Mr. Doobay (voice deep, deliberate): “And who are your guests, Yashvi?”

Yashvi (startled, recovering quickly with a small bow): “Oh—yes, forgive me. Allow me to introduce everyone.”

The devadasi turned toward us, a faint, slightly embarrassed smile tugging her lips.

Yashvi: “This is Mr. Amrit Doobay.”

She pivoted back toward him, her tone respectful, almost reverent.

Yashvi: “And these are… new visitors to the temple. I was telling them about our Great Devi.”

The man’s gaze shifted to me. It locked, steady and searching. For a split second, the chaotic hum of the temple faded around us. Recognition hit me like a spark.

Flashback

The crowded street near the Victoria Memorial. That brush of shoulders.

Stranger (back then): “I’m sorry.”

Me (internally, heart skipping): It’s him. The man from Victoria Memorial.

And judging by the flicker of surprise, then the faint smile at the corners of his lips — he remembered me too.

Amrit (warm, melodic, his voice unexpectedly gentle for a man of such presence): “Yashvi, how are things at the temple?”

There was music in his tone — a deep resonance braided with calm authority. It suited him.

My eyes betrayed me; I studied him without meaning to. Tall and slender, almost statuesque. Fine, graceful features that softened his imposing height. Dark skin like burnished bronze, eyes startlingly light — the kind that seemed to catch everything.

Me (thinking sassily, curiosity tangling with analysis): What an unusual combination… Dark skin, pale eyes. Even more unusual here. What caste would a man like him belong to? …No way I can just throw that* question at him. Better corner Yashvi later and ask.* 👀

Yashvi’s gaze lingered on him a little longer than etiquette allowed… open, attentive, betraying just a hint of shyness. And then, with the ease of a host reclaiming the room, Amrit’s attention came back to me.

Amrit (direct but soft): “And what about you?”

Me (straightening slightly): “My name is Amala Khan. I’m here for work. As are my colleagues.”

His eyes swept across our little group, assessing, weighing, but never unkind.

Finally, he inclined his head in greeting.

Amrit: “I take it, then, that you’re interested in Kaula Shaktism?”

Me (openly, with a spark of curiosity): “I want to learn more about Kali. She fascinates me. She’s… such an interesting goddess. I’d like to understand her better — and the full scope of this denomination.”

Yashvi (brightening, almost proud): “I’d be happy to tell you everything about her.”

Amrit (smiling faintly, voice smooth, resonant): “You’re fortunate to have met Yashvi; she’s an expert. If anyone carries Kali’s stories properly, it’s her.”

Killian (politely, but probing): “And what about you? Do you come here often?”

Amrit (shaking his head slightly, posture still commanding even in such a casual gesture): “No. Work keeps me far too busy. But whenever I have a moment, I come to make offerings… and to speak with Yashvi.”

Me (careful, with an apologetic smile): “I hope we’re not… intruding on your time.”

Amrit waved it off with an elegant flick of the wrist, that calm smile still resting on his lips.

Amrit: “Not at all. I happen to have some time now — enough for conversation, perhaps even a question or two.”

Lima (tilting her head, cautious but curious): “Questions?”

Amrit (eyes glinting with something sharp, almost amused): “You’re here with interest in Shakti… in the guise of Kali, are you not? There are many layers to her: facts, practices, secrets. The dark goddess is never simple. She is… an endlessly intriguing topic.”

Me (thinking, sizing him up): This is worth it. He clearly knows more than most. Time to probe a little. Just… wisely.

Me (with a courteous smile): “My colleagues and I would like to ask you a few questions about Kali… if you don’t mind.”

Amrit (glancing at the temple clock, his voice smooth yet firm): “Of course. I’m at your disposal… but only for a few minutes.”

Me (to the point): “Which rituals are associated with Kali? From what I’ve gathered, there are blood rituals… and others that are more symbolic.”

Amrit (nodding with that patient calm, almost like a teacher correcting a bright but overeager student):

“That’s right. It depends on which stage of the tantric path one has reached. There are seven in total — and each stage comes with its own spiritual goal.”

