𝑺𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒐𝒏 1

Amala Khan, an Indologist with a family history steeped in secrets, is unexpectedly summoned to 1980s Kolkata under the pretense of a routine investigation. But the city's veneer of normalcy quickly shatters, revealing a chilling undercurrent of ritualistic murders and vanishings that defy logic and hint at something far more ancient and sinister at play.

As Amala delves into the darkness, her own reality begins to fray, haunted by vivid, terrifying visions that suggest a dangerous connection to the wrathful goddess Kali. Can Amala trust her instincts when her own sanity seems to be slipping, mirroring the fate of other women in her lineage? Navigating the opulent yet treacherous world of powerful families like the Doobays, she must unmask the truth behind the horrors gripping Kolkata, even as she confronts the unsettling possibility that some shadows are best left undisturbed, and some calls are impossible to resist. Each choice Amala makes will either draw her deeper into the embrace of the unknown or push her closer to a terrifying precipice from which there may be no return.

Terror clawed at his mind, leaving no space for reason.

The chamber echoed with the guttural howls of a dozen voices, each one layered atop the other like a sinister choir. They chanted in a forgotten tongue—raw, primal, and ancient—words that twisted through the air like serpents.

🔥 Tall torches lined the stone walls, their flames licking the ceiling, casting monstrous shadows that danced across the damp, mildew-stained stone. The scent of blood and burnt herbs thickened the air, almost choking him.

Before him towered a massive statue—a deity mid-dance, carved in impossible contortions. Its face bore a cruel smile, its many arms poised in gestures of chaos and finality. This was no dance of joy.
This was the dance of death—inevitable, ritualistic, merciless.

🩸 Every movement, every bow, every word from the cultists was deliberate. A rhythm of doom.

Man (screaming): “Let me go! Please—what did I do to deserve this?!”

His voice cracked, swallowed by the relentless chanting. The air grew colder.

And then—a shadow peeled itself from the wall.

It approached with haunting slowness. Cloaked in a dark robe, it moved like smoke—silent, fluid. From beneath the hood, two eyes glinted—not with light, but with something far worse: madness… and delight.

There was no mercy in that gaze. Only cruel curiosity.
And the promise that his suffering had only just begun. 😈

Stranger: ...

His silence was more terrifying than a scream. His gaze burned—hungry, unblinking, like a predator savoring the final moment before the kill.

Stranger (snapping): “Be quiet! Is this how you greet death? With noise and disgrace? Accept it—bow your head and show reverence to your fate!”

Suddenly, rough hands seized him—filthy, calloused, like those of men long used to blood and bondage. He was dragged forward and thrown hard to the ground, dust and blood rising where his knees struck.

The stranger leaned down, his grin wide, inhuman—a grotesque mask of joy.
There was no warmth in it.
Only cruelty made flesh. 😈

The man’s defiance shattered. His chin dropped to his chest.
Tears spilled freely. This was it.
This was death.

✨ A flash of metal. A dagger—sleek, ceremonial, cruelly beautiful—caught the firelight as the stranger raised it high.

Stranger (shouting): “Take him! TAKE HIM, oh Great One!”

🩸 A scarlet spray burst into the air, hitting the stone walls and soaking the feet of the towering, twisted statue. Even its cold, unmoving face seemed to smile wider.

The man’s final scream echoed—sharp, raw—before vanishing into the frenzy.

🗣️ The cultists sang louder, frenzied, entranced.

🕯️ The flames danced, as did the shadows—longer now, darker, almost alive.

And then—silence.

A heartbeat.
A breath.
Blackness.

And from the depths of it,
a woman's laughter.
High. Cold. Beautiful.
Deadly. 👁️‍🗨️

Calcutta, 1980

I jolted awake, gasping.

My heart thudded against my ribs like a trapped bird.
Where am I?

The world around me spun—blinding sunlight, the thick weight of heat pressing against my skin, the sharp buzz in my skull like I’d been hit hard. My temples throbbed. My throat was dry.

🌞 The sun blazed above—merciless, golden, and searing. I was lying beneath a makeshift canopy of faded cloth, the only barrier between me and the burning sky. The air stank of sweat, spices, and diesel fumes.

All around me: noise.
Vendors yelling, the blare of distant honks, the rumble of feet and wheels. A living, breathing chaos.
But nobody noticed me. I was invisible in the middle of a crowd.

Until—
A shadow loomed over me.

A man leaned in, his face close—too close—eyes scanning me with an unsettling focus.

⚡ I flinched, recoiling sharply. My back slammed into wooden crates stacked behind me. My body tensed, panic rising like bile. My vision flashed back to—

That face.
That grin.
The eyes in the hood.

A dream?
Or something else?
A vision? A memory?

I couldn’t speak. My lips trembled, but no sound came.

The man stared, brows raised in surprise at my reaction, but his expression remained calm, almost careful. Controlled.

Man: …

I was frozen, breath caught in my chest. Slowly, I looked up at him, afraid of what I’d find.

His face was still. No cruelty. No madness.

Our eyes locked.

Man: …

He didn’t speak, but something about him felt different. Familiar, yet not.
Cold grey eyes. Steady. Unblinking.
Emotionless. Like stone. ❄️

Grey eyes…

Not Indian.

He didn’t belong here—not to this place, not to the color and the noise of Calcutta’s busy streets.
There was something else in his stillness.
Something… unsettling.
And yet, I let out a slow breath of relief.

