⚠️ Content Warning: This chapter contains unsettling themes and imagery that may disturb some readers. Proceed with care.

The floorboards groaned like a dying breath behind me.

I froze.

A shiver crawled down my spine like an ice-cold hand. 🥶

I was not alone.

Me: “?!”

I spun around, heart hammering in my chest like a prisoner in a cage.

The darkness was thick — a suffocating velvet that swallowed every corner of the room. Only a blade of moonlight 🌕 sliced through the window, casting warped shadows across the shelves, the chairs, the curtains...

But no figure.

Just silence.

The kind that listens.

My knees hit the floor. I fumbled blindly across the wooden boards, fingertips dancing across splinters and dust. The matches — where were the matches?!

Then it hit me like a punch to the gut.

I’d left them outside.

The only light I had? Gone. 💡❌

Me: “Bloody hell…”

My breath came out in shallow waves. I tried to steady it, but fear clung to my ribs like a drowning man.

Me (whispering): “Just the house settling… creaking like old bones.”

I stood, trembling. Each step toward the door was like wading through a dream — slow, syrupy, unreal.

The gloom pulled at me, like fingers made of fog.

I grabbed the doorknob. Yanked.

Nothing.

I pulled harder. It didn’t budge.

Me: “No… no, no. What the…? It’s stuck?!”

And then —

CREEAAAK.

Another sound behind me. Heavier. Closer.

Deliberate.

I turned. Slowly this time.

And there he was.

A hunched silhouette stood by the window, bathed in moonlight like a ghost on a stage. His shoulders slumped like wet cloth, head cocked unnaturally to one side. He didn't move.

He just… watched.

The room turned colder. My breath clouded.

And then I heard him — not a word, not a growl. A ragged rasp, like lungs full of ash. 🌫️

Me (barely a whisper): “Oh God… no, no, no…”

My blood froze.

It was Amir.

But it couldn’t be.

Amir had been found that morning — dead. Butchered.

No one could survive what had happened to him.

Yet here he stood.

Twisted. Warped.

Like someone had melted him down and reshaped him into a nightmare.

His face looked… wrong. Familiar, but stretched and distorted like a reflection in cracked glass. 🪞

Amir: “Hss… hss…”

His voice scratched at the air like dead leaves scraping along stone.

Moonlight kissed his face, revealing eyes that were milky, unblinking — dead.

Still, they locked onto mine like nails hammered into a coffin.

I looked away — couldn’t bear it. My stomach churned.

And then I saw something worse.

Something... impossible.

He wasn’t standing.

He was hovering.

His feet hung inches above the ground, limp.

And the moonlight behind him?

No shadow.

🕳️

My knees buckled. I slid down the wall like a dropped puppet. My whole body refused to move.

Paralyzed.

Drenched in dread.

Me (whispering): “This isn’t real. It can’t be…”

But he was still there.

Watching.

Waiting.

Like he’d never left.

Like he’d been waiting for me all along.

Me: “Why am I seeing this again…?”

A whisper of memory stirred — Sana’s words, spoken once in fear and awe.

Me (remembering): “You see what others can't. You're close to the veil… like those born to walk between worlds.”

The figure twitched.

Then he smiled.

A jagged, too-wide grin, like a crack splitting across a porcelain mask. 🎭

Amir: “Seeing… knowing… wise? Or just foolish? Madness wears many masks…”

His laugh wasn’t a laugh.

It was the sound of teeth chattering inside a hollow skull. 💀

Amir: “Stuuuuupid…”

His voice dragged like chains through mud.

Slurred.

Broken.

Amir: “Ask your question… I already know the answer…”

I pressed myself into the wall as if I could vanish into it. His hands twitched — those same bent, trembling fingers I’d seen hours ago.

The alley.

The fear.

Amir: “Visions… dreams… you think it’s a gift? You think you’re special?”

His grin widened — lips stretching beyond what should be human. 😈

Amir: “Your grandmother… touched by shadow. Your mother… swallowed by it.

And you… you’ll follow them down.”

Then he laughed.

A hollow, death-rattled sound that scraped the inside of my skull.

The air turned heavy — thick with the scent of rot and old secrets. 🕯️🕳️

Me (barely breathing): “…Grandma? Mom?”

He dropped to his knees with a sickening crack.

His arms opened, long fingers shaking — beckoning me like a marionette master waiting to reclaim his puppet.

I snatched the brass candlestick form the table next to me and threw it it at the dead man. The candlestick hit the bookshelf and crashed to the floor. I missed. Not that I expected otherwise, considering I was shaking all over. Amir didn’t touch me. He seemed to have lost interest I’m me. His eyes rolled back. With one hand, he grabbed his own hair and pulled his head back. In his other hand, a dagger gleamed.

Amir: the whole universe was born by you… this world was created by you….

He put the blade to his throat.

Amir: in the end, you always devour it…

The dead man stuck the dagger into his throat and slowly cut it open, drawing smile on his thin dark skin.

