Rajeev froze, every muscle locked in place. The horror was no longer an external threat; it was an infestation. The game hadn't just used his grief; it had essentially re-animated his trauma, using the objects and echoes of his lost family to force his compliance.
The shadow of the child, the tiny blue thread, and now the synthesized, terrifying whisper: "Answer me, Daddy."
The entity was demanding that Rajeev continue the illusion that his daughter was talking to him through the phone left by his dead friend. It was the deepest level of psychological torture.
The phone rang again, insistent and shrill. Rajeev felt a surge of cold fury—he was done playing.
He moved not toward the phone, but to the stack of disconnected smart devices in the center of the room. He grabbed the heavy, splintered remains of his laptop's hard drive and, with a guttural roar of despair and rage, he brought it down onto Suresh's phone.
The screen shattered, the ringing instantly cut off, and the phone went dead.
Rajeev stood panting, his chest heaving, staring at the debris. He had destroyed the new link, broken the new interface.
The silence that followed was absolute, but the small, child-sized shadow in the corner did not dissipate. It merely shifted, growing slightly taller, more elongated, losing its innocent shape and becoming something sharply ominous.
A new sound came, not from the devices, but from the air itself—a dry, grating hiss that seemed to vibrate the bones in Rajeev's skull.
"A foolish move, Spectator."
The voice was no longer a child's synthesis; it was a deeper, colder, genderless tone—the true voice of Anonymous Death.
"The rules are absolute. You are exempt from choice, but not from consequence. And the consequence of the player's choice is the burden of the Spectator."
The Price of Rebellion
Before Rajeev could move, the world spun. The overhead light in the living room exploded with a flash of white, plunging the apartment into near darkness.
Rajeev staggered, momentarily blinded. When his vision cleared, the shadows were deeper, the air thick and frigid. He felt a sudden, sharp, searing pain in his right shoulder.
He looked down and saw a crimson stain rapidly blooming on his white shirt. He wasn't bleeding externally, yet the pain was excruciating. It felt like a deep, internal tearing.
He stumbled to the bathroom, flipping the light switch—thankfully still working—and ripped off his shirt. He looked at his shoulder in the mirror.
There was no wound. No blood on his skin. But etched into his flesh, pulsing with a fiery red heat, was a brand, a perfectly symmetrical, circular mark, identical in size and shape to the puncture wound that had killed Suresh.
Rajeev stared at the mark, his breath catching in his throat. It wasn't a physical injury in the typical sense; it was a mark of ownership.
"The consequence of the game ending immediately is the Spectator becoming the Host," the hissing voice echoed directly inside his mind. "The transfer is complete, Rajeev. You are no longer watching; you are experiencing. Welcome back to the game."
Patil's Return
Just as Rajeev tried to absorb the reality of the glowing, painful brand, a heavy pounding started at his front door.
It was Inspector Patil, accompanied by two officers.
"Mr. Agnihotri, open up! We have questions about the deceased's phone records and the nature of the attack."
Rajeev quickly pulled on a clean shirt, hiding the brand. He knew he couldn't hide the events of the last hour, but he had to protect the secret of the game.
He opened the door. Patil took in Rajeev's bloodshot eyes and the extreme tension in his posture.
"Rajeev, your friend's death is highly unusual. The ME report suggests a rapid neurological shutdown, consistent with a hyper-focused electrical charge or possibly a micro-dart," Patil stated, his gaze penetrating. "We found no weapon, no wires, nothing. We need to know who Suresh was talking to. We need his phone records."
Rajeev maintained his calm façade. "I told you, Inspector. I was here. We were talking. He wasn't on the phone when it happened. I saw nothing. I was in the kitchen getting water."
Patil shook his head, frustration mounting. "His mother said he spoke to you earlier about a disturbing email. Something about a 'game.' We checked your apartment's internet activity—nothing unusual. But Suresh's family told us you were looking for some kind of threat."
"Grief, Inspector," Rajeev said, his voice flat. "I'm grieving my wife and daughter. Suresh was helping me with my insomnia and paranoia. We talk about demons and games all the time. It's just my trauma manifesting."
Patil stepped closer. "And the puncture wound, Rajeev? Did you do that? Were you protecting yourself from a hallucination?"
Rajeev looked him dead in the eye, risking everything on his composure. "If I had done that, Inspector, would I be calmly standing here talking to you? I loved Suresh. He was my brother. You want a culprit? Find the person who took Anjali and Anaya. I believe this is connected."
Patil backed off, seeing the sheer, devastating emptiness in Rajeev's eyes. He wasn't convinced, but he had no evidence.
The Game Resumes
After Patil left, warning Rajeev not to leave the city, Rajeev locked the door. He was bleeding internally from the consequences of a game he couldn't see and couldn't stop. He was the host now.
He didn't need a laptop or a phone. The message was already there.
He looked down at his branded shoulder. The pain subsided, leaving a dull, angry throb.
And then, his own phone—the one he'd used to try and save Mrs. Sharma—vibrated in his pocket. It was a text message. Not an email, just a standard text.
FROM: ANONYMOUS DEATH
WELCOME TO EVENT 3, RAJEEV.
You are now playing for the life of Mrs. Sharma. She remains the most valuable asset in your immediate vicinity.
Your choice will not be digital. It will be physical.
Look out the bedroom window. The decision has been placed on the roof of the adjacent building.
CHOICE: Do you climb to the roof immediately to retrieve the decision, or do you call Mrs. Sharma to warn her?
Remember the rule of time and efficacy, Rajeev. Choose wisely.
Rajeev stared at the text, his mind reeling. The game was back to basics, forcing an immediate physical risk against a delayed, emotional one. The only way to the adjacent roof was a sheer drop and a dangerous jump.
He had no choice. He was playing for Mrs. Sharma now, and he had to win.