Me (pressing further): “And the Left-Hand… and Right-Hand Paths? How do they fit in?”

Amrit (his light eyes flickered with something sharp, though his tone stayed lyrical):

“Hmm. The Right-Hand Path, Dakshinachara, holds to moderate, peaceful traditions — flower offerings, ritual dances, sacred text recitations. This aligns with the fourth stage of the path.”

He let that settle before leaning in just slightly.

Amrit:

“The Left-Hand Path, Vamachara, is what you would call… darker. It does not require shadow, but it allows it. Blood sacrifice, the drinking of wine, the consumption of meat. This aligns with the fifth stage of the path. For some practitioners, these practices become vehicles for illumination… for others, excuses for corruption.” ⚖️

Me (internally, heart jumping as the dots connected): Exactly what I read in that book I “borrowed.” Vamachara — the true path of Kaula Shaktism. And within it, the secret ritual of Panch Tattva — eating forbidden foods, drinking wine, and sex as sacred union. Not theory, not metaphor — literal practice. 👀🔥

Me (leaning in slightly, curious, almost teasing): “What kind of goddess is Kali, really? She’s known as the goddess of time and destruction… but is that truly all she is?”

Amrit (smiling faintly, his deep voice flowing like slow water): “To a degree, yes… but look deeper. Destruction, in her philosophy, is not death and suffering in the raw sense. It is rebirth. Reinvention. Kali strips away illusion, burns ignorance to ash. She is the teacher who reminds us: death is simply part of the journey, not its end.”

Me (frowning thoughtfully, pushing a little more): “So… is Kali good or evil? Because that seems to be the dividing line in most debates. People never agree.”

Amrit (light eyes steady, his tone calm as though this question had been asked a thousand times before):

“Good… evil… such words belong to those who fear shadows.”

He paused deliberately, then continued:

Amrit: “To call Kali absolute evil is to misjudge her entirely. She is many-faced — showing the world from angles most people never dare to look at. One face teaches the acceptance of death. Another, the destruction of prejudice. One face is ferocious, another is tender. Honor her, and she is kind, protective, a fierce mother. Disregard her, and yes… she is terrifying. Kali is not cruel by nature — she is cruel only to those who cannot face mortality.”

Me (closing things off politely): “I don’t have any more questions.”

Amrit (with that calm, melodic tone, light eyes softening just slightly): “Even if only for a few minutes, it was a pleasure to be your guide through the world of Shaktism.”

Me (smiling): “Thank you for your time. Truly. It was… fascinating.”

Me (internally, while keeping my face neutral): Most of it lined up with what I had already read — nothing shockingly new. But still… I hope Killian and Lima soaked it up. They needed the context. 📚

Amrit (straightening with quiet finality): “Well, I must go now.”

Yashvi (earnest, stepping forward): “Shall I walk you out? You need—”

Amrit (cutting gently but firmly): “Thank you. I’ll go by myself.”

Yashvi (hesitating, almost pleading): “But—”

Amrit (interrupting, this time sharper, his authority unmistakable): “*Yashvi. I’ll go by myself.*”

The finality in his voice clipped the air. She lowered her eyes immediately, bowing slightly, subdued.

Mr. Doobay turned and gave us a dignified nod in parting before striding out of the temple hall. His footsteps echoed briefly and then disappeared into the murmur of devotees.

Lima and Killian leaned toward each other, quietly discussing what we’d just heard, their exchange hushed but brisk. I only half-listened.

Me (thinking, gaze still following where Amrit had vanished): What an interesting man. He sounded like a scholar, carried himself like a priest, and walked out like someone with far too many secrets tucked neatly in his pockets. Too bad he only spared us a few minutes… I’d have liked a little longer to untangle him. 🕴️👁️

Me (internally, biting my lip): Maybe I should catch up to him… He left quickly, but I’ve still got time. If I let him walk away now, I might regret it later. 👀

I turned back to my colleagues.

Me (briskly): “Please wait here. I’ll only be a moment.”