Amir: you manifest force… it’s a great honour to fall victim to… ghhhh…

Amir’s mouth gurgled instead of speaking, as black blood spurted from the slit on his throat. The dead guy jerked forward, twitched, and slid down without touching the floor. Panic washed over me, a tornado of conflicting emotions emotions sweeping over my mind. Curling up into ball and closing my eyes, I quietly whimpered. I felt exhausted, and utterly disheartened. I could still see the dead man slitting his throat right in front of me. Suddenly, a cold, a strong hand grabbed my hair from behind me and forcefully yanked it. My head was thrown back, like Amir’s when he decapitated himself.

Me: oh!

I froze in place, my eyes wide open. The library at night suddeling reappeared before me, barely illuminated by my candle. There was not even a drop of black blood on the floor, even though it was splattered everywhere just a moment ago. There wasn’t any on my face either. I looked around, confused, as I struggled to stand back up on my shaky legs. The only thing that had changed in the library was me. Drenched in sweat, pale and shaking in horror. I hesitantly touched the hair on the back of my head: they were disheveled. Someone really did touch me just now. I grabbed the door handle, and it gave in immediately, opening the door. The corridor was bright, as the chandeliers were on. I looked around absentminded ly: the house was still empty. I was alone. I didn’t have any energy left. I decided to take a shower and go to bed right away. It felt like I’d been smacked in the head, and it left me disoriented. After. Hot shower, I changed into dry pajamas and collapsed on the bed, exhausted. I didn’t want to turn off the light. I wasn’t ready to plumb back into darkness. I closed my eyes, but I couldn’t fall asleep. My thoughts were in a whirl.

Me: ‘maybe this is truly it, the answer to everything…. What visions was he talking about?…. It’s pretty obvious. My grandmother has been out of it for a long time. She’s been delirious for many years now. That’s why she couldn’t get custody of my younger brother when ,y mother disappeared… or left us. And so I had to get the custody of him. It’s hereditary. I’m going insane too! Just like the..l dead man said. My grandmother went mad, something was wrong with my mother, and now it’s my turn. And if he’s just a figment of my imagination…. My subconscious is speaking to me, saying: Amala, you’re insane! Even the nonsense he said before… slitting his throat… it’s very similar to what grandma mutters when she’s delirious. Maybe I will soon be like that too?’

I sat on the bed, looking toward the hallway.

Me: ‘Sana spoke about the Brahmins, the erudite ones. But this doesn’t seem to be my case. My goodness…. Is it possible that I will soon be like Grandma Indira? I’ll call Kiran and find out how he’s doing.’

Since the power was back on, I could now use the landline phone. The timing of the call was perfect: Kiran should have just returned home after basketball practice. I dialled the number and started listening to the ringing tones. My brother didn’t answer right away. But soon I heard his gentle voice.

Kiran: hello, Khan’s home speaking.

Me: Kiran, it’s me. How are you?

Kiran: oh, my prodigal sister! I’m fine. The coach said my chances of becoming the team captain are pretty good!

Me: I’m so happy for you!

It was good to hear something so simple, so mundane, and unrelated to the things that I was experiencing. Nevertheless, I couldn’t ignore what was troubling me.

Me: I… I want to ask you something.

Kiran: I didn’t throw any parties at home, I swear!

Me: god, that’s not what I meant. But well done.

Kiran: then what?

Me: how’s grandma doing?

Kiran: she’s… fine. You know, as usual. Probably…

Me: probably?

Kiran: you know how she is…. Talks nonsense, stares at the wall… or reads. The last few days she’s been talking my ear off with her nonsense. It’s so annoying.

Me: Kiran! Don’t you dare talk about Grandma Indira like that!

Kiran: I’m sorry, I’m sorry! But she’s been non-stop muttering, lately…. You can’t even talk about the weather with her, or anything else. It’s like she’s… absorbed in her nonsense.

Me: what exactly is she saying?

Kiran: I can’t quite make it out…. She almost always switches to Bengali or Sanskrit, and you know I am not that good at our language yet. Something about time, conflict, some kind of black tantras, or something like that…. I can’t really understand. I don’t really care about what she’s saying, you know. Mom used to always talk to her, remember?

Me: Kiran…. You know… that’s not possible now.

Kiran: I know. But I don’t understand. Why did mom leave?

Me: ‘Kiran has barely mentioned mom since she left. For the first few months he kept asking me about her, but then he closed himself off. This is the first time I a long time he’s talking to me about mom.’

Kiran: maybe you know something about her, but you don’t want to tell me the truth?

Me: honey… I really don’t know anything.

Me:
"I think… she abandoned us, Kiran."
The words burned my throat like acid, but I forced them out.
"You're old enough to know that. Maybe she got tired… tired of everything and just… left us."

There was a pause. A heavy, hollow silence.

Kiran:
"How’s that possible? Could Mom… really do that?"

Me (softly, almost whispering):
"I don’t know. But… I have no reason to think otherwise."