Who was he?

Man: “Are you Amala Khan?”

His voice was crisp—low, composed, unmistakably British.
He spoke in English.

Me: “…Yes…”

The word barely escaped my lips—hoarse, uncertain, coated in confusion. I cleared my throat, trying to gather myself as I shifted and attempted to stand.

Me: “Yes… that’s me.”

He moved without hesitation, closing the distance and gently taking my elbow. His grip was steady—firm but careful, as if he were used to dealing with emergencies but knew how not to startle a fragile thing.

Man: “Careful. You got hurt when you fainted.”

Me: “Fainted?”

Man: “Yes. Don’t you remember? I was following you when you suddenly collapsed. The vendor looked terrified. Though…”
A wry smile ghosted over his lips.
“…I’m not sure if he was scared for you or just upset that you weren’t going to buy anything.”

I squinted, trying to recall the moments before the world had gone dark. My eyes fell on the vendor—an elderly man with weathered skin and a sun-warmed smile. He stood behind a stall piled high with jewels, watching us patiently from beneath the shade.

Vendor (in Hindi): “Sunstroke. Will the lady buy anything?”

His words were kind but edged with businesslike hope.
I blinked at the jewelry spread before me—✨necklaces, earrings, bracelets, all sparkling under the sunlight like tiny stolen stars.

Me: “Such beautiful jewels…”

That was it. That’s why I had ended up here—in the heart of Calcutta’s bustling bazaar, weaving through spice-laden air and bursts of colour. I had wanted something to remember this city by. A keepsake—before heading back to the British Embassy.

I turned to the man beside me.

Me: “You said you were following me?”

Man: “Yes. My name is Killian Lightwood. I’m a military attaché. I’ll be escorting your task force.”
He glanced at the sun overhead and then back at me, measured and businesslike.
“Take what you need. We’re already late. They’ve been waiting for quite some time now.”

The vendor, catching a hint that I might leave empty-handed, perked up immediately—not about to let a sale slip through due to a mere fainting spell.

Vendor: “Take your pick, madam! Ceylon sapphires, Kashmir emeralds, rubies from Subramanya!”
His voice grew animated.
“Natural, not synthetic!” 💎

Though Killian didn’t understand a word, his grimace made it clear—he’d had enough of the bazaar hustle.

Killian (muttering): “Peddler.”

The vendor suddenly straightened, eyes glinting.

Vendor (switching to English): “Amir is no peddler! Amir only sells fine jewellery with natural stones!”
He puffed his chest with pride.

I almost laughed—but held it in, my fingers trailing over the shining pieces as I focused.

Among them, something caught my eye: a delicate ruby necklace, the stone set in antique gold, shimmering like a captured flame. 🔥

It was perfect.

A piece of Calcutta—fiery, bold, and unforgettable.

Me: “Rubies. Powerful stones. I like the loud red colour.”

The vendor’s eyes lit up as though I’d passed some secret test of taste and spirit.

Vendor (grinning): “Madam is correct! Rubies hold powerful energy—perfect for extraordinary people!”
He leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a gentler note.
“Any stone would suit such a beautiful girl… but this one—this one was waiting for you.” ❤️

His words were honeyed, but not insincere. Just the kind of flourish a true bazaar merchant delivers—with pride, not pushiness.

I smiled, touched by the charm and the glint of something almost fated in the moment.

I thanked Amir softly, placed the rupees into his calloused hands, and took the ruby necklace—a small fire resting in my palm.

Slipping it into my purse, I turned on my heel and followed Killian, who had already begun walking with that measured stride of his, coat catching the edge of the wind, back straight like a man born to follow orders—and to give them.

The bazaar pulsed behind us, full of colour, noise, and life.

And just like that, Calcutta shimmered behind me, leaving a ruby-red echo around my neck.

The streets pulsed with movement.
People scurried past, their sandals slapping the dust-covered ground, their chatter lost in the roar of horns, hawkers, and the distant clang of rickshaw bells. The air buzzed with urgency, heat, and human restlessness.

🧍🏾‍♂️👗 Beggars clung to the hems of well-dressed men and women, their thin hands reaching, tugging—brazen and desperate. Their eyes were hollow but alert, darting from one possible donor to the next.
The locals barely spared them a glance, brushing at their sleeves, quickening their pace, and shoving past with practiced indifference.

But when they saw me—their expressions changed.

Foreign.
Alone.
Soft.

A small group of children and elderly beggars surged around me like a tide. Their pleas rose in pitch, hands reaching, pulling at my scarf, my wrists, murmuring for a rupee. Just one.

Me: “…”

I hesitated, unsure whether to reach into my purse or how to move at all.

Before I could decide—a firm grip found my elbow.

Killian.

He stepped between me and the crowd, tall and immovable. With a flick of his hand and a few sharp glances, he waved off the children and barked a low “Go.”
The crowd scattered—not because he was rude, but because he was unshakeable, like stone carved into the shape of a man.

I struggled to keep pace. His long strides cut through the street like a blade.

His shoulders were broad beneath his olive shirt, and his grip—though careful—was undeniably strong. His back stayed perfectly straight, his boots falling in rhythm. There was no mistaking it: a soldier’s gait.
He was made for command.

With Killian beside me, I felt like I was walking behind a fortress.

Me: “Are you here because of the missing British diplomat too?”

Killian: “Yes. Same as you.”

