The soul smiled. Not kindly, not mercifully—but with something twisted and ancient.
Rohan's body lifted off the ground.
Limbs slack. Head tilted back. His breath caught mid-chest, trapped between panic and disbelief. Gravity vanished—replaced by a cold, invisible force that suspended him like a marionette dangling over death.
Then—agony.
A blade of ice-cold steel slammed through his side.
He gasped. No time to scream.
Another pierced his back. A third carved through his abdomen.
And then—
The fourth came from the front. Straight through the eye.
A flash of searing white. Then black.
The pain wasn't just physical—it splintered deeper, branding something beneath the skin. A feeling like his memories were being torn open, his failures carved into his soul.
From the edge of vision—before it all collapsed—he saw it:
That smile. The soul's smile. Wide. Cruel. Eternal.
Then—nothing.
---
He woke choking on air.
Hospital lights buzzed overhead, white and harsh. The sterile scent of antiseptic clung to the air like smoke. Machines beeped in quiet rhythm. A cannula was taped to his arm. An IV dripped slowly.
He bolted upright.
No wounds. No blood. No swords. Just cold sweat and a body trembling too hard to believe it was real.
The door burst open. A nurse rushed in. "Sir! Are you okay?"
Rohan stared at her. Couldn't speak. Couldn't think.
She stepped forward gently, drawing a vial from her coat. "It's alright," she said, inserting the dose into his IV. "This will help."
Rohan's voice cracked. "Where… am I?"
Before she could answer, the door opened again.
A man walked in. Square-jawed, mid-thirties, eyes sharp and direct.
"I'm Inspector Suryavanshi," he said, flashing a badge. "I've got a few questions."
---
The chair scraped against the floor as Suryavanshi sat beside Rohan's bed.
"You were found unconscious near the Mutha river. East bank. You remember anything about last night?"
Rohan hesitated.
Suryavanshi continued, "Gang fight happened there. Two groups went at each other with blades. Three dead. You were found on the opposite bank. Alone. Drunk. Lucky."
Rohan clenched his fists. "I wasn't part of that."
The inspector's eyes narrowed. "Then what were you doing there?"
Rohan told him most of it. The girl. The insult. The job loss. The river. The alcohol. But not the soul. Not the swords.
The cop nodded slowly. "No family?"
Rohan shook his head. "None."
Suryavanshi stood. "We'll need your statement. You're not a suspect—for now."
He stepped out, called for a constable to log Rohan's information.
The doctor soon returned, advised rest. Discharge likely in the morning.
But Rohan didn't rest.
---
Midnight.
The hospital had fallen into uneasy silence. The kind of silence that feels... wrong. Too deep. Too careful.
12:03 a.m.
Rohan stirred.
Something felt off. Off enough to burn away the sedative flowing through his veins.
He opened his eyes.
Nothing.
He closed them again.
A whisper.
No words—just pressure. Like breath crawling across his skin.
He sat up. Looked around.
Still nothing.
But his heart picked up speed.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood. The floor was cold underfoot. He padded quietly to the door.
"Sir?"
He jumped.
A nurse stood nearby. Her expression blank. Pale.
"Where are you going?" she asked, voice low.
"Washroom," he muttered.
She didn't move. Just nodded and disappeared down the hall.
He walked to the restroom. Closed the door. Splash of water on his face. The mirror reflected hollow eyes and pale skin.
Then—
A voice.
Inside the room. Inside his head.
"So… you can feel me?"
He spun. "Who's there?!"
No one.
Only the hum of dead bulbs and something darker pressing against the edges of the air.
Another voice. A whisper. Just behind his ear:
"Can… you… see me?"
He shoved the door open and ran into the hallway.
Flickering lights. Silence. Shadows longer than they should be.
Something followed.
He felt it. Couldn't see it. But it watched. Waited.
He stopped walking. Turned.
Nothing.
Except—an open door.
Soft light spilled out from inside.
Rohan approached slowly. Heart thudding.
Inside sat an old man on a chair, turned away from the door. Medical coat. Grey hair.
Alive.
Relief.
"Sorry," Rohan said. "I thought—never mind."
The old man turned slowly. Tired eyes.
"What are you chasing, son?" he asked.
Rohan hesitated. "I… thought I saw someone."
The man nodded. "Not everything you see wants to be found."
Rohan blinked.
The room was... colder now.
He turned to leave.
Then stopped.
Something was wrong.
He turned back.
Empty chair. No man.
Just a chair turning on its own, slow and silent.
He rushed to the glass window across the hall.
And there—
Lying still on a gurney—
The same old man.
Dead.
Heart hammering, Rohan stared. Breath stuck in his throat.
Then—
Flicker.
A smear of grey. Above him. Gone in two seconds.
He spun.
"Who are you?!"
Silence.
A whisper clawed through the air behind him:
"Find… her."
The name hissed through the hallway:
"Shruti."
Rohan stepped back.
"No," he whispered. "What do you want from me?"
No voice.
Just heat against his spine, breath that wasn't his.
"Find… her."
"Hurry…"
Rohan whirled.
Nothing.
Only the fluorescent hum. The empty corridor. The echo of something wrong.
His pulse thundered in his ears.
And for the first time—
He wasn't sure if he was haunted… or chosen.
"Save… her…"
The words echoed—not in the air, but inside his skull. Carved into thought. Branded onto memory.
The eyes. Those eyes.
No lids. No blinking. Just a fixed, unnatural stare.