Killian (eyebrow arching, clipped): “Amala, where are you going?”

I didn’t answer — just slipped off down the hall after Amrit. I could feel Killian’s patience wearing thin behind me, but he returned to murmuring something to Lima.

Me (calling softly but firmly): “Mr. Doobay!”

Amrit slowed, then turned, an expression of mild surprise thawing his dignified calm.

Amrit (slightly amused): “Amala? More questions?”

Me (straightforward, though I felt like I was toeing a line): “Yes. You seem very knowledgeable… especially in matters of Hinduism. I don’t want to intrude, but—if we were ever in an… emergency—could we count on your help?”

Amrit (studying me, calm but curious): “What kind of help do you mean?”

Me (careful smile): “Information, mostly. Someone integrated into this culture, who sees both sides of it. You seem like… that person.”

Amrit smirked faintly, dipping his chin in acknowledgment.

Amrit: “Consider me an advocate for this culture.”

Me (pushing, politely insistent): “So… may I contact you if needed?”

He went quiet, his pale eyes fixed on me, unreadable. The pause stretched long enough to make me wonder if I’d pushed too far.

Finally:

Amrit (firm, succinct): “You may.”

Me (relieved, cautious smile): “And how would I find you?”

Amrit (already turning slightly away, words weighted with finality): “Ask Yashvi. She will tell you everything.”

He held my gaze a second longer, then:

Amrit (lower, decisive): “I really must go now, Amala.”

I simply nodded. His lips curved into a smile—warm, fleeting—and just as quickly, it vanished. His face slid back into composure, and without another word, he turned and walked away, blending into the temple’s shadowed halls.

I retraced my steps, back to the first hall, where Yashvi stood waiting, graceful as always.

Me (to her, lowering my voice): “Who is he, Yashvi?”

She seemed pleased by the question, lighting up as she answered.

Yashvi (proud, reverent): “He is a high-ranking, well-educated man. A member of a respected family in Calcutta. He often visits, always making very generous offerings to the goddess. Mr. Doobay is polite, courteous… and he helps us maintain the temple.”

Her voice carried an almost lyrical warmth when she spoke of him.

Me (internally, brow quirking): Yashvi talks about him with far too much passion to be objective. 🤔

Me (gently teasing, observing her glow): “You respect him a great deal, don’t you?”

Yashvi (soft smile, hesitant but honest): “How could I not? He is… a wonderful person.”

Me (internally, narrowing my eyes at the obvious subtext): Ah. Respect, yes. But maybe something more simmering just beneath. Wonder if she even realizes it herself. 💡

Me (tilting my head, gently probing): “Yashvi… do you like him?”

Yashvi (eyes widening, flustered): “Excuse me?!”

Me (soft smile, unbothered by her reaction): “I just got the impression you spoke of him with… a great deal of affection.”

The devadasi froze. Her hands instinctively fidgeted with the golden bangles on her wrists, their soft chime betraying her nerves. A delicate blush spread across her cheeks.

Yashvi (whispering, uneasy): “You shouldn’t bring this up in the temple of the Great Kali… I’m not even supposed to let my mind wander to such things.”

I stepped a little closer, lowering my voice.

Me (gently but firm): “Yes, but your heart doesn’t always listen to rules, does it?” 💔

Her gaze dropped to the floor, silence weighing before she finally answered.

Yashvi (voice quivering, honest): “You are… very perceptive, Amala. You have the energy of someone reasonable, someone honest. I don’t want to lie to you. When I see Mr. Amrit… my heart flutters. No matter how much I scold myself, it doesn’t stop. You were right. One cannot command the heart.”

I softened, looking at her with a smile. There was something so tender, almost painfully sincere, in the way she admitted it.

Me (curious): “Does he know? Amrit, I mean.”

Yashvi (shaking her head quickly, horrified at the thought): “Oh, never. My soul and heart belong to Shakti only. I cannot belong to anyone else. Please—keep this a secret. To even think of it could mean punishment.”

