"Get out! Both of you!"
The professor's sharp voice cut through the air like a slap. There was no room for argument — we had to leave.
I glanced at Mohit. His expression said it all: "What the hell did you drag me into, man?"
We stood up and quietly walked out. Behind us, the class burst into muffled laughter.
"Mohit, how'd you end up with this idiot?" someone snickered.
Being the center of attention is fun — but not when it feels like a punishment. Almost every eye was on us.
Then I saw Kritika.
She wasn't laughing. She looked... concerned? No — sympathetic. But not for me. Her eyes were fixed on Mohit.
We stepped out of the classroom. The professor slammed the door behind us so hard it felt personal, like he was saying, "Get out and stay out. You two are a waste of time."
We stood outside the classroom door in the corridor. The walls were painted a dull grey, the kind that once looked modern but was now peeling in spots. Most classrooms were connected to this corridor. It was oddly quiet.
"Let's go to the cafeteria," Mohit said.
I expected him to complain or scold me, but instead, he just looked... bored.
"Cafeteria? But it's not even lunchtime."
"Yeah, but what else are we going to do? Stand here and rot? I've got some cash — we'll grab a cold drink."
"Fine. If you say so."
We headed down the corridor. There weren't many students around, which made the silence feel heavier — like the walls themselves were watching us.
"So... looks like Kritika likes you," I teased.
"Kritika? Are you high? Every time she talks to me, it's about studies. That's it. Besides, you're the one who likes her. Am I wrong?"
"No! I mean — it's not like that. I just..."
I trailed off. Something clicked in my mind.
That dream I had in the morning — there was a girl in it who looked just like Kritika.
I fell silent.
"Hey, what's up? You were saying something?" Mohit asked.
"Nothing. Just zoned out."
By then, we had reached the cafeteria. But something felt off.
It was quiet. Too quiet.
No staff. No students. Even the lights were off. Only sunlight trickled in through the high windows, casting long slanted shadows across the floor.
"Is it always this dead around this time?" I asked, feeling uneasy.
"No way. Yesterday I came here around the same time with Kritika. Place was buzzing."
"Wait — you came with Kritika?"
"Chill. She had some doubts about the project, and our class was too loud. That's all. The bigger question is — where is everyone today?"
"Good point," I said.
There was a strange stillness in the air. The lingering scent of ketchup and mayonnaise hung around — stale but still present. It felt like time had paused.
"Helloooo! Anyone here?" Mohit called out.
His voice echoed off the walls.
"Let's just check around a bit. Maybe they're nearby," he said.
Our cafeteria was big — more like a mini restaurant. A rectangular hall with counters at both ends and scattered tables in between.
Mohit walked toward the left counter. I headed right.
Only two large windows along the center wall let light in. Everything beyond them was darker.
I walked carefully. The light dimmed as I moved toward the corner. My phone was still in class, so I couldn't use it.
Suddenly, my foot hit something soft. My heart jumped.
I looked down slowly — it was just a piece of chicken.
A rotten piece, from the stench. My stomach turned.
"God, I overthink everything," I thought.
I stepped further in. The silence felt alive. I could hear every step I took — the gentle creak of my sandals, the low hum of the distant ceiling fan, the echo of nothingness.
As I reached out to steady myself on a table, my fingers brushed something. A paper cutlet. Folded.
One word stood out in the low light: "JOB" — written in thick white letters that seemed to glow.
I folded it and slipped it into my pocket.
Then I reached the far counter. The sunlight didn't reach this part of the room. I opened the counter gate and stepped in.
Something wet squished under my sandal.
"Gross. People really forget how to eat."
I crouched to pick it up, blindly reaching for whatever it was. My hand touched something round.
"Feels like a watermelon," I thought.
I lifted it.
"Hey! Find anything?" Mohit shouted.
"Not really. It's too dark. Got a flashlight?"
Mohit approached, turned on his phone light, and pointed it toward me.
I looked down at what I was holding.
And froze.
It wasn't a watermelon.
It was a severed head.