Rohan gasped awake.
He was on his hospital bed again, drenched in sweat, chest heaving. The sterile white walls did nothing to mute the terror still lodged in his chest.
The nurse walked in, clipboard in hand. "Good morning," she said with professional calm. "Are you alright? We found you collapsed in the corridor last night. Duty nurse said you were coming back from the washroom."
Rohan blinked at her, throat dry. Her words barely registered. The corridor… the voice… the old man…
It wasn't a dream.
The realization punched through his thoughts like ice water. That wasn't sleepwalking. It was something else. Something… real.
There was a knock at the door.
"Rohan," came the voice.
Inspector Suryavanshi entered, buttoning his coat, already halfway to his next case.
"You're finally getting discharged," he said. "How are you feeling?"
Rohan cleared his throat, composing himself. "Better. Just waiting for the doctor's final report."
Suryavanshi studied him a moment longer—eyes narrowed, catching the frayed edges in Rohan's voice, the strain in his stare. Then he nodded, unsatisfied, and walked out.
The nurse began organizing discharge papers. Rohan, unable to hold it back, turned to her.
"I… saw a dead body yesterday. In another room. An old man. What happened to him?"
She paused. "Oh. That was the same day you were brought in. Police said they found a body—male, elderly—from River View Colony. Hanged. They thought suicide, but postmortem showed blunt-force trauma. Beaten. Then staged."
Her tone was detached, but the words hit Rohan like a truck.
He whispered, more to himself than her, "So that's why Inspector Suryavanshi keeps showing up…"
The nurse shrugged. "Maybe. I don't know anything beyond that."
---
By 1:00 p.m., Rohan was discharged.
He walked out of the hospital gates into a too-bright afternoon, the kind of light that made shadows hide deeper.
He crossed the road and entered a quiet coffee shop, settling into a corner seat with a paper cup clutched in both hands. Stillness. Coffee steam. But inside his head—chaos.
River View Colony.
It was nearby. He could be there in fifteen minutes.
But what was he chasing? He wasn't a cop. He wasn't anyone. A fired employee. A rejected lover. A man without a family or future.
He lit a cigarette.
"Thinking about her?" a voice asked behind him.
Rohan froze.
Suryavanshi.
He stood there in plain clothes, smoke curling from his own cigarette, casually watching him.
"What do you want?" Rohan asked quietly.
The inspector shrugged. "Curious. We reviewed the hospital's CCTV. You collapsed near a room holding a body. Same night, same hallway. Strange coincidence."
Rohan didn't answer.
Suryavanshi exhaled. "What happened? What were you doing there?"
Rohan stared into his coffee. "I saw the body. It… it shocked me. I fainted."
Silence stretched. Then Rohan asked, "Who was he? The old man?"
Suryavanshi gave him a long look.
"He was a single father. Lived alone. He came to the police four days ago, said his daughter was missing. No leads yet. Name was—"
Rohan's breath hitched.
"Shruti," he said.
The inspector's eyes narrowed. "How do you know that name?"
Rohan froze.
He had said it without thinking. The whispers. The voice. Find her. Shruti.
Think fast. Lie faster.
"She was… a girl I knew," he said quickly. "We… broke up. Recently. Her name's haunting me, that's all."
Suryavanshi didn't press. But he didn't believe him either.
Without another word, he turned and walked out.
---
Rohan returned to his apartment by evening.
The lights flickered when he stepped inside. The place smelled musty. Unlived. A mirror by the entrance was cracked—he hadn't noticed before. Or maybe it hadn't been.
He locked the door, pulled the curtains shut, and sat on the edge of his bed.
His thoughts raced.
Why him? Why now?
What did the soul mean—You carry death… You walked through it…
He had drowned. Years ago. In flames. In blood. In loss.
And still survived.
Was that why he could hear them now?
Was this some twisted gift… or punishment?
Find her…
He stared at the ceiling. The old man said it. The soul said it.
Who was she?
Shruti.
What had happened to her?
Somewhere between fear and exhaustion, Rohan fell asleep, still wearing his shoes.
---
12:03 a.m.
A knock.
Sharp. Precise.
Rohan's eyes snapped open.
Another knock.
He looked at the clock. Exactly 12:03.
He sat up, breath tight in his throat.
The room lights were already on.
The knock again.
Rohan slowly stood. The hallway outside his bedroom was dim. He approached the front door.
The knocking stopped.
He waited.
Silence.
Then—
The sound of the lock clicking. Turning. On its own.
The door creaked open a fraction.
Cold air bled in.
He stepped back.
"Shruti…"
The voice whispered into his ear though no one stood there.
He spun. Empty.
The lights flickered once. Twice.
A flicker—by the kitchen.
A shape. A smear of grey.
Gone in less than a heartbeat.
Then—
"Save… her…"
Whispers inside his head, too many at once, layered over each other like static.
"She's waiting." "Don't be late." "Time… ends…" "Shruti."
His knees buckled. He grabbed the table for support.
Then—
Knock. Knock.
This time—on his bedroom door.
The one he'd just walked through.
He turned slowly.
Another knock.
A whisper behind him. Right behind his neck.
"Marked."
He turned.
No one.
Another knock. This time loud. Urgent.
Then silence.
He reached for the bedroom doorknob, trembling fingers wrapping around the handle.
He twisted. Pulled.
The door opened.
Nothing.
Darkness.
One step forward.
Another.
To Be Continued...