His answer was clipped. Efficient.

Me: “I’m not familiar with the details of the case. Can you tell me more about it?”

Killian: “You’ll find out soon enough.”

Me (in my head): “So tight-lipped.”

I let out a breath, exasperated but trying to keep it polite.

Me: “Still… I had to leave London in a rush. I didn’t even have time to refuse. Now my younger brother’s all alone back home. I dropped everything to come to India.”

He paused mid-step, then exhaled—deep and reluctant.

Killian: “…Fine. But I’ll be brief.”

Me (internally): “God, getting him to talk is like pulling teeth.”

Killian:
“The British government sent a diplomat on a mission—sensitive, post-independence. Since India gained independence thirty years ago, we’ve kept occasional tabs on certain provinces. Our diplomat was here to monitor political compliance. But now, he’s missing.”

Me: “So we’re going to look for him?”

Killian: “Yes. You, me, and the rest of the task force.”

The crowd behind us thinned. The noise of the bazaar faded.
Killian released my arm once we were clear.

Me: “So… you're a captain in the army?”

Killian: “Yes. And you’re an Indologist, I gather?”

Me: “I have a degree in Indology. But… I don’t have work experience.”

Killian: “…No experience?”

Me: “None. I wasn’t able to get any. Personal reasons.”

His jaw visibly tightened. His footsteps slowed.
A flicker of irritation crossed his face.

Killian: “This is a serious operation. Personal reasons aside… an inexperienced Indologist could ruin everything.”

Me (internally): “Who does he think he is?”

My shoulders stiffened. The ruby necklace at my throat suddenly felt warmer, like it had absorbed the fire rising inside me.

Me: “I am qualified enough to do my job. I have all the necessary skills and knowledge. That’s why I was selected for this mission. Same as you.”
I looked him square in the eye.
“Or are you doubting your superiors’ decisions?”

Killian: …

His silence spoke volumes.

Me (coldly): “Thought so. From now on, think before you speak, Captain—unless you want to come across as arrogant or just plain stupid.”

That shut him up.

For a beat, the only sounds were our footsteps against the sunbaked pavement and the distant hum of the city.

Finally, he spoke—his tone clipped, but more tempered.

Killian: “…I apologise. My flight was long, and it’s gotten on my nerves.”
A pause.
“What were these personal reasons?”

I looked straight ahead, brushing off the question with the ease of someone used to keeping things to herself.

Me: “Problems at home. Someone had to run the family shop. I was the only one who could manage it. I didn’t have a choice.”

Killian (puzzled): “Family shop?”

Me: “Indian goods. They’re in demand in London—textiles, spices, jewellery. My parents built it from the ground up.”

He said nothing for a moment, but I noticed a subtle change in him. The tightness in his jaw eased. His steps slowed slightly until he was no longer leading—I found him walking beside me now, matching my pace.

Killian: “Do you have family in India?”

I smiled, the question surprisingly gentle.

Me: “No. My family moved to England a long time ago. India is… a legacy more than a home.”

He gave a small nod—acknowledgment, not pity. And for the first time, the silence between us wasn’t heavy.

We walked in step toward the grand white gates ahead, the British Embassy’s crest glinting in the sun.

A new chapter was waiting behind them.

We stepped into the meeting room.

Cool air wrapped around me like a silk shawl—a sudden, soothing contrast to the scorching chaos of Calcutta’s streets. The quiet was immediate, broken only by the soft shuffle of papers and the hum of an overhead fan spinning slowly above us.

🪵 A long, dark oak table dominated the room, polished to a mirror sheen. Sunlight from tall colonial windows filtered in through sheer curtains, painting golden streaks across the parquet floor.

Two people were already inside, bent over a spread of documents:
an older man in a beige linen suit with a commanding presence, and a young woman in sharp western attire—her back straight, her expression focused.

They turned as we entered.

Man: “Captain! You’ve already arrived.”

He walked briskly toward Killian, his smile wide and familiar. Without even acknowledging me, he extended a hand.

Killian: “Good day, Mr. Rose. I found our Indologist.”

Only then did Mr. Rose glance in my direction.

Mr. Rose: “Ah yes, yes. And you’re here too.”

His voice was clipped, his interest minimal. The polite mask didn’t quite hide the dismissiveness underneath.

I stepped forward anyway, planting my feet with quiet confidence.

Me: “Amala Khan, at your service.”

I managed a tight smile. My gut churned.
This man doesn’t think I belong here.

Mr. Rose (chuckling): “Isn’t it convenient—being both an Indologist and half-Indian at the same time?”
He smirked, like it was clever.

I met his gaze briefly. Cool. Unflinching.

Me: “I was born and raised in England. My ethnicity is irrelevant.”

Then, without another word, I walked past him, letting the silence speak louder than any retort.
My heels clicked with purpose on the wooden floor. 👠

Let him underestimate me.
That always makes it easier to surprise them later.

Mr. Rose, now seated at the head of the long table, immediately buried himself back in the papers he had been studying before our arrival. His pen scratched across the page, his brow furrowed in exaggerated concentration.

There was no welcome. No introduction. Just the sound of the fan humming above and the quiet rustle of documents.

He didn’t even look up.

Me (in my head): “No respect whatsoever. He’s clearly one of those men who believe women belong in the kitchen, not in classified government missions.”
I let the thought sit, sharp and bitter.

Fine.
If he wasn’t going to do the basic courtesy of introducing us, then I would do it myself.