Me (quiet, reassuring): “Of course, Yashvi. Your secret is safe with me.” 🤫

She gave me a look from beneath long lashes — a glance of gratitude mixed with shyness.

Then a voice cut through, brisk and practical.

Killian (from the doorway): “Amala?”

We both turned to face him.

Killian (hands in his pockets, curt): “Are we done here?”

Me (straightening, nodding): “I think so.”

Killian: “Good. Then let’s go — it’s dinner time, and we still have things to cover.”

Me (half-amused, half-wary): “Like what… exactly?”

Killian (even-toned): “Rose and I arranged to meet. We’ll discuss today’s findings in detail.”

I nodded, and after bidding Yashvi a warm goodbye — promising to visit her again — we stepped out of the temple into the busy Kolkata dusk.

Later, weaving our way through the bustling street, heading toward the meeting:

Lima (thoughtful): “Mr. Rose went to the market today, yes? With the local guide?”

Killian (short, efficient): “Yes.”

Lima: “I wonder what he managed to find out.”

Me (frowning slightly, half to myself): “I’m more curious to see what we’ll say to him. Because what little we’ve gathered so far is… confusing.”

Lima (arching a brow): “Why do you say that?”

Me (leaning forward, voice measured): “We haven’t learned anything specific. Only that… our killer follows the Left-Hand Path. Vamachara involves sacrifices, blood rituals, dark tantras. Whoever’s committing these murders isn’t aimless — they’re deliberately making offerings to the goddess.”

Killian (nodding, his tone crisp): “Yes. That much seems pretty clear.”

By the time we reached the café for the team meeting, I was drenched. The temple’s incense-heavy air, the sizzling midday sun, and a suffocating taxi ride turned me into something between a melted candle and a damp rag. Sitting across from Rose in sweaty clothes? Absolutely not happening.

So I bought myself an escape hatch in the form of retail therapy.

The shop’s fan barely worked, but the dress? Absolutely did. A fitted yellow-and-white piece with a cinched corset bodice, its skirt soft and flowing — with a slit that teased the thigh without apology. ⚡ Warm sunlight bottled in fabric.

Me (thinking, inspecting myself in a cracked mirror): Now, if only my hair didn’t look like a pigeon suffered an identity crisis in it.

With a few quick fixes, I let my long hair down, parted elegantly to one side. Loose waves, a frame instead of a mess.

Much better. If Rose wants to throw daggers, at least I’ll be dressed for the kill.

We gathered at the café, all of us — Killian, Lima, and Ratan Vaish already waiting, the table fragrant with steaming thalis and clinking glasses. Just when the food landed, so did Rose’s stare.

Mr. Rose (curt, clipped, staring straight at me): “So, Miss Khan. What did you learn today?”

Killian, ever the knight, tried to intercept.

Killian: “We were at—”

Mr. Rose (cutting sharp, his voice like a whip crack): “Are you Miss Khan? Amala, I’m waiting.”

The table froze. Killian blinked. Lima’s brows shot up. Ratan Vaish… simply fixed Rose with a long, stony look, the kind of look that said: I see you, I don’t approve, but I won’t speak yet.

Me (internally, sighing): And there it is. Someone’s clearly in a mood. If he’s snapping at Lightwood, then things are about to get… delightful. 🙄

I inhaled deeply, forcing my posture into calm composure.

Me (even, professional): “We’ve identified the killer’s ideology. Which means we can start predicting their actions… and maybe isolate them among potential suspects.”

Mr. Rose (flat, arms crossing): “That would be useful… if we had any suspects to begin with.”

The words dropped like ice cubes into hot chai.

Killian (quickly, steady as ever): “It’s not too late. We could dig deeper into the local sects. Even track the most devout, or public followers of Kali in Calcutta.”

Mr. Rose (leaning forward, voice cutting close to disdain): “And what, exactly, do you plan to do next?”

Me (firm, meeting Rose’s gaze without hesitation): “I’ll focus on the local sects. Killian is right — now that we understand the Left-Hand Path is involved, we can narrow our search to the Shaktism sects. It shouldn’t take long before we see results.”

