Priya sat in her car, gripping the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles whitened. The air inside the vehicle felt heavier than before, like invisible fingers pressing down on her chest. She tried to steady her breathing. Calm down, Priya. It's just nerves. Nothing's there. Nothing.
But when she reached to start the ignition, the dashboard lights flickered erratically before going black. Silence filled the car, broken only by her rapid heartbeat.
Her phone vibrated in her lap. She grabbed it instantly, hoping it was Mukul again. The screen glowed, but no name appeared. Just a message, stark and chilling:
"You are seen."
Her throat tightened. She dropped the phone as if it had burned her fingers. The words lingered in the dim interior, more suffocating than any shadow.
A faint tap came at the glass. Once. Twice. Deliberate. She whipped her head toward the driver's side window—nothing. No figure, no face. Only the reflection of her own wide eyes. But she could feel it, that oppressive presence pressing closer, teasing her boundaries.
The charm Mukul had given her burned warm in her pocket, the faintest hum pulsing against her palm. It was reacting. That meant one thing: the threat was real.
Miles away, Mukul's eyes narrowed as the tracker's light linked to Priya began to stutter. It pulsed rapidly, then dimmed, like a heartbeat under strain.
"She's in danger," he said flatly, shoving the map aside.
Raghav swore under his breath. "We need to move. Now."
Ansh, calmer but equally tense, glanced at Mukul. "But if we rush in—"
"There's no choice," Mukul cut him off. His voice carried a sharp edge. "If we're too slow, we'll lose her. I won't let another one fall."
The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken memories—Shalini's fate still raw, haunting all of them.
"Get the van," Mukul ordered, already strapping on his gear. "Every second counts."
Back in the car, Priya forced herself to unlock her phone again. Her hands shook as she typed a hurried message: Something's wrong. Hurry.
Before she could hit send, the device slipped from her fingers. It wasn't clumsiness—something had pulled it, as if the air itself had weight. The phone slid across the seat and landed on the floor, screen shattering.
"Stop it," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Whoever you are… just stop."
The rearview mirror darkened. For an instant, a faceless figure appeared in it, standing right behind her seat. Her body froze in terror, every muscle locked. She spun around—empty. Nothing but the stillness of the back seat.
The Warden wasn't attacking outright. He was playing with her. Testing her fear. Breaking her down before the true strike.
The van tore through the city streets, tyres screeching at every corner. Mukul sat at the front, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the road ahead as if his willpower alone could shorten the distance.
Kavya, watching the monitor that tracked Priya's charm, whispered, "It's fluctuating again. She's fighting, but something's there with her."
Mukul slammed his fist against the dashboard. "Hold on, Priya. Just hold on."
For the first time in hours, no one argued, no one questioned. They all knew the stakes.
Priya forced herself to breathe, clinging to the charm's warmth. She closed her eyes, focusing on Mukul's voice in her memory, steady and certain: This will protect you. Trust it.
The warmth spread up her arm, a faint barrier against the crushing weight pressing closer.
And then—silence. The presence withdrew, like a predator melting back into the shadows.
Priya gasped, opening her eyes. The streetlights flickered back to life. The car's dashboard lit up. The suffocating heaviness eased.
But she knew this wasn't over. The Warden hadn't failed. He had only marked her.
As the van rounded the corner toward her street, Mukul's eyes locked on the figure watching from a rooftop above—the Warden, silent, waiting.
The game had escalated. And now it was personal.