I turned to the young woman at the table—still standing, watching the exchange with quiet awareness.

Me (clearly): “Amala Khan.”

She offered a small but genuine smile and extended her hand.

Woman: “It’s lovely to meet you. I’m Lima Berg—criminologist.”

Her voice was calm, but precise—each word carefully chosen, as if she were used to people underestimating her. There was a quiet confidence in the way she said it, her handshake still lingering with a touch of warmth.

Criminologist?

I blinked and turned to Killian, puzzled. My brow furrowed.

Me: “A criminologist? I thought we were… just looking for the missing diplomat.”

Killian didn’t look at me right away. Instead, he walked past, his boots thudding softly against the polished floor as he moved toward Mr. Rose, who was still pouring over documents like they were holy texts.

Killian (without turning): “We have to be ready for anything.”

His voice was neutral. Too neutral.
Like he was holding back more than just words.

Me (to myself): “Ready for anything? What does that even mean?”

🕰️ The fan above creaked slightly as it spun. The room had cooled my skin, but the chill in Killian’s answer sent a different kind of shiver down my spine.

His vague response gnawed at me.

Was this really just a missing person case?

Or was something much darker hiding beneath it?

Killian stopped beside Mr. Rose, leaning in to speak in a low voice. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Mr. Rose gave a curt nod in return, his jaw tight with focus.

After a moment, Killian turned back toward us, his stance straight, his tone shifting into command mode.

Killian: “Let’s get everyone up to speed. Our task force is small. We don’t need any publicity.”
His eyes briefly swept the room, resting on each of us.
“From this point on, everything stays quiet. Strictly need-to-know.” 🔐

Mr. Rose: “That’s right, Captain. Which is exactly why I only share the necessary details—with you.”

His tone was pointed, smooth as aged whisky, but unmistakably dismissive toward the rest of us. He didn’t even bother looking at me or Lima.

The message was clear:
We were meant to follow, not question.

I exchanged a glance with Lima, who simply raised an eyebrow, the corners of her lips barely tightening. We both understood the game.

We took our seats at the long table—Killian and Mr. Rose on one side, Lima and I on the other. The dark oak surface felt cool under my fingertips, grounding me as I tried to steel myself for whatever was coming next.

Killian slid a slim folder across to me.
Its manila edges were worn, but the document inside was crisp and typed in a clean, military font.

I took the document, its weight suddenly feeling heavier than mere paper.

Mr. Rose straightened and spoke with the same cold detachment as before.

Mr. Rose: “Here’s all the latest information on the diplomat—his flight, the hotel he checked into, the places he visited, and where he was last seen. Study it carefully.”
He paused.
“As you all know, our job is to find him. He arrived two weeks ago. Five days ago, he went completely silent.”

The air in the room shifted.

Lima leaned forward slightly, voice calm but probing.

Lima: “What was the purpose of his visit to Calcutta?”

Mr. Rose: “That’s classified. Officially, it was a diplomatic visit. Unofficially, he was tasked with retrieving sensitive information for the British government.”

My fingers tightened around the folder.
Killian had told me that much earlier. About verifying key provisions of the Indian Independence Act still being upheld.

“So he told me more than he should have…”

Just then, I felt a sharp gaze burning into me.
I looked up.

⚔️ Grey eyes. Unblinking. Unapologetic.

Killian was staring straight at me, his jaw tight with something unreadable.
I pressed my lips together and quickly looked away.

“Don’t worry,” I thought, “I won’t tell.”

But the tension only thickened as Lima frowned.

Lima: “How are we supposed to investigate his disappearance if we don’t even know the purpose of his visit?”
She looked directly at Rose.
“I don’t understand what’s going on. I was pulled away from my work—flown here to India—and you won’t even give me the full picture?”

Mr. Rose didn’t flinch.

Mr. Rose: “You don’t need to know the details.”

He gave her a smug, dismissive look. The kind of look that had probably silenced countless women before.

🔥 “I don’t like this. And I’m not going to pretend I do.”

Me: “I agree. It’s difficult to work when we don’t know what’s going on.”
My voice was firm.
“Maybe you expect us to pull a solution out of thin air, but I don’t see that happening. It’s not pleasant being ordered out of your home and dropped into a foreign country to investigate something this vague.”

Mr. Rose’s eyes fixed on me.
Cold. Narrowed. Silent fury brewing.

I didn’t stop.

Me: “Lima is right. Don’t expect us to be particularly productive, given the circumstances.”

His teeth clenched visibly.

Mr. Rose (hissing): “Anyway, Miss Khan, all you’re going to get from me is that document. Nothing more, nothing less.”

💥 The tension hit me like a wave.

No real information.
No clear direction.
A fractured team.
Secrets thick in the air like monsoon humidity.

I looked at the people around me—the ones I was expected to work with.

First:
🧊 “You, Mr. Rose… with you, everything is crystal clear. A bully with a polished accent and a god complex. You think women are ornamental—meant to decorate conference tables, not sit at them.”

Then my eyes shifted to Killian.
Still standing straight, arms crossed, ever the soldier.

⚔️ “And you… a no-nonsense, iron-spined military man. Cold, disciplined, impossible to read. But I hope we’ll grow to understand each other, you and I. Because I think there’s more behind those grey eyes than orders and war.”

Lastly, I turned toward Lima.

