Meanwhile, at the chawl, Charvi sat cross-legged on her bed with her textbooks spread open. The quiet hum of the ceiling fan filled the room as she scribbled notes, her brows furrowed in concentration.
Suddenly, a sharp ache pierced her head. She winced, pressing her hand to her temple. The room seemed to tilt, her vision blurring until her eyes grew heavy.
When she opened them again, they looked glassy, distant — as if she wasn't entirely herself. In that trance-like state, she reached for her notebook and pen, her hand moving across the page with eerie precision. Lines formed quickly, almost frantically, shaping into figures.
By the time her hand stilled, she blinked, the haze lifting from her eyes. She looked down at the page, shocked.
It wasn't her homework. She had sketched Gauri — standing before a tall, hooded man whose face was hidden in shadows.
Charvi's fingers trembled as she touched the page. "Why… why do I keep drawing Di with this hooded man?" she whispered, her heart pounding.
She glanced around the empty room, unease settling in her chest. This wasn't the first time her hand had drawn that figure. And deep down, she feared it wouldn't be the last.
Meanwhile, on the highway, Gauri was driving back toward the chawl when her cab suddenly sputtered and jerked to a stop.
She frowned, trying the ignition again, but the engine only coughed before falling silent. With a frustrated sigh, she stepped out of the cab.
"Why does this cab always break down at the wrong places?" she muttered, slamming the door shut. "And I just got it serviced last week… this makes no sense."
She bent to check the tires and popped the bonnet, but before she could inspect further, a sharp screech cut through the quiet stretch of road.
Gauri froze. The sound was harsh, grating, like metal tearing against asphalt. Slowly, she turned her head.
Her eyes widened in shock.
That's when she heard it — the familiar, spine-chilling screech.
Her blood ran cold. She knew that sound. She had heard it before… the first time when the hooded man had followed her.
"No…" she whispered.
There he was again — the hooded man. The same one who had attacked her, kidnapped her. He stood at a distance, dragging a long metal pipe against the road, sparks flying as the sound echoed eerily.
Memories of the past attack flashed in her mind — the fear, the helplessness.
Her heart pounded. Gauri stumbled a step back, clutching her keys tightly like a weapon.
"Why… why are you after me again?" she whispered, her voice trembling.
The hooded man tilted his head, silent, the faceless hood hiding his expression. Then, with slow, deliberate steps, he began walking toward her.
Meanwhile at the kothari mansion
Vihaan was half into his nightwear when a prickling stillness crawled over his skin. He moved to the balcony, the house's muted chatter falling away. Moonlight painted the garden in silver; the air smelled faintly of wet earth and jasmine.
"Whoever you are—come out," he called, voice low and steady. Movement answered: a silhouette on the neighbouring ledge folded itself and vaulted over the railing with a lithe, almost feline grace.
For a second Vihaan only registered the silhouette's shape—slim, lithe, undeniably feminine—then instinct took him. He vaulted the railing after her without hesitation.
They hit the courtyard in a tumble of cloth and dust. The woman was already on her feet, hood up, hair loose at the nape of her neck, every line of her body coiled and watchful. She didn't speak. In her hand the pipe glinted for a moment before she tucked it away like a casual prop.
"Stop," Vihaan barked, pushing himself up. "Who are you? What do you want?"
The figure tilted her head, the faint outline of a smile—or a smirk—visible beneath the hood. She took a step back as if reassessing him, then, with the unnatural silence of someone who belongs to shadows, she was gone—slipping between the black patches of the hedges as if the night had swallowed her.
Vihaan spun, scanning for tracks; there were only the faint impressions where she'd landed and a scrap of fabric snagged on the trellis. He crouched, fingers closing on the thread, the small evidence cold in his palm. The prickle at the back of his neck deepened.
"Whoever you are," he said to the sleeping house, "if you come near this family—near my mother—you'll answer to me."
He pocketed the scrap, eyes already plotting the first calls he would make. The intruder was not a man. That fact thudded in his chest like a new and dangerous drumbeat.
Meanwhile, back on the highway, Gauri rushed to the driver's side of her cab. Her trembling hands tugged at the handle again and again, but the door refused to budge, as though it had been sealed shut.
Her breath quickened, panic clawing up her throat. "No… no, not now," she whispered, her eyes darting to the rearview mirror, then to the stretch of lonely road behind her.
The metallic screech echoed again. She turned sharply—there he was. The hooded man, the same terrifying figure from her nightmares and Charvi's drawings, dragging the iron pipe against the asphalt as he closed in, every step deliberate, every scrape of metal raising the hairs on her neck.
Gauri's chest tightened. She pounded her fist against the glass. "Open… please open!" she gasped, yanking the handle with all her strength.
The hooded man's shadow stretched across the cab as he came nearer, his pace slow but inescapable. Gauri stumbled back, clutching her keys like a useless weapon, her wide eyes fixed on the faceless predator advancing under the broken streetlight's flicker.