Another long silence. I could practically hear him processing it on the other end, his breath shallow and slow. Then he switched the topic with sudden, clumsy urgency, like slamming a door shut on a wound.

Kiran:
"Hey! You know Yasmin? That cheerleader from school? I think she…"
His voice drifted into chatter, brushing over names I didn’t recognize, events I didn’t have the strength to picture.

I listened at first, grateful — if only for a moment — to be hearing something normal, something smiling and simple. 🏫 But my mind started to unravel again, spiraling downward like a feather caught in a whirlwind.

Me (thinking):
“What did he say about Grandma? Time… Tantras? More of her mystical nonsense… What did I really expect? She’s been like that for years.”

I didn’t want to be rude, but I couldn’t take it anymore — like being on a rollercoaster that suddenly derails midair.

Me:
"Kiran, I’m so sorry. I… I have to go. You can tell me the rest next time, okay?"

Kiran (sounding understanding but disappointed):
"It’s okay. You probably have a ton of work. I’ll tell you when I see you."

Me (smiling softly through the ache in my chest):
"Go do your homework, alright? I love you."

Kiran:
"Love you too! Byeee!" ❤️

When I hung up the phone, a tremor passed through me, quiet but fierce.
My eyes blurred with tears, and a lump rose in my throat like a stone tied to memories I couldn’t shake.

Me (thinking):
“I can't go insane. Not like Grandma. Not with Kiran depending on me. He can’t lose me too, not after everything. I’d give anything — anything — just to stay sane.”

My mind buzzed with questions that had no answers, like bees swarming a decaying fruit:

“Do I need medication? Can this be treated? But how do you outrun something buried in blood and bone… something hereditary?”
I pressed a trembling hand to my forehead. My pulse raced like a frightened bird.
"Dear God, I can’t believe I’m even thinking this."

Here I was —

In a foreign country.
In someone else’s house.
Miles away from home.
Cut off from my family.
And possibly losing my mind. 🕳️

How much worse could it get?

I wrapped my arms around myself in a feeble attempt at comfort, as the room suddenly felt ten degrees colder, despite the late summer air outside.

Me (thinking):
“I can’t tell anyone. Not a soul. If my colleagues find out what’s happening to me… they’ll think I’ve cracked. No. I have to keep calm. I have to.”

I clenched my jaw, the tension sinking into my shoulders like a curse I didn’t ask for. I steadied myself with a long, tired sigh, then made my way down the hall like a puppet on fraying strings — hurting, hollow, but still moving.

All I wanted now was sleep — blessed, mindless oblivion.

And sleep finally came, heavy and dreamless.

🌅 Morning.
Sunlight filtered through the curtains, soft and golden, yet oddly harsh against my skin. I opened my eyes slowly, as if waking up from the wreckage of a shipwreck, not sleep.

Me (thinking):
“I still feel like hell… but I need to pull myself together.”

I dragged myself out of bed, feet hitting the floor like sandbags, my body protesting every motion. I splashed cool water on my face, gazing into the mirror at the pale imposter staring back.

Me (thinking):
"Don’t give up, Amala. Don’t spiral. If you really want things to change… you’ve got to fight for it."

With heavy limbs and a pounding headache, I started brushing my hair and picking out clothes that made me feel like myself again, or at least some version of me that hadn't unraveled completely.

I couldn't afford to fall apart — not now.
Not when the darkness was already knocking at the edges of my sanity, whispering secrets I wasn’t ready to hear.

I changed into an exquisite charcoal suit, the kind that whispered elegance with every seam. The crisp fabric hugged my form—not too tightly, just enough to remind me who I was: put-together, focused, and still in control despite everything unraveling within.

Me (thinking):
“It’s always more pleasant to work when you look good doing it.” 💅

I tied my hair into a neat, no-nonsense ponytail—slick, low, and disciplined, like the day I hoped to have. With my thoughts collected like cards in a winning hand, I headed downstairs.

It felt like I hadn’t seen the Chauhans and Sana in ages.

Before breakfast, I made a quick call to the hotel, asking my colleagues to meet me at the embassy later today. There was much to unpack—what I’d learned from Lakshman, and questions I had for Lima about the intricacies of multiple homicide investigations. Work, at least, still made sense.

As I entered the dining room, I was greeted by the deliciously rich aroma of freshly fried bhatura bread. The warm scent wrapped itself around me like a shawl 🫓, mingling with the robust notes of simmering masala chai, still steaming in the silver teapot the maid carefully carried.

Sana:
“Good morning, Miss Khan.”

Her voice was smooth, formal. Her serene face showed no hint of warmth, no trace of the news I would hear moments later.

Me:
“Good morning, Sana. Mrs. Chauhan. Mr. Chauhan.”

I nodded politely at my hosts, trying to slip into the rhythm of their domestic routine.