She was quiet now, fingers folded in front of her, but her eyes burned with restrained frustration.

🧠 “And you… how did you end up here? A woman in law enforcement. A criminologist. A sharp mind among men who talk over you. You’re not just here by chance. You carved your way through a system designed to shut you out.”

I couldn’t help it.
I smiled.

Lima caught my gaze.
And for a second, she smiled back—soft, knowing, like we’d both just said everything without a word.

👁️‍🗨️ “We’ll be alright. If nothing else… we’ve got each other’s eyes.”

Mr. Rose: “Go on. You need to get settled, get used to all of this. Read the document. Study it carefully. Tomorrow, we get to work.”

His voice cut through the silence like a paper knife. Dismissive. Final.
Then he turned to Killian, the authority naturally shifting toward military rank.

Mr. Rose: “Captain Lightwood, escort the ladies. It’ll be safer that way.”

Killian gave a curt nod, jaw clenched, posture unyielding as ever.
Without another word, Mr. Rose swept out of the room, his boots clicking sharply across the polished floor.
The door slammed shut behind him.
💥 The sound echoed like a gavel.

Lima let out a noisy exhale, her fingers twitching as she crossed her arms.

Lima: “Who does he think he is? Does he honestly believe we can’t take care of ourselves?”

I didn’t answer right away. My eyes stayed on the door a moment longer. The tension he left behind still lingered like cigarette smoke in the air.

Me (softly): “That’s not it. It’s just not safe for foreign women to travel on their own in India. Especially in poorer districts—places where the lower castes live.”

Lima turned to me, eyebrows knit in curiosity.

Lima: “Castes?”

Behind us, Killian remained silent. He stood by the door now—watchful, unreadable—but his attention had definitely shifted.
I could feel his eyes on me, not in judgment, but in quiet assessment.

I turned toward Lima, choosing my words with care.

Me: “India has a caste system. An ancient one. People are born into castes—sort of like a social hierarchy. Your future, your marriage prospects, your job, even where you live… is often decided by your family’s caste.”

📜 “Brahmins, Kshatriyas, Vaishyas, Shudras… and then those who fall outside the caste system entirely.”

Lima’s face twisted with disbelief.

Lima: “That sounds so harsh. Why would anyone agree to live under rules like that?”

I gave her a faint, tired smile. One that had seen both tradition and tragedy.

Me: “Because it’s sacred to many. This system has been in place for over two thousand years. It’s built into religion, rituals, even the way language is spoken. Some people believe it brings spiritual balance. Others… just accept it because they have no choice.”

Lima: “And the lower castes—are they considered dangerous?”

I shook my head.

Me: “Not necessarily. Many are just poor, struggling to survive. But poverty can breed desperation, and desperation can breed danger. That said, you’ll hear locals say something in Bengali: ‘mukhe modhu, mon-e bish.’”

Lima (frowning): “What does it mean?”

Me: “‘Honey on the lips, poison in the soul.’ It’s a warning. A reminder not to trust everything you hear. People can speak sweetly, but their true motives may be very different.” 🍯🗡️

Lima grew quiet, her fingers tapping lightly on the folder in her lap as she digested the words. A flicker of discomfort crossed her face.
The rules of her world didn’t apply here. Not entirely.

She finally shrugged, her shoulders tense.

Lima: “Well, I don’t mind. I don’t speak Hindi anyway.”

She gave a casual shrug, her voice light despite the heavy conversation we’d just had.

I smiled faintly, but corrected her gently.

Me: “We’re not just in India. We’re in West Bengal—a whole different world in itself. There are dozens of dialects here… even I don’t speak most of them.”

My gaze drifted toward Killian, who remained quiet, observing.

Me (to him): “That’s why we need a military attaché.”

Killian: “Yes. And it will be much easier for me if you don’t go anywhere. Especially alone.”
His tone dropped into something firm, clipped.
“That was what we agreed on.”

🛺 After dropping Lima off at her hotel—one of the few with available rooms—Killian escorted me by taxi through the waning light of Calcutta's late evening streets.

🚖 The traffic crawled past crumbling colonial buildings, sari-clad women carrying vegetables, and groups of laughing children darting between roadside stalls. The air buzzed with the scent of fried snacks and incense.

Only three rooms had been available in the modest hotel selected by the British Embassy’s overworked staff. No surprise—our reservations had been made at the last minute.

Mr. Rose, Killian, and Lima had each claimed a room. I, however, was assigned to something different.

A local Bengali family—connected to someone in the embassy—had graciously agreed to host me during my stay. It was considered more fitting, since I was the only one in the group who spoke Hindi.

I stepped out of the taxi, my bag slung over one shoulder, and turned toward the small, pastel-colored house tucked between two larger buildings. Its iron gate stood slightly ajar.

Then—SLAM.
The second door of the taxi shut behind me.

Startled, I turned back.

Me: “…?”

Killian stood there, already circling the back of the vehicle to join me on the curb.

Killian: “I’ll walk you to the door.”

Me: “Why? I can cross a road by myself.”

My tone was dry, with just a hint of challenge.
The pavement was empty, the house no more than forty feet away, the neighborhood peaceful and well-lit. A gentle breeze stirred the palm trees above.

Killian: “Didn’t you say it’s not safe in India?”

Me: “Yes, but only in dodgy areas. This is a nice neighborhood. The family’s respectable. The door’s right there.”

His expression didn’t change. If anything, the crease between his brows deepened.

