The morning sun clawed its way through grimy newsroom windows, splintering into pale rectangles on the dusty floor. Rahul sat at his new desk—an afterthought shoved into the farthest corner, half-buried beneath towers of yellowing case files and forgotten folders. The wood bore scars of a long, tired life: scratches, cigarette burns, ancient chai rings. Someone had carved initials into the edge.
RK 2004.
"This is yours," Soma had announced brightly that morning, dropping a stack of files with a thud that sent up a small dust storm. "Welcome to the glamorous world of crime journalism, yaar!"
Rahul had nodded mutely, his shoulder screaming beneath his shirt.
Now, three hours later, he was drowning in paper. Filing, typing, sorting. The manual typewriter clacked unevenly—keys sticking every third word, letters smudging into each other. It was work designed to keep a man invisible.
His hands trembled as he sorted through reports. Not from nerves this time—from fever.
The infection was getting worse.
Every movement sent a fresh spark of pain through his arm. His skin felt too tight, too hot. The fluorescent tubes overhead stabbed at his eyes. Sweat trickled down his neck despite the ceiling fans whirring lazily.
He hadn't eaten since yesterday. Fifty rupees sat in his pocket—mocking him. Enough for chai and vada pav if he stretched it.
His stomach cramped violently.
Focus. Just focus.
"Oi, Rajesh!"
Rahul's head snapped up. A middle-aged reporter with a thick mustache stood by his desk, notebook tucked under one arm.
"Where are you from?"
The question landed like a punch.
His mind blanked.
What did Manish sir say again? What's my story?
"Small town near Ahmedabad," Rahul managed finally, his voice rough. "Came here for… work."
The man grunted, already bored. "Hmm. Dev sir picking up strays again." He walked off without waiting for a response.
Rahul's hands were shaking so badly he had to set the file down.
Too close. Way too close.
Around him, the newsroom roared to life—typewriters clacking in rapid rhythm, phones ringing, reporters shouting headlines across desks. Someone near the window was cursing about a corruption case. Someone else laughed too loudly at a morbid joke.
Everywhere he looked—newspapers.
Stacked, scattered, pinned.
And the headlines screamed:
COLLEGE STUDENT MURDERED — ORGANS FOUND IN PUPPET DOLL
BOYFRIEND STILL AT LARGE
POLICE INTENSIFY MANHUNT
Rahul forced his gaze back to his file. The words swam on the page.
Don't look. Don't think. Just work.
Near the chai counter, two reporters chatted idly.
"Did you hear about that college murder? The one with the puppet?"
"Yeah, sick bastard. Police say the boyfriend went mental. Obsessed with her."
"They always are. Love makes monsters."
Rahul's breath caught. His heartbeat turned to thunder.
They're talking about me. About Ananya. Right here.
The inner voice—cold, familiar—slid into his head.
And you'll sit here. Listen. Smile. Pretend you're not the ghost they're chasing.
Time crawled.
At one o'clock, Soma appeared, his grin too wide for the gloom of the room. "Lunch break! Chalo, let's get chai."
Rahul wanted to refuse. Hiding would be safer. But hiding drew eyes. Suspicion.
He followed.
The tea stall squatted across the street—a wooden cart, blackened kettle hissing. The air smelled of fried pakoras, dust, and petrol. The old chaiwala poured tea in perfect arcs, steam curling like ghosts.
Soma ordered a samosa and chai. Rahul bought only chai—the five-rupee glass that burned his fingers and stomach both.
They sat on a cracked concrete wall, watching the chaos of Mumbai's afternoon unravel—auto-rickshaws honking, hawkers shouting, a woman in a green saree bargaining for tomatoes.
Life moved on. Careless. Uninterested.
Soma bit into his samosa, crumbs falling. "So, what do you think, Rajesh? Overwhelming, na? You'll get used to it. The noise becomes your heartbeat after a while."
Rahul sipped slowly, stretching every drop. The sweetness punched his empty stomach.
"It's… a lot."
Soma grinned. "Crime doesn't sleep, and neither do we. Dev sir might give you small assignments soon—accidents, petty thefts. Earn your stripes first."
Rahul hesitated. "What about… that puppet case? The one everyone's talking about?"
Soma's eyes gleamed. "That one's huge. Dev sir's baby, maybe Priya will get it—she's got a nose for murder. Why? You curious?"
"Just…" Rahul looked away. "Curious."
Soma tossed his glass back to the chaiwala with practiced ease. "Chalo, break's over. Dev sir starts breathing fire if we're late."
They crossed back through the traffic. A cycle-rickshaw nearly clipped Rahul's arm; the pain made him flinch.
At the newspaper stand, he caught a glimpse of the latest front page.
His face wasn't there.
Not yet.
But someday it would be.
Unless he found the truth first.
The day bled on like a fever.
He typed, filed, answered phones. Every ring made him tense, afraid some voice on the other end would say his name—the wrong one.
By five o'clock, his painkillers had faded. By six, his knuckles were white around his pen just to keep from screaming.