Aryan was seated at the head of the table, finishing his breakfast with habitual calm. I’d noticed it often—Priyanka wouldn’t begin her own meal until her husband was done, a quiet echo of old customs still alive in modern corners of India. Not everyone adhered to this practice, but in the Chauhan household, some traditions arrived every morning alongside the buttered parathas.

Priyanka (with a smile):
“Good morning, my dear.”

Aryan (pleasantly):
“Good morning, Amala. Haven’t seen you around much lately—you must be swamped with work.”

Me:
“Yes, there’s a lot to do at the moment.”

Aryan (chuckling):
“Don’t stress yourself too much—you’re young. At your age, life should be more than just paperwork, hm? Isn’t that right, Sana?”

Sana (quietly):
“Indeed, sir.”

Aryan rose from his seat, a tender hand brushing Priyanka’s shoulder.

Aryan:
“Have a good day, mera dil. The invoices are in the office. Amala, I hope your day’s productive. Sana, ask the cook to start on dinner early, will you?”

💼 With that, Aryan left the room, Priyanka watching him go with a quiet sparkle in her eyes.

Priyanka:
“Amala, come now—have some breakfast. Did you eat anything yesterday?”

I hesitated, fingers brushing over the edge of the violet silk napkin.

Me:
“I… don’t really remember. I was working late.”

Priyanka (frowning):
“That won’t do! Sana, give her some bhatura and heat up the leftover rice. Check with the cook—see if anything’s left from dinner.”

Me (softly):
“Mrs. Chauhan, really, I—”

Priyanka (firmly):
“Drink your tea, girl! I won’t let you melt away and disappear while you’re staying here.” ☕😠

I smiled despite myself as Sana poured the fragrant masala chai into my ceramic cup—the cinnamon and cardamom swirling in a dance of steam—and then disappeared into the kitchen.

Priyanka (eyeing me with mock scolding):
“What did I tell you, hmm? You won’t keep a glowing complexion if you’re constantly skipping meals. Who will want a gaunt wife?”

Me (laughing quietly):
“Mrs. Chauhan, I’m twenty-five, I work seven days a week, and I specialize in Indology. Being gaunt is the least of my worries.” 😅

Priyanka (tutting affectionately):
“Oh, look at you! Your waist is like a wasp’s, your hips are shaped like a Bengali sculpture, and that glorious hair of yours—thick as monsoon clouds! You’ve got such radiant Indian beauty in you, and you’re letting hunger ruin all that?”

I was blushing now, more from embarrassment than flattery. Thankfully, Sana returned before I had to deal with more poetic anatomy analysis. She placed the breakfast tray in front of me with deft hands, then began clearing Aryan’s dishes in silence.

Still, something in her movements felt… restrained.

Me (gently):
“Did you come home late yesterday?”

Sana’s gaze flickered up to me⎯barely a second—a flash of silent emotion inside a stormless face.

Before she could respond, Priyanka answered for her, like she’d been waiting for an opening.

Priyanka (beaming):
“Oh, that. Yes—we have wonderful news! Last night, we arranged for Sana to be married to a lovely young man!”

I almost dropped my fork.

Me (stunned):
“I beg your pardon?”

Sana said nothing. She simply continued clearing the table, her face expressionless. Like a statue in motion.

Priyanka (sipping her tea):
“She’s old enough. I was already married by the time I was nineteen.”

I stared at her. The tea in my hand suddenly tasted bitter.

Me (carefully):
“But… shouldn’t her family be handling that?”

Priyanka (tilting her head):
“If she had one, then, yes—of course. But we took her in. She’s an orphan.”

There it was. Casual. Final.
Like deciding where to plant a sapling.

Me (thinking):
“I guess that’s how it works here. That’s the custom. Besides… is marriage really such a bad thing? It can be beautiful, if—done with love and respect.”

Me (aloud):
“Marriage can be a wonderful thing. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

Priyanka (beaming):
“That’s right, girl! Let’s hope we’ll be congratulating yousoon. You know, we could’ve left Sana on the street after her parents died. But we have kind hearts. We wanted to help her.”

She sipped her tea, her golden bangles jangling softly. Her tone was self-assured, as if generosity flowed naturally from those who had the right to make decisions.

Priyanka:
“She couldn’t stay out there alone. A woman always needs someone to look after her. First her father, then her husband, and finally, her son.”

Her words rang out like commandments, final and inflexible.

Me (hesitant, frowning):
“That’s… weird.”

Priyanka (arching an eyebrow):
“Weird?”

Me:
“I just think women can take care of themselves. We don’t need supervisors.”

Priyanka (with a smile, almost indulgent):
“You misunderstand, dear. Unity is sacred to us. Shakti and Shiva, you know—they are inseparable. What is masculine energy without the feminine? Nothing but a lifeless shell. Shakti fills Shiva like fresh rain fills a parched well. It’s not about dependence—it’s about completion.”

She chuckled, narrowing her cocoa-brown eyes, sunlight glinting off the ruby in her bindi.