He fixed me with that unwavering, cold-grey stare.

🌩️ His eyes looked like they could hurl a lightning bolt if I pressed further.

Killian (calm but firm): “Miss Khan, my job is to keep you safe. Please… back off and let me work.”

There was steel in his voice. No room for negotiation.
But I wasn’t about to be handled like fragile glass.

Me: “Still, I can walk on my own. Thanks.”

I stepped forward with intent, my boots tapping softly on the concrete.

🔁 But the moment I moved, Killian followed, just a step behind.
The taxi driver, still in his seat, gave us a strange look in the mirror—half amused, half confused.

Our eyes met briefly.
Then I looked back at Killian, whose expression was now unreadable, the storm still behind his eyes.

Killian: “Amala, I’m responsible for you. Why won’t you understand this?”

His voice was softer now. Less command, more appeal.
“I want to know who these people are. What kind of environment you’ll be staying in. Whether or not you’ll be safe. I’m not trying to intrude. Nonetheless… I’ll accompany you.”

I sighed and gave a small nod.

Me (gently): “Fine. But it’ll take some time getting used to… being constantly accompanied. I’ve always been on my own in London.”

He exhaled—relieved that he didn’t have to argue further.
Some of the stiffness left his shoulders.

Killian: “I understand. And I respect that. I’ll try not to bother you too much with my presence.”

🎐We walked side by side, the hum of the city fading behind us.
The narrow lane ahead glowed softly under lanterns strung above, casting warm, golden patches across the pavement.

The gate creaked as I opened it, the family’s tiled veranda just a few steps ahead.

Me: “What will you even tell them? You don’t speak Hindi.”

Killian didn’t miss a beat.

Killian: “I just need to see them.”

⚔️ The seriousness with which he approached every task—whether it was a classified briefing or, apparently, walking someone to a door—was so intense, I couldn’t help but laugh. A soft, amused chuckle slipped past my lips as we reached the gate.

He didn’t seem to notice. Or perhaps he did, but chose not to react.

🚪 At the door, Killian knocked firmly—once, twice, and then stood back with military stillness.

A few moments passed. Then the door creaked open and a young woman, modestly dressed in a pastel cotton saree, appeared. She looked up at me, her expression lighting up.

👋 She pressed her palms together in the traditional greeting and bowed her head slightly.

Young Woman: “Namaste! Miss Khan and…?”

From somewhere inside the house, voices could be heard—a burst of conversation, the shuffle of slippers on tile, the clinking of dishes.

A more mature, authoritative voice called from within.

Woman (sharply): “Sana! Are you talking to our guest on the doorstep?!”

In seconds, the owners of the house appeared behind the girl—an immaculately dressed couple, the woman in a crisp gold-bordered saree, the man in a freshly ironed shirt.

The wife took one glance at Killian, and her perfectly shaped brows lifted in surprise.

Woman: “Oh…”

Man (mildly confused): “Has Miss Khan arrived… with company?”

The wife narrowed her eyes and gave her husband an unmistakable nudge with her elbow.

Woman (hissing through a smile): “Of course she’s not alone! A decent, unmarried woman always travels with a chaperone! Our well-mannered guest clearly comes from a respectable family. I have to explain everything to you.”👰‍♀️✨

The husband blinked at her, half in amusement, half in defeat.

Man: “I just didn’t expect… she’s from England, after all.”

Woman: “And yet she hasn’t lost sight of her Indian upbringing.”

She turned to Sana briskly.

Woman: “Why are we still talking at the door? Sana, have you set the table?”

Sana: “Yes, Mrs. Chauhan.”

Watching the couple—so warm, so proudly traditional—I couldn’t help the smile that curved across my face. The contrast between their values and Killian’s crisp British stiffness was almost comical.

Me (gently): “This is Captain Lightwood. You’re right—he is my chaperone. Unfortunately, he doesn’t speak Hindi, and he’s in a rush. He just wanted to meet you and thank you personally for your hospitality.”

🌼 Mrs. Chauhan beamed, her entire face lighting up like diya flames during Diwali.

Woman: “Oh, how wonderful! What a fine young man!”

Her husband stepped forward and offered his hand to Killian, who shook it confidently with a formal nod.

Killian (quietly, in English): “Amala, please tell them I’m very happy to meet them, but I must leave now.”

I translated, watching the delight on Mrs. Chauhan’s face grow even brighter. Killian gave a final nod to the couple and the maid, his grey eyes resting on mine for just a moment—serious, unreadable—and then turned and headed back to the waiting taxi.

🚕 The engine rumbled to life, red brake lights glowing in the dusk as it pulled away.

Sana stepped aside and motioned toward the interior of the house with a soft smile.

Sana: “Miss Khan, please… come in.”

I was escorted through a carved wooden doorway into a spacious, sun-dappled living room.
The walls were painted in a soft cream, but the room itself was a vibrant fusion of modern comfort and traditional Indian elegance. A sleek teakwood coffee table stood atop a large, handwoven Persian rug. The cushions were embroidered in gold thread. A brass Ganesha statue sat peacefully in a glass cabinet, surrounded by marigold garlands. 🪔

The air smelled of jasmine incense, warm cardamom, and something subtly sacred.

Mrs. Priyanka Chauhan led the way with quiet command. She wore her grace like a second skin.

Priyanka (warmly): “Take a seat, honey. Sana will set the table now.”