One by one, the newsroom emptied.
Soma waved goodbye, laughing about his mother's biryani. Others joked about drinks and dates.
Then—silence.
The typewriters stopped. The phones slept.
Rahul sat frozen.
Where do I go now?
He had a job, a name, a desk.
But nowhere to exist.
Fifty rupees couldn't buy a bed. Lodges wanted ID. The police wanted him.
Street? No. Too dangerous. Temple? Too exposed. Office? Too risky.
"Rajesh!"
Devaraj's voice cut through his thoughts.
Rahul stood so quickly his chair screeched. Pain shot down his arm, white-hot.
He walked into the senior journalist's smoke-filled cabin. Devaraj was packing up, the cigarette in his ashtray burning down to a stub.
"You have a place to stay?"
Rahul froze. "I'm… looking, sir."
Devaraj opened a drawer, pulled out two brass keys. Tossed them across the desk.
"Room 304, Shanti Apartments. Two lanes behind the office. Rent's paid till month end."
Rahul blinked. "Sir, I can't—"
"It's not charity," Devaraj said flatly, exhaling smoke. "Previous reporter quit. Room's empty. You'll pay rent next month. Eight hundred rupees. Deal?"
Rahul nodded slowly. "Yes, sir. Thank you."
Devaraj studied him through the haze, sharp eyes narrowing. "You look like hell. Sleep. Tomorrow, I need a reporter, not a corpse."
Rahul managed a faint nod.
Outside, dusk had painted the streets in gold and smoke.
Vendors lit tiny oil lamps; their flames flickered over steel plates of samosas and jalebi. The air was thick with frying oil, exhaust, and incense. A radio played an old Kishore Kumar song somewhere in the maze of lanes.
Children shouted as they played gully cricket. A constable strolled past, lathi swinging lazily.
Rahul walked through it all like a phantom. Every police uniform made his chest tighten. He kept his head down, the strap of his bag cutting into his shoulder.
After ten minutes, he found Shanti Apartments—a four-story building painted the color of old turmeric, its nameplate half-rusted. The gate creaked as he pushed it open.
Inside, the smell hit him: cooked dal, agarbatti, damp concrete, and something metallic beneath it all. Life. Real, ordinary life.
He climbed the narrow staircase, past voices and TV sounds leaking from behind doors. On the second floor, someone was scolding a child. On the third, a bhajan played faintly from a shrine.
His legs shook with every step. Fever blurred the edges of his vision.
Room 304 waited at the end of the corridor—a brown door, its paint flaking like dried skin.
The key slipped twice before it found the lock.
Click.
The door creaked open.
A switch flicked.
Dim yellow light filled the small space: a single bed, a metal chair, a wooden table, a cupboard, and a narrow bathroom. One window looked out onto the street, its glass coated in dust.
It was small.
It was forgotten.
It was safe.
He shut the door and bolted it. The sound was almost sacred.
Then, the crash.
All the adrenaline, the lies, the fear—it broke inside him.
He slid down against the door, knees to chest, trembling.
Safe. For now.
Ananya's face surfaced in his mind—the smile, the betrayal, the blood.
I'm sorry.
Tears stung. He pressed his palms against his eyes, forcing the weakness away.
Not now. Not yet.
He peeled off his shirt, hissing as the fabric tore away from his shoulder. The wound was grotesque now—swollen, yellow at the edges, radiating heat. It smelled faintly of rot.
If this gets worse, you'll need a hospital, the voice whispered.
And hospitals ask questions. Questions kill.
Rahul found the small kit Manish sir had given him—antiseptic, bandage, ointment. He stumbled to the bathroom. The tap coughed brown water before clearing.
He cleaned the wound. The antiseptic burned like fire. He bit down on a cloth, muffling his scream. Tears slid down his face from the sheer, animal pain.
White flashes.
Spots in his vision.
But he kept going. Ointment. Gauze. Knot. Done.
Ugly, uneven—but done.
He swallowed two painkillers dry.
In the cracked mirror, his reflection stared back: hollow eyes, pale skin, bandaged shoulder.
Rajesh? Rahul? Murderer? Ghost?
He didn't know anymore.
Outside, the city hummed faintly. Rickshaw horns. TV static. A woman's laughter.
He lay down on the bed, the thin mattress groaning beneath him.
The ceiling fan hung motionless. He didn't have the strength to pull the chain.
Tomorrow. I'll start tomorrow.
Ananya's face drifted through the fog of exhaustion—the smile before everything turned to ash.
I'll find who did this. I swear.
Sleep took him. Not gently. Fever pulled him into dark dreams—puppets with glass eyes, voices whispering murderer, corridors closing in.
But the darkness was merciful.
And as the fever dragged him under, the ceiling fan began to turn—slowly, on its own.
Something unseen shifted in the corner of Room 304, like a shadow exhaling.
Rahul didn't see it.
His last conscious thought was a whisper:
Tomorrow, I hunt the truth.