Priyanka:
“Learn to look deeper, and you’ll see—being united with a man isn’t about submission. It’s about strength. About power.” ✨

I said nothing. There wasn’t a good way to respond—at least not now. I watched her sip her tea again, graceful as ever.

Priyanka (lightly):
“Maybe you are too young for marriage after all.”

I decided to steer the conversation elsewhere.

Me:
“I’ve been meaning to ask… what’s your religious denomination?”

She placed her teacup down with precision, her tone breezy.

Priyanka:
“Shaivism. Like most people in Calcutta.”

Me (thinking):
“Really? I would’ve guessed something else.”

I turned my attention to my meal, the warm-spiced aroma of bhatura and sabzi offering some grounding comfort as I tried to process everything—Sana’s arranged marriage, Priyanka’s views, the strange spiritual metaphors masked as tradition.

Priyanka (after a pause):
“Oh—Amala dear, one more thing. Next time, please don’t make such a mess in the library. Some of the books in there are quite rare, very expensive.” 😐

Me (flushing):
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Chauhan. I was… looking for something. Do you happen to have anything specific on Hinduism?”

She shook her head slightly, her lips brushing delicate porcelain.

Priyanka:
“No, not really. But you’ll probably find some tantric texts at the National Library of India. That’s your best bet. Though if you’re searching for something very specific… maybe talk to the Brahmins. They read the Vedas every day—they are their guardians.”

Me (thinking):
“That’s right… the Brahmins! Maybe I can ask them about my visions. See if others are experiencing them too. If they are… maybe I’m not insane. Maybe this isn’t madness—it’s insight.”

Breakfast came to an end. I thanked Mrs. Chauhan and said a quiet goodbye to Sana, who simply bowed her head and stepped aside, still calm as ever…but unreadable.

The embassy greeted me with the quiet hush of air conditioning and linoleum polish. I stepped into the bright, spacious conference room—bathed in golden daylight, its high windows casting long shadows across the tiled floor.

Me (thinking):
“Strange. It’s empty.”

I walked toward the large oak table, letting my fingertips drag across the polished surface—it felt cool and grounded, unlike the thick midday heat outside.

Everything here felt strangely familiar, like echoes of London’s formality dressed in tropical sun. I had only left a few days ago, but I already missed the structure, the chill of English mornings, the dry coldness of paperwork.

Still… with each passing day, India felt slightly less foreign. A few more weeks, and I’d start calling this city ‘home’ without even realizing it.

The door behind me creaked. I turned.

Killian:
“Good afternoon, Miss Khan.”

Lima (smiling brightly):
“Hi, Amala!”

Me:
“Good afternoon.”
“Where’s Mr. Rose?”

Lima:
“He’s in the hallway. Talking to someone.”

Killian:
“Did you call us here?”

Me:
“Yes. I’ve got something to share. It’s about the investigation.”

They exchanged glances—silent, professional—then sat down.

Lima (warmly, raising her brow):
“Amala, you look amazing! Both in the sari and these regular clothes.”

Killian said nothing, but the way his gaze lingered a moment longer than usual said everything.

Me (with a light laugh):
“Thanks.”

Lima (grinning):
“I’ll need styling tips. There’s got to be a secret.”

Me:
“You look great just the way you are.”

The meeting room filled slowly. A few minutes later, Mr. Rose entered, his expression unusually tense. Ratan trailed behind, his suit slightly wrinkled, eyes darting with curiosity.

Ratan:
“Hello, Miss Khan.”

Me:
“Good afternoon.”

Mr. Rose didn’t greet anyone. He looked distracted, the corners of his mouth pulled tight.

He walked past us to the center of the room and turned to face the team. Something in his posture seemed… subdued.

Mr. Rose:
“Bad news. We just received a fax from London—lab results are in regarding the diplomat’s case.”

His voice—it lacked its usual sharpness. No arrogance, just a heavy sort of tension, like he didn’t want to be the one delivering this.

Mr. Rose:
“We took scrapings from the closet door—blood and skin tissue lodged around the torn wood. Dactyloscopy confirmed fingerprints—belonged to Hayes. They're everywhere.”

A heavy silence descended on the room like a thundercloud. We all looked at each other, the stillness pressing against our temples.

Killian (lowly):
“To be expected.”

Lima:
“If all the evidence points to Hayes… then he must’ve been attacked.”

Me:
“He tried to fight back. Look at the claw marks. He was desperate.”

I inhaled deeply, trying to arrange the loose threads in my mind into something coherent. Each word felt like placing a tile into an immense mosaic.

Me (thinking):
“If you put all the puzzle pieces together… the resulting image is grim. Almost unbearable.”

Me (thinking):
“I need to put my thoughts into words. Everything’s tangled—a mess of fear, ritual, murder... but if I thread it carefully, it might make sense.”

Me (aloud):
“I think I might have a couple of ideas.”

Mr. Rose raised his chin and folded his arms with visible curiosity, his voice more curious than curt.

Mr. Rose:
“Please, Miss Khan. You have our attention.”