I glanced over at Sana, the young maid who gave a polite nod and disappeared into the dining room.

We sat down on a plush, deep-cushioned sofa, upholstered in a fabric that shimmered slightly in the lamplight—crimson silk with gold motifs. It was all so elegant, welcoming, and... deeply rooted.

Mr. Aryan Chauhan, her husband, sat beside her, his spine straight, voice courteous.

Aryan: “My name is Aryan Chauhan, and this is my wife, Priyanka. We’re honoured to host you.”

Priyanka: “Yes, we were really looking forward to your arrival! Please—make yourself at home.”

There was such ease in her smile, a maternal kind of warmth that reminded me of my grandmother. For a brief second, the nervous energy of the mission melted.

Me (genuinely): “Thank you so much for your hospitality. You’ve been very kind and helpful already.”

Aryan (curious): “Have you been to India before?”

Me: “No… this is my first time here.”

Priyanka’s eyes sparkled. She leaned forward, her tone now filled with gentle sentiment.

Priyanka: “You must be very happy to finally set foot in the country of your origin.”

I paused. The scent of incense swirled around me.
Was I happy? That word felt too simple for the whirlwind inside me.
There was curiosity, a strange sense of belonging, but also an ache—for what, I couldn’t quite name.

Me: “I’m here only because I have to be. I was forced to come… nothing more.”
I sighed. “Honestly, I felt more confident in London.”

A silence settled between us, gentle but heavy. Mr. and Mrs. Chauhan exchanged a quiet glance.

🧎‍♂️ Mr. Aryan Chauhan looked down at the floor, the light from the window catching on his gold-rimmed glasses.
👩‍🦱 Mrs. Priyanka Chauhan shook her head slowly, folding her hands in her lap.

Priyanka (softly): “Is that so… hmm. It’s a pity you don’t like your native land.”
She looked at me with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“India is beautiful. You just need to open your heart to it.”

Aryan (quiet, distant): “If it’s not already too late for that.”

Before I could respond, Sana stepped into the room, her voice soft and clear.

Sana: “The table is set.”

Priyanka (brightening): “Wonderful! Let’s have lunch, and then you can pick your room.”

🍛 We headed into the dining room, filled with the scent of ghee, cumin, and freshly baked rotis. A long table was set with gleaming silverware, terracotta water jugs, and brass serving bowls that steamed gently.

Lunch passed with polite conversation and subdued energy. Mr. Chauhan excused himself early and disappeared into his study with a soft “please, excuse me.”

Priyanka and Sana then led me up a wooden staircase, polished to a sheen, that creaked slightly underfoot. The upper hallway was lined with embroidered wall hangings and family photographs—some sepia-toned, others more recent.

Priyanka: “We have a big house, but no children. So… you can choose any room. They’re all empty.”

🚪 She opened the doors one by one—each room had its charm, from carved teak wardrobes to gauzy window drapes that billowed gently in the warm breeze. But one room caught my breath.

A lavishly decorated suite with deep red tapestries, antique furniture, and a canopy bed draped in silk. The soft light filtering through golden curtains made the space glow.

Me (in awe): “It’s so gorgeous…”

Priyanka (wistfully): “That’s true. Aryan and I made it for ourselves… but the family astrologer said this room’s placement is inauspicious for us.”
She gave a light shrug. “And so it is. Luxurious… and empty. Move in, if you like.”

Me: “May I?”

Priyanka: “Of course! I’m happy to provide my guests with the best of everything.”

🌸 She turned to the maid with a nod.

Priyanka: “Sana, help our guest get settled.”

Sana looked up at me, her large brown eyes filled with curiosity and something I couldn’t quite place—something unreadable. She nodded obediently.

Priyanka (smiling): “Amala, make yourself at home. I’m just nearby if you need anything.”

She placed her palms together in farewell, then turned gracefully and left the room. The soft rustle of her saree trailed behind her like a whisper.

🧺 Sana got to work immediately, pulling back the old bedding and replacing it with clean, fresh linen. The scent of rose and sandalwood clung to the new sheets.

I dragged my suitcase to the closet and began to unpack.

Me (thinking):
“They seem like good people. I’m lucky to be staying with them. Hosting a foreign guest must be a source of pride in a household like this—especially one from an upper caste, judging by their refinement.”
“But which caste exactly? I never even asked what Mr. Chauhan does for a living. Hmm... I’ll do that later.”

Suddenly, Sana’s voice broke the silence.
Soft. Sharp. Almost startled.

Sana: “Miss Khan should be careful.”

I froze.

Me (turning, confused): “I beg your pardon?”

Sana (without looking up): “You’ve come to Calcutta at a very bad time.”
Her voice was now steady, but eerily calm. “You need to be extremely careful.”

🌫️ A strange tension filled the air. The rustling of sheets was the only sound for a beat.

Sana (quietly): “It’s good that you have a man accompanying you. It will be better that way. But watch out…”
She looked up—dark eyes wide, brimming with unease.
“Even with him, you might be in danger.”

I abandoned my suitcase and stepped toward her.

Me (careful): “Sana, what are you talking about? What’s happening in Calcutta?”

She froze mid-motion, clutching the edge of the blanket. Her fingers trembled slightly.

Sana: “Something bad is happening here. Something is coming… something you must stay away from.”
She swallowed, then added in a whisper:
“As far as possible.”

My pulse thudded in my ears.

