The next day, the Bandra Police Station buzzed under the hard glare of fluorescent lights, their endless hum gnawing at already frayed nerves. Constables shuffled papers, typewriters clacked in bursts, and the faint aroma of burnt chai lingered in the air.
At the center of it sat Assistant Commissioner of Police Vihaan Kothari, only twenty-four but already marked by a quiet authority that belied his age. His crisp uniform did little to hide the fatigue in his posture, nor the restless fire in his eyes. He leaned back in his chair, listening as his junior officer laid out the night's report.
"Sir," Inspector Nikhil began, his voice tight with frustration, "we've got another one. Anjali Sharma, twenty-three. Left her office around eleven. She never made it home. Family filed the report this morning."
Vihaan's jaw tensed. "That makes…?"
"Six, sir," Nikhil cut in grimly. "Six women in three months. All in the same radius—Bandra to Juhu. No ransom calls. No leads. No witnesses we can trust. He just… disappears with them."
Vihaan drummed his fingers on the desk, staring at the folder Nikhil slid toward him. Inside, a grainy CCTV still caught Anjali mid-step, her face turned in startled fear. Behind her—a hooded figure, blurred by the lens, but with eyes that gleamed faintly, unnaturally, even in the poor light.
That color again. A faint, malignant violet.
"No signs of struggle at her workplace? No forced entry at her home?" Vihaan asked, his tone sharp but steady.
"None, sir. Just like the others. It's like he plucks them straight from the air."
Silence hung between them, heavy as stone.
Finally, Vihaan pushed the file away, his voice low. "Six girls. All gone. Not a single body found. You know what that means."
Nikhil swallowed hard. "You think he's keeping them alive?"
Vihaan's gaze darkened. "Not for ransom. Not for trade. For something else."
From the corner of his desk, he pulled a thin case file he had been studying for weeks—old clippings, forgotten records, strange patterns dismissed by others as coincidence. A single note was scrawled across the cover in his own hand: The Hooded Man – Bride Theory.
He slid it across to Nikhil. "Read it. You'll understand. This isn't random, Nikhil. He's following a pattern. Six taken already. He won't stop until he has seven."
Nikhil frowned, flipping through the pages, unease etched deeper into his features with each line. "Seven… brides? You really think he's collecting them?"
Vihaan's stare was unflinching, a hint of something haunted flickering in his eyes. "It's the only explanation that fits. And if I'm right—" his hand curled into a fist against the desk "—then we're running out of time."
The hum of the station seemed louder in that moment, the city outside moving unaware, while in the shadows, a predator wrote the next chapter of his script.
Somewhere across the restless sprawl of Mumbai, in a cramped chawl tucked between leaning buildings, another story stirred awake.
A girl—Gauri—sat bolt upright in her narrow bed, heart hammering. Only a moment ago she had been drifting in the vastness of the sea. The waves had stretched endlessly, silver under a phantom moon, cold spray stinging her skin. Alone, adrift, yet not afraid. She had whispered words to herself, verses half-remembered, half-born of her own lips:
"If the ocean swallows me whole,
let me rise with the tide, not sink with the stones.
If this is dream, then let me wake.
If this is truth, let me float."
The poem lingered like salt on her tongue.
Then she had slapped her own cheek, desperate to break free of the illusion—
—and woke with a gasp as icy water crashed over her head.
Gauri spluttered, her thin blanket drenched, her hair plastered to her face. She blinked through the sting, her dream dissolving into the cruel reality of her single-room world.
Her mother stood over her, an empty bucket in hand, eyes hard with exhaustion rather than malice. "Lazy girl," she snapped, voice sharp enough to cut. "The world does not wait for your dreams. Get up before you waste another day."
The chawl around them groaned with morning life: neighbors shouting, utensils clattering, the communal tap already crowded. Gauri sat dripping on her cot, shivering, staring down at her palms.
For an instant, she thought she saw them glisten faintly, like moonlit ripples. Then the shimmer was gone.
Her mother turned away, muttering about work and wasted time. But Gauri's thoughts lingered on the ocean, the poem, the shimmer.
Was it only a dream… or a memory of something she was never meant to forget?
The water dripped from her chin, soaking the thin mattress beneath her. Gauri pressed the heel of her hand against her eyes, trying to hide the tears that mixed with the bucketful still clinging to her face.
The door creaked open, and Charvi, her younger sister of eighteen, slipped quietly inside. Her slender frame moved hesitantly, as though afraid of drawing their mother's wrath even from the next room. In her hands, she carried a faded towel.
"Here, Didi," she whispered, placing it gently on the cot.
Gauri managed a faint smile through her damp hair, taking the towel and pressing it to her face. "Thank you," she murmured, her voice trembling.
Charvi sat down beside her, eyes glistening as she studied her sister. "Why are you crying again?" she asked softly. Then, with a bitterness unusual for her gentle nature, she added, "When will she finally accept us, Gauri? To her, it feels like only Adrija matters. We're just… shadows in her house."
The words hung heavy in the small room, raw and aching.
Gauri lowered the towel, her own tears still brimming. She reached for Charvi's hand, squeezing it firmly. "Don't think like that," she said, steady despite the crack in her own voice. "Adrija may be her favorite, but that doesn't make us less. We have each other, don't we?"
Charvi's lips trembled, and for a moment she leaned into Gauri's shoulder, letting herself be comforted. "Sometimes," she whispered, "it feels like even the gods have forgotten us."
Gauri lifted her chin, her damp hair framing her determined face. "Then we'll remind them, Charvi. One day, they'll know who we are. Who we were meant to be."
The conviction in her tone surprised even her, as though the words had come from somewhere deeper than her own heart—echoes of a destiny neither of them fully understood yet.