Lima (diplomatic, looking to Rose): “Mr. Rose, may I ask… what did you find today?”

Mr. Rose (clipped, like reading a report aloud): “Mr. Vaish and I interviewed local vendors.”

Ratan (calm, steady voice, like a marble pillar grounding the chaos): “Amir was widely believed to be a fraud. He sold plain glass instead of real gems. Often charged higher prices than his competitors.”

Me (frowning, softly): “What a shame… He seemed honest.”

Ratan (shaking his head faintly, his gaze firm): “You shouldn’t pity him, Miss Khan. Human greed… is nothing out of the ordinary.”

Killian (leaning back, thoughtful, stitching threads together): “A strange picture is forming. A murderer. A terminally ill child. A dishonest fraud. It’s not yet clear, but… there is a pattern.”

Lima (nodding quickly, intuitive leap): “Definitely deliberate. Whoever the killer is, they think of themself as a punisher. A moral judge.”

Mr. Rose (cutting in, skeptical, sharp): “Punisher of what exactly? How could killing a terminally ill child ever fit such a twisted code?”

Lima (hesitating, shoulders slumping): “That’s the piece that doesn’t fit. Nothing justifies it…”

Me (internally, the noise of the café fading out as my thoughts spiraled): To be honest… all of this feels bizarre. Too bizarre. I can’t even tell where reality ends anymore. My visions, the bhoots whispering tantras in Kali’s honor, the killer following Vamachara while praising the Dark Mother… This doesn’t look like madness anymore. Sana might’ve been right. Maybe I actually see more than the rest of them do. 👁️🌑

Mr. Rose (snapping me back, his eyes like razors): “Do you have any thoughts, Miss Khan? Why don’t you share them with the rest of us?”

Me (hesitant, but firm): “It may seem absurd… but I think it’s connected. The killer follows the dark tantras, sacrifices people by severing their heads, and leaves the ritual symbol on every corpse. The victims were guilty of something—all except for the child.”

I inhaled deeply, my words trembling but steady.

Me (whispering): “Don’t laugh at me… but I think there’s something supernatural about this. I’m haunted by a strange, ominous feeling.”

A beat of silence. My colleagues exchanged glances. No one smirked. No one laughed.

Killian (measured, thoughtful): “You mean… a premonition?”

Me: “Yes. In fact… I knew the killer worshipped Kali long before I pieced the logic together. I—dreamed of her.”

Lima (eyes widening, half-whispering): “Are you telling us your theory comes from… intuition?”

Me (hesitant, but stubborn): “It’s difficult to explain. All I know is where to dig. It’s like… I can feel it.”

The silence deepened. Their faces were serious—no mocking smiles, no quick dismissals. Just tension in the air.

Ratan (calm, deliberate, as though delivering a lecture):

“There is nothing odd about intuition. It is not sorcery—it is simply the subconscious at work. The mind processes inputs, connects details faster than awareness allows. That clarity manifests as premonition.”

He spoke with the serene authority of a sage at a temple.

But then—

Mr. Rose (snapping, face twisted in disdain):

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Do you hear yourself, Amala?! What absolute rot are you spouting? The British Embassy funds this expedition, not séances!” 🤦♂️

I froze. His voice had cracked the air like a whip.

Mr. Rose (leaning forward, venomously):

“This—THIS—is why women cannot be trusted with serious work! Ridiculous hunches, emotional drivel, mutterings about spirits and premonitions. And now we’re meant to waste time on this tosh?!”

His words slammed against me, loud and cruel—and hung there in the silence that followed.

But then, a chair scraped sharply against the floor.

Lima (standing suddenly, hands on the table, eyes blazing):

“How dare you?! Are you implying I’m unworthy of my job because I’m a woman?!” 😡

Rose narrowed his eyes. His lips curled into a cruel half-smile.

Mr. Rose (mocking): “Well… do you believe in Miss Khan’s so-called visions? Hm?”

Before Lima could answer, another voice cut through the storm.

