake names. Piles of untraceable SIM cards.
This man wasn't just corrupt. He was the center of a network.
Just to be sure, Shiva kept looking.
That's when he found the second hidden door.
And this one was worse.
Colder.
Smaller.
Metallic.
He braced himself and opened it.
What he saw inside?
Wasn't human.
And whatever it was… it changed everything.
The first hidden room looked like something straight out of a surgical drama.
Sterile white floors. Steel tables. Shelves lined with neatly labeled vials and instruments. At first glance, it resembled a private research lab or an advanced operating theater.
But for a man neck-deep in corruption, this place was too clean.
Too calculated.
Too clinical.
And that's what disturbed Shiva the most.
A room like this shouldn't exist. Not in an office building. Not behind a fake wall.
He asked himself the question no one wants to ask:
Why hide a lab unless it's being used for something you're not supposed to do?
It was hard to believe anyone could even get people in here—this was a secure building in a well-monitored area.
But Shiva didn't guess. He looked.
After nearly an hour of tearing through drawers and files, he found it: a weathered blueprint of the building's lower floors.
And there it was.
A service tunnel. Wide enough for a person to crawl through—hidden beneath a lift panel in the underground parking garage.
Now he was certain.
He was bringing people in.
But what was he doing with them?
Shiva had been observing the building for weeks. No blood. No suspicious disposal. No abnormal use of dumpsters. Nothing that screamed murder.
But then again—what if there was no need for a large cleanup?
What if he was cutting the bodies into smaller pieces? Transporting them in parts?
Or worse…
What if they were still alive—kept somewhere?
The air grew colder as Shiva returned to the lab, his instincts screaming that something was still hidden.
He scanned the walls again.
This time, he noticed a hairline crack in the tile pattern near the floor.
He pressed.
Another door.
And this one?
This one was worse.
Much worse.
As it creaked open, a stench rolled out—metallic, rotten, unnatural.
The room beyond wasn't tiled.
It was concrete.
Dark. Damp. Faintly lit by a flickering bulb.
And hanging from the ceiling…
Was a chain.
Still swaying.