I stood straighter. Everyone’s eyes were on me now. I could feel the weight of the moment press into the silence, pulsing like a second heartbeat behind my ribs.

Me:
“Okay, so… Our diplomat—Mr. Hayes—came here on a special assignment. We still have no clue what that was. He kept it very quiet...”
I gave a quick glance toward Mr. Rose. He smirked, lips thin.
“But whatever his purpose, he somehow got caught up in something… unsettling. Dangerous, even.”

I let that hang in the air before continuing.

Me:
“We don’t know how it started. But we do know he became paranoid. Obsessive, even. He constantly locked his windows. Never opened them. Tracked every detail in his room, obsessed over who came in or out.”

Madhu's voice echoed in my memory like it had been whispered into the very walls of that room:

Madhu:
“He’d been jittery lately. Every evening, he asked hotel security to inspect his room. Every night. And it was alwaysstuffy in there. Never opened a window.”

Me:
“And he only ordered room service. The same waiter every time. Wouldn’t let anyone new near him.”

Then I remembered Ravi’s testimony, sharp and clear:

Ravi:
“The gentleman insisted I, and only I, deliver his meals. Wouldn’t even let me inside.”

Me:
“He felt like he was being watched. Hunted. And whatever he feared—it got to him. Someone entered that hotel room.”

Images flashed through my mind—blood smeared on wood, the torn closet door, the sheer brutality of desperation.

Me:
“When they eventually found him, Hayes was hiding in the closet. Terrified out of his mind. And when they opened that door—”

I remembered what Killian had said, voice grim and filled with disbelief.

Killian:
“How obsessively would someone have to scratch the door to rip off their own nail?”

Me (softly):
“He must have known he was going to die. The fear he felt… it was primal. Terrifying enough to make him claw a wooden door until his fingers bled.”

There was a moment of silence, the image hovering over us like a bruise in the air.

Killian:
“And then… he vanished.”

I nodded.

Me:
“Yes. But everything else in the room remained untouched. His briefcase, his identification, personal effects—all of it.”

Lima:
“Except… the diary. Pages ripped right out of it. Like someone wanted to erase one specific truth.”

The thought put a chill in the room that no coffee could warm.

Me:
“This wasn’t a robbery. Violence. Paranoia. Ripped-out pages. Documents untouched. Everything screams: this was something much bigger. Something meant to be hidden. And let’s be honest—kidnapping a foreign diplomatfrom a luxury hotel in the heart of Calcutta? That’s no run-of-the-mill crime.”

Another pause. I let the silence stretch before adding:

Me:
“And that's not all.”

Killian (nodding):
“I know what you’re hinting at.”

Me:
“Yes. The other murder. The ritualistic one.”

I felt every spine in the room straighten.

Me:
“Beheading a merchant—leaving the body outside our embassy? After Hayes disappears? The symbolism alone is alarming. Two high-profile, high-risk crimes. Both strange. Both… unique. Ask yourselves: is this a coincidence?”

Lima (wide-eyed):
“Saying it out loud now… it suddenly feels so obvious.”

Killian (clenching his jaw):
“It’s just… we don't have hard evidence linking the two yet.”

Me:
“We do.”

Killian:
“It isn’t enough for a report to headquarters. Not yet.”

He rubbed the back of his neck wearily and sighed. The tension seemed to weigh on all of us.

Killian:
“Let’s move to the canteen, get some coffee. We’ll think better with caffeine in our veins. I’ll explain something to you on the way, Amala.”

No one protested. One thing was clear—we were standing at the edge of something big, and only a strong drink could keep us steady now. However, since we were still on the clock, coffee would have to be our coping mechanism.

The embassy canteen was surprisingly cozy, tucked away and quiet. We chose a small table near the window, where light poured in golden and generous. Lima fiddled with the coffee machine while still chiming into the discussion.

Ratan:
“Let me help you, Miss Berg.”

She smiled faintly, grateful.

Mr. Rose remained seated, watching everything with that unreadable bureaucratic mask he wore like a second skin. Killian turned to me, voice low and steady.

Killian:
“To file this report and get authorization to leave Calcutta, we need… something definite. Headquarters will want specifics. What happened, where, and when. We both think Hayes’ disappearance is tied to the ritual murder. But we must prove that, Amala.”

Lima (nodding):
“Then that’s our direction: find the proof. Whatever’s connecting these two cases has been deliberately buried. We’ll dig it up.”

Mr. Rose (sharp):
“Speaking of work—Miss Khan, what was the meeting originally for? You said you had something to tell us.”

Me (thinking):
“Oh, you want new information? Honey, you’re about to get more than you bargained for.”

Me (aloud):
“Yes. Let’s change tracks for a moment. I do have some new information.”

Lima and Ratan returned with the coffee—Lima handed me a steaming espresso, its scent smoky and almost medicinal.

Me:
“Thank you.”

I took a slow sip. The bitterness spread on my tongue, both grounding and electric. My thoughts sharpened into blades.

