It was five in the morning when Rishi suddenly regained consciousness. He shot upright, gasping. His eyes scanned the room—it was the same one where he had been kidnapped. He slapped his head repeatedly, as if trying to jolt himself back to reality. The room was now well-lit. He tried to stand, but his legs felt completely numb, as if someone had hammered them relentlessly. He groaned in pain.
Pulling off the blanket, he saw warm bandages wrapped tightly around both legs. Just then, the door creaked open. Rishi turned sharply. The Writer stood at the doorway, holding a plate with a bowl of soup. Rishi stared at him with a mix of fear and fury.
"Who are you? What do you want from me? You didn't kidnap me for nothing. Are you a ghost? An alien? What are you?"
This time, Rishi was truly shaken. He tried to appear strong, but the Writer's presence alone made his heartbeat thunder in his chest. What unsettled him even more was the Writer's expression—calm, serious, and unreadable.
"Why did you step out of this house? Do you have any idea what you've done to yourself? You could've been killed. Do you even know what dangers lurk out there?"
"Of course I don't know—and I don't want to!" Rishi shouted.
"I'm convinced now. You're either a serial killer or a psychopath. If you're involved in anything illegal, I'll expose you. Locking me in this room won't stop me. Whatever secrets you're hiding—I'll bring them out. Try stopping me if you can. Even if it costs me my last breath, I won't stay silent."
Rishi blurted it all out in one breath, panting heavily. The Writer stood still for a moment, then calmly placed the soup bowl on the side table. Rishi ignored it, his face burning with rage.
"If you really want answers, Rishi Thakur, then staying alive is your first priority. Learn to survive here. If you try to escape, you'll neither uncover the truth about me nor make it out alive. I live here. If you want to know me, you'll have to stay. Once you leave, your curiosity will die with you. I've never allowed anyone to know me. You're the first. Use that chance wisely.
Anyway, enough talk. Your legs are swollen from all that running. Walking will be difficult. So forget about escaping for now and focus on eating. It'll help you recover."
Rishi tried to suppress his anger.
"I want to talk to my mom."
"Who stopped you?" the Writer shrugged.
Rishi looked at him, confused.
"I haven't touched your phone. You can talk to anyone—your mom, your friends, even the police."
Rishi stared at him in disbelief. The Writer sat down on the sofa, his smile flickering through his eyes.
"Even if you call for help, no one will be able to reach you. This area is anti-tracking. Your phone can't be traced. I can send you back if you want—but it won't help. You won't be able to rescue Vedant from that penthouse, and you'll never learn the truth about me. Maybe you'll never see me again. You'll spend your whole life wondering where I kept you and why.
I won't harm you. The choice is yours. Drink the soup. It's non-vegetarian. Took me a lot of effort to arrange vegetarian ingredients just for you."
The Writer stood up and walked out of the room.
Rishi was left in a state of confusion. He took a deep breath and looked at the soup beside him. His head was pounding, but what could he do? He had to eat. He exhaled and picked up the bowl. Images from the previous night flashed through his mind—so terrifying that even now, his skin crawled just thinking about it.
He took a spoonful of the soup. His eyes widened slightly—it tasted surprisingly good. He quickly finished the bowl and placed it back on the table, panting. Then he collapsed onto the bed.
Now he had to make a choice—but he couldn't. Should he stay here or leave?
He picked up his phone and dialed his mom's number. The call connected instantly.
"Rishi, where are you, son? I've been trying to reach you for two days. Your phone kept saying not reachable. I even tried calling Vedant, but his phone isn't working either. I'm so scared."
"Mom! Mom! I'm fine. I just got caught up in something important. Everything's okay now. How are you?"
"I'm fine, Rishi. I was just really worried about you."
"I'm perfectly fine, Mom. Please don't worry. It's just a matter of a few days. I'll come see you soon. Take care of yourself. I have to go now for something urgent."
Rishi hung up the call and took a deep breath. That meant the Writer hadn't hacked his phone. Rishi still couldn't figure out what the Writer truly wanted. Why was he hiding his identity so deliberately?
"Now it's even more important for me to know who you really are, Mr. Writer."
It was already afternoon. Rishi had grown tired of staring at his phone. He got up and opened the door to his room. His legs still ached, but he stepped out slowly, limping. Outside, it was still dark, but not as pitch black as the previous night. The chilling cold he had felt before was gone. The atmosphere wasn't as eerie either.
He slowly made his way downstairs. As he reached the hall, his eyes went straight to the kitchen, which he was seeing clearly for the first time. The Writer was working inside. Rishi was a little surprised. Just yesterday, there had been two or three people working here, but today there was no one. Had they been given the day off? The question popped into his mind.
"Did you need something?" the Writer asked without turning around. Rishi was surprised again. How had he seen him?
He looked around, confused.
"No need to think so hard. I have eyes on my back too."
Rishi nodded.
"Can you still not tell me your name?"
This time the Writer turned around. He wasn't wearing a mask today. This was his real face. Rishi stood up straight, staring at him. A broad forehead with tiny beads of sweat from working, a long straight nose, sharp refined features, and lips so perfectly shaped they looked like they had been sketched—Rishi found them oddly captivating.
"What will you do with my name?" the Writer asked, snapping Rishi out of his thoughts.
"No one exists without a name."
"Then you're making the mistake of thinking I'm human."
Rishi's eyes narrowed.
"So, have you decided whether you want to stay here? Or should I take you back to that tiny room where there's not even space for a chair?"
The Writer spoke with a sarcastic tone.
"Whatever it is, it's my room. That place gives me a strange sense of peace."
The Writer turned back and resumed his work. Rishi looked around the hall. The interior design pulled him in. Expensive paintings, luxurious decor, and the carpet spread across the floor—it all looked like it cost more than a year of Rishi's salary.
"Did you become this rich just by writing books?"
"What do you think?"
"Instead of always answering my questions with another question, you could just give me a straight answer."
"If I knew how to give straight answers, I wouldn't have written so many books."
Rishi took a deep breath. This Writer was truly a tough nut to crack. Getting any information out of him wasn't going to be easy.
Vedant was growing restless in Kabir's penthouse, but what could he do? He turned on the TV, where discussions about the day's rally were dominating the news. Kabir's brief speech had become the center of attention because of the way he had attacked the education system. His words had sparked a wave of enthusiasm among the youth. The opposition insisted they had done significant work for education, but the points Kabir had raised were so sharp that none of their leaders could refute them.
Rishi had also heard the speech, and he found many of Kabir's arguments logical. But the moment he remembered how Kabir had treated him personally, his face filled with anger again.
Suddenly, the door opened and Kabir walked in. That same smile. Vedant was instantly irritated and turned his face away. Kabir's smile deepened at his reaction.
"I heard you didn't eat anything today. Why? How long do you think you can survive without food? And if I were to do something to your sister…"
Vedant glared at him. Kabir smiled again.
"I told you, stay here peacefully. You won't face any trouble, darling. You know, when I like someone, I treat them like a glass doll."
"But I'm not a glass doll. I'm a living, breathing leech who won't let go of you so easily, no matter what you do. I already know your real face. All those affairs you had in the US—if I don't expose them one by one, then you can call me a liar."
Kabir still smiled.