The eyes were stitched shut. The ears — torn. Blood crusted the facial wounds. But even without eyes, I could tell who it was.
It was the same man from my dream.
Then — it spoke.
"I warned you... the RULES."
It smiled — a terrifying, slow grin.
My breath caught in my throat. My fingers shook. I dropped the head.
Thud.
"Hey! What was that?" Mohit called out.
He stepped inside, saw me on my knees.
"What happened? You okay?"
I couldn't speak.
"Why'd you throw that watermelon?"
I muttered, voice trembling, "That's not a watermelon… that was a… a severed head."
"Dude, what? Are you high? You know we're not allowed to do drugs on campus."
"What are you even saying?! I'm not high! Shine your flashlight at that corner — right now!"
"Okay, okay, chill."
He pointed his light.
And there it was — a smashed watermelon.
Just a watermelon.
My mind reeled.
"You see? You're freaking out over fruit," Mohit said. "Red pulp doesn't mean blood, bro."
Maybe I was losing it.
"Come on. Let's go. Place is empty because the staff's on strike — just got the notification," he added.
"Sorry… maybe I didn't sleep well. Must be imagining things."
We turned back toward class.
But as we walked into the corridor, we saw something strange — students from all classes pouring out with their bags.
"What's going on?" I asked.
"No clue. Maybe they called off college today."
"Hey Mohit!"
It was Kritika, stepping out of our classroom.
We walked toward her.
"Good thing I saw you. I almost took your project file home," she said.
"I couldn't care less about that file. But why did they cancel classes today?"
Kritika's face changed. Her usual cheerful tone was replaced by something serious.
"Ramu Bhaiya and Shyam Kumar — the staff in our cafeteria — got into a fight with some goons this morning. It got violent. They were both… killed."
My stomach dropped.
"Their bodies were found in a nearby drain. Ramu Bhaiya's head was severed. Eyes gouged out."
Mohit and I couldn't speak.
"They were good people," she said, her voice trembling. "They always smiled. They even gave me free treats sometimes."
Her perfect brown eyes filled with tears.
I don't know why, but I felt frozen. I barely managed to say, "They didn't deserve this. May their souls rest in peace."
Kritika looked into my eyes.
"Thank you, Chetan."
It was the first time she'd ever said my name.
But even as I said those words, I didn't believe them.
People only remember God when they want something — or when someone dies. What if the killer prayed too? What if God heard his prayers?
Maybe God only watches. Maybe He doesn't listen.
Maybe justice is in our hands.
"Chetan? Chetan!" Mohit's voice snapped me out of it.
Only we three were left near the classroom.
"Haha, he does this a lot," Mohit said. "Just zones out like that — like back in the cafeteria—"
Before he could finish, the professor walked out with his bag.
"You three are still here? Go home — the police will be here soon."
"Alright, I should go," Kritika said. "You both should too."
"Yeah, yeah, go on," Mohit said.
"Bye, Mohit," she smiled. Then, turning to me — "Bye, Chetan."
That one word from her — my name — made the whole terrible day feel lighter.
"I'll drop you home," Mohit offered.
"You even know where I live?"
"Just tell me. I'm free."
"It's far."
"I've got fuel. Let's go."
We grabbed our bags and headed out. The campus was almost empty now.
Mohit showed his parking chit to the guard, unlocked his scooty, and we took off.
As we rode, I remembered the paper cutlet.
I slowly took it out of my pocket, hiding it from Mohit.
I didn't want anyone to know I was job-hunting.
It had a picture of an old petrol pump. Below it, the text read:
"Need urgent money but don't want to work long hours? Join us — only 5 hours of work, 12 AM to 5 AM (Mon–Fri), and full days on weekends. ₹15,000 per weekday. ₹25,000 per weekend day. ₹1000 bonus for every extra 3 hours. No boss. No coworkers. Just you. If this flyer reached you, it means you're special. A code is printed in the corner for your registration. Our petrol pump is located 20 miles south of Kataki."
To be continued.......