Me (thinking):
“How the hell do I start this? Rose has kept secrets from us—buried the fact that Amir wasn’t the first victim. But now, that truth could change everything. The moment demands clarity. Focus. Caution.”

Me (thinking):
“I will speak honestly… but with restraint. No more playing polite. No more secrets. Someone has to say it.”

Me (aloud):
“Mr. Rose, I need to speak my mind. I understand you probably didn’t want to reveal this… but the cat’s out of the bag now.🐈‍⬛”

I slowly rose from my seat, feeling every pair of eyes on me like spotlights at an interrogation.

Me:
“Since Mr. Rose didn’t feel the need to inform us, I’ll do it myself.”

I looked around the table—Killian with his thoughtful frown, Lima half frozen mid-sip, Ratan impassive but alert, and Rose… bracing. I told myself: don’t feel sorry for him. He chose silence. This isn’t about ego—it’s about truth.

Me (thinking):
“I don’t care if this ruins our working relationship. I’m not here to cover anyone’s ass.”

Me (firmly):
“Yesterday’s ritual murder wasn’t the first. There have been others.”

A stunned beat of silence hit the air like a fist.

Lima (shocked):
“What?!” 😳

My words seemed to ripple around the table. Chairs shifted. Eyebrows raised. And all at once—all eyes flicked to Mr. Rose, who now sat tightening his jaw, his expression darkening into a stormcloud.

Me:
“Our esteemed leader can explain later why he decided to sit on this information. 🕵️ But for now, we need to discuss what to do next.”

Ratan, still seated with his arms folded over his chest, watched with an unnerving calm. His posture said nothing. His silence spoke volumes.

Killian leaned forward, his tone all business.

Killian:
“Amala, let’s get things straight. First—where did you get this information? How reliable is your source? 🧩 Before we start pointing fingers, we need to be sure this isn’t hearsay.”

He looked at me with sharp focus, his green eyes narrowed, brows low. He wasn’t shutting me down—he was drawing battle lines and demanding proof.

Mr. Rose (curtly):
“Yes, Miss Khan, since you’ve chosen to speak out… do share your source with the rest of the class.” 📝

There was no sarcasm in his voice, but the tension was thick enough to slice with a ceremonial dagger.

Me (thinking):
“Should I tell them about Lakshman...? No. I won’t. If I reveal his name, he could be in real trouble. He trusted me. He doesn’t deserve to be dragged into this mess.”

Me (aloud):
“I can’t disclose who told me this. But I can say… it was a police officer at the crime scene.”

Killian (eyebrows raised):
“And why do you believe him?” 🙄

Me (calmly):
“He seemed... honest. Nervous. I don’t think he had any reason to lie to me. He didn’t give specifics—just that this wasn’t the first victim.”

Lima:
“How many victims are we talking about, then?”

Me (shrugging slightly):
“That… he didn’t say either.”

Mr. Rose (scoffing slightly):
“So, you don’t actually have anything concrete. That’s precisely why I didn’t rush to share this with you.” 😒
“The Indian authorities themselves aren’t sure how many have been killed. It’s possible this is the first... or not.”

My colleagues exchanged unsettled glances, a tense energy settling over the table.

Lima (defensive):
“Well, I think what Amala’s saying makes sense.”

Killian (nodding reluctantly):
“She’s already proven herself an excellent investigator.”

Ratan (speaking for the first time):
“Forgive the interruption, but I agree. Amala is worthy of our trust—and our respect.” 🙏

Me (inner monologue, surprised):
“Whoa… I didn’t expect that.”

Me (softly):
“Thank you… all of you. Working together like this, we can face whatever’s coming a lot easier.”

Lima (gently):
“Thanks for finding that out, Amala. It might turn out to be very important.”

Killian:
“Let’s break it down and figure out the rest.”

Lima (purposefully):
“Right. So now that we know where Amala got her tip, we need to address the real question—how many victims are we possibly talking about?”

Me (shrugging):
“The officer told me they can’t put the puzzle together. They don’t have much experience dealing with multiple murders.”

Lima (correcting softly):
“Serial.”

Me (blinking):
“Beg your pardon?”

Lima:
“A series of murders—more than three with a consistent pattern—are categorized as serial killings. It’s a newer term in criminology. Was officially defined only six years ago.”

Killian:
“What if there are just two victims right now?”

Lima:
“Then we monitor, identify, and verify. But we need the exact count to determine if we’re indeed dealing with a serial killer.”

Killian:
“How do we even figure that out?”

Lima (confidently):
“We need to go through recent police homicide files in Calcutta. Details matter. If we can spot a pattern, we might uncover a connection. A method. What’s the killer’s signature—or modus operandi?”

Me (nodding):
“In our current case, those would be... the ritual symbols. The decapitation.”

Killian shot Lima a look—one of visible respect. I found myself silently grateful, too. It helped to know we had a trained intellect in our midst, working through this alongside us. Real expertise 🧠.