Me: “Sana, please be more specific. I don’t understand.”

Sana (finally speaking): “Durga Puja. Kali Puja. And the disappearance of people from the upper castes…”

⚡ My heart thumped hard in my chest. A chill settled over my spine despite the warmth of the afternoon.

Me: “Pujas? You mean… the Indian festivals?”

Sana (nodding): “Yes. They’re preparing for them.”

I let out a nervous laugh, trying to defuse the tension in my own bones.

Me: “Durga Puja is coming up, isn’t it?”

Sana: “Don’t leave your group that day. No matter what. There are evil people out there.”

Me: “But… wouldn’t it be reckless to attack someone from the upper castes?”

Sana (grimly): “There are those who don’t care about caste anymore.”

🕯️ And just like that, she went back to changing the sheets—her hands folding with practiced precision, her face now unreadable, as if the conversation had never taken place.

I stood there in silence. My fingers hovered over my suitcase. The silence in the room was loud.

Me (thinking):
“She’s acting strange. There’s no point in pushing her further… not now.”
“In any case, Killian will be with me. I’ve read that some people do consider Durga a fierce and even cruel goddess… but from everything I know, the festival is joyous. Festive. Right?”
“Still… there’s something in her voice I can’t shake.”

🕰️ The rest of the day passed quietly. I continued to unpack while Sana moved about the room like a ghost, silent but efficient.

By the time she finished helping me, the sun had dipped low. The room filled with the golden glow of dusk.

Before leaving, Sana turned at the doorway.

Sana (softly): “Be careful.”

Then she disappeared down the hallway, her footsteps fading like a whisper.

And then… I was fast asleep.

🕯️ Hours passed in stillness. The heavy silence of the night pressed in like a velvet curtain.

But slowly… something pulled me out of sleep.
A whisper of discomfort, quiet and insistent, teased the edge of my consciousness. I didn’t open my eyes at first. I turned over lazily, hoping to doze off again.

Several minutes passed. I tossed and turned, irritated at first, then confused. Something was… off.

A crawling sensation prickled the back of my neck.
Like eyes. Watching me. 👁️

Me: “…?”

My eyelids fluttered open. Darkness. Thick and complete. The only illumination was a faint, yellowish glow filtering in from the streetlamp outside—barely enough to sketch shadows across the antique furnishings.

I blinked into the stillness, propping myself up slowly on my elbows. My chest rose and fell, breathing in the warm air, tinged with the scent of incense that now felt… ominous.

My eyes hadn’t yet adjusted, and all the furniture looked like vague silhouettes.
But the sensation remained.

Someone… was watching me. Still. Patiently. ❗

Me (thinking):
“I’m imagining things. This is ridiculous. Lying here in the dark like some Victorian heroine—what’s next? A ghost in a sari?”

I tried to laugh. I even smiled—faintly.

But then—
I heard it.

A rustle.

Me: “?!”

A very specific sound.
Like fabric brushing softly across the floorboards.
A saree hem? Or maybe long robes… dragging. Whispering.

⏳ I froze. Time seemed to slow. The room was so still I could hear my own breath stutter in my chest.

I sat up completely, eyes wide now, scanning every shadowed corner.

Me (breathing in deeply): “Okay, okay… drown it out. Deep breaths. You’re just rattled. Sana got into your head, and now your nerves are spinning stories.”

But the rustling came again.

Louder.

Closer.

🚨 And that’s when I realized—
It wasn’t just in my head.
It was real.
It was coming straight for me.

Me (whispering): “…Okay. That’s enough!”

⚡ I flung the covers aside and leapt from the bed, stumbling toward the floor lamp by the dresser. My fingers, ice cold and trembling, groped desperately for the switch.

Click.
Nothing.

Click-click.
Still darkness. Black as ink.

Me: “What’s with this bloody lamp?!”

Panic surged through me.

I turned toward the window, hoping for even a sliver of streetlight. But what I saw made my blood run colder than before.

The entire city was cloaked in darkness.
No headlights.
No window lights.
Not even the temples.

A blackout.
The whole of Calcutta had gone dark. 🖤

Behind me—
CREAK.

My breath caught.

The unmistakable sound of a floorboard, warping beneath someone’s weight.

Me (thinking):
“I’m not alone.”

P.S. 💎

Well, my sparkling secret-keepers, did anyone else feel that extra jolt when Amala’s ruby necklace caught the candlelight… or was that just the plot thickening in real time? Our girl struts into Calcutta thinking she’s on a routine errand and, quicker than you can say “family secrets,” she’s knee-deep in eerie warnings, stormy stares from a brooding captain, and enough whispered drama to keep even the shadows on edge.

Let’s face it—if there’s a spotlight in the dark, Amala finds it (and promptly turns it into a stage). Those lurking mysteries? Tempting as that second piece of forbidden mithai. And drama? Darling, it’s practically dripping from the curtains.

So tell me, scintillating shade-lovers:

• Which clue had you on the edge—was it the cursed jewelry vibes, or Lightwood’s perfectly-timed glare?

• Who would you trust with your secrets: Amala, or that ruby?

• And what’s your most wickedly wild prediction for the next chapter?

Bring your wit and theories to my midnight confessional in the comments. The juiciest scandals are best when shared by moonlight—but remember, mum’s the word about your favorite shadow correspondent.

With sassy winks and a dash of forbidden intrigue,

Your ever-playful chronicler of secrets 🔮✨