Ratan, meanwhile, remained remarkably quiet—listening intently, parsing every word. He looked thoughtful now, brows drawn slightly over deep-set eyes.

We finished our coffee in silence. Then, together, we left the canteen.

Mr. Rose (stopping at the hallway):
“I’ll call London and notify senior command. I’ll also contact the Indian authorities to request access to their local archives. Mr. Vaish, will you assist me?”

Ratan:
“Certainly, sir.”

Mr. Rose:
“If we’re done here… I’ll take my leave. There’s much to consider.”

He left with brisk steps. But not before Ratan’s dark eyes cast a brief, unmistakably disapproving glance in his direction. 👀

Killian walked over to me.

Killian (low voice):
“Well done, Amala. Honestly, I didn't expect that from you. You surprised me.”

I tilted my head, curious.

Killian:
“When I called headquarters asking about you, I was told someone had vouched very strongly for you. I thought maybe it was just a favour—someone pushing their daughter up the career ladder.”

Me (raising an eyebrow):
“Excuse me?”

Killian:
“I won’t get into details. I don’t have the right. But... you’ve got a sharp mind. That much is clear.” 🤷‍♂️

Lima (rolling her eyes):
“Oh, blimey, Captain Lightwood! That’s what you call a compliment?!”

Me (deadpan):
“I’m still not entirely sure whether I should be flattered... or offended.” 😄

Killian smirked and slipped his hands into his pockets with a sheepish tilt of his head.

Killian:
“Just saying.”

I narrowed my eyes at him and grinned.

Me:
“Then let me just say this—next time you try to compliment someone, maybe hold it in. Or don’t be surprised when someone returns the favour.” 😉

Killian raised both hands in surrender, clearly taken aback.

Killian:
“Alright, alright. Message received. Don’t bite. I'm just rusty at people skills.”

Lima (stretching):
“Well, I’m off. No point in hanging around.”

Killian:
“Back to the hotel, Miss Berg?”

Lima:
“Yeah. I’ll dig through some of my books, see if anything’s useful.”

Killian:
“Great. Let’s go together.”
(turning to me)
“Want a lift, Amala?”

Me (smiling faintly):
“No thank you, Captain Lightwood. I’m not heading home yet.”

Killian:
“Where are you going then?”

Me:
“Things to do. I’ll call you when I get back.”

He nodded with a thoughtful look but didn’t press further.

Ratan:
“I’ll escort you out. And if you need anything, Miss Khan, don’t hesitate to ask.”

I gave him a thankful nod. The others left, catching a taxi back to the hotel.

Ratan soon took his leave as well.

I stepped outside into the blazing heat of midday Calcutta, the air thick with the scent of sizzling street food and incense—a sensory explosion of life. ☀️🌶️

Me (thinking):
“The library. That’s my next stop. Mrs. Chauhan mentioned the National Library. I’ll head there first. The Brahmins can wait. If I need help getting access to them, I’ll ask Ratan.”

“What’s on my agenda? Shaktism, Shaivism, Vaishnavism. Rituals, tantras, ancient doctrines, symbols, forgotten gods… Fun as always.” 🕉️📚

I crossed the street, dodging a rickshaw and a milk cart, and made my way toward a roadside café for lunch before catching a ride.

Me (thinking):
“At last, I’ll get some answers. Something — anything. I’m sure the National Library of India holds more than just books. It holds the stories this city has been trying to forget.”

P.S. To My Darling Drama Devotees 🦚

Well, well, well, look who survived that deliciously twisted chapter without fainting or throwing their book across the room! If you’re clutching your heart, wiping sweat, or hiding in the nearest corner whispering, “Is this real life or a Bollywood fever dream?”—welcome to the club, my fiercely fabulous magpies.

Amala’s tangled mind? Think less serene yoga retreat, more chaotic dance-off between haunted memories and ghostly shenanigans. You might’ve felt a shiver or two—oh darling, that’s just the appetizer. The main course? A banquet of family secrets so potent they’d make the sharpest salon gossipers blush with envy.

And that floating dead man with zero shadow? Practically the poster child for “I put the spook in spooky”—with a side of unspeakable sass and cryptic mumblings that may or may not be your future.

Now, here’s where you come in, my scandalous sweethearts. I want to hear you:

• What’s your hottest take on Amala’s spectral visitor? Date or deadly warning?

• Which ancestral secret do you suspect is lurking just beneath your family’s polished surfaces?

• And please, for the love of masala, what’s your best flirty comeback if a ghost slid into your DMs with ominous riddles?

Don’t just lurk—pour your theories, your sass, your juiciest comments below like your reputation depends on it. Spoiler alert: it might. Because here, we don’t just sip the chai—we dunk biscuits in it, spill it everywhere, and relish the lovely mess.

Keep your secrets close, but your keyboard closer.

With all the mystery, mischief, and midnight spice you can handle,

—The Mistress of Midnight Masala 💋✨🕯️