Killian (cold, commanding):

“Mr. Rose. Enough. You’re overreacting.”

Rose whipped toward him, bristling.

Mr. Rose (snapping, voice rising):

“Oh? So now you, Captain Lightwood, are defending this nonsense? Next you’ll be telling us you also believe in shadows and dark energy!”

Killian (steel in his tone, gray eyes sharp):

“I believe in respect. Nothing more—and nothing less.”

His words were cold water doused on fire—and yet, the heat only shifted.

Lima (furious, voice shaking but strong):

“Exactly! Respect! And if there is none here, then I want no part of this so-called team.” 💥

Me (voice icy, deliberate): “I agree with you, this is too much. We deserve to be treated better.”

Mr. Rose (snapping, venom slipping through his polished tone): “And we deserve better than the quality of your work.”

The words hit like a slap across the table.

Killian (sharply): “Emmet!”

Ratan didn’t say anything — just watched with that unflinching, steady stare, a silent judge presiding over the chaos.

Lima (voice shaking, but firming as she spoke): “I… I’m not going to put up with this any longer.”

Me (standing, my chair scraping the floor, voice cutting through his anger): “Then let’s get out of here. And you—”

I shot a glance at Rose. His face was flushed, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched.

Me (low, dangerous calm): “You love talking about professionalism — but there’s not an ounce of it in you tonight. Let’s hope your actual skills carry you through this case, since apparently, you’ll investigate it alone.”

Lima and I walked out of the café without a backward glance. Let him stew in his self-righteousness.

Lima (in disbelief, hands thrown in the air): “I can’t believe it. What came over him? Why would he say that? Did we really do such a bad job?”

Me (exhaling heavily, voice sharp): “This wasn’t about us, Lima. He blew up because of himself. His attitude. His prejudices.”

Lima (shaking her head, sighing tiredly): “I know… but is this really the time and place for him to pick fights?”

Me (flat, resigned): “I don’t know what goes on in his head.”

She pressed her temples, her frustration palpable.

Lima: “How are we supposed to keep working with him? It won’t be easy.”

Me (forcing a reassuring tone I didn’t feel): “I don’t know… but somehow it’ll work out.”

Lima (throwing up her hands, walking off): “Fine. I refuse to worry myself sick over him. He’s not worth it. I’ve already got a headache. See you later, Amala. And don’t think about him too much either — Rose isn’t worth your grief.”

Me (softly): “Thank you.”

We parted ways.

I walked the street alone, the night air hot against my skin. My thoughts churned.

Me (internally, pacing myself toward calm): So what happens now? Do we keep pretending to work together after tonight? Or was this confrontation the turning point? What if he files a complaint? What if they pull me off the case — leave me stranded in Calcutta, jobless, until it’s over? No. No, it can’t end like this. I need to see Kiran. Whether here or back home, doesn’t matter. But soon.

As the Chauhan house came into view, a thought struck me.

Me (thinking): Maybe I should read the stolen book tonight. New information will distract me… clear my head. Yes, I’ll—

I froze.

Me (staring, panic rising): Wait. Where did I put it?

I frantically retraced the memory.

FLASHBACK—

Asha’s voice, cold, hungry:

“A delicious, carefully guarded treat… What will your flesh taste like?”

Me (internally, horrified): Oh my God. I dropped it. During the bhoot attack.

I bolted inside the house, racing upstairs, breath shallow. The second-floor hallway blurred as I tore through corners, checked under chairs, crawled beneath tables.

Nothing.

The book was gone. My heart thundered in my ears.

Me (internally, choking on fear): No. No. No! I couldn’t have lost it! Maybe it’s in my room? I must’ve put it away and forgot…

Footsteps. Behind me.

I turned sharply, my heart still pounding. Priyanka Chauhan stood there, watching me curiously.

Priyanka (frowning, gentle reproach): “Amala, you’re late. You missed dinner. Shall I call Sana to set the table?”

Me (forcing composure): “N-no… it’s fine. I already ate with my colleagues.”

Priyanka (tilting her head, studying me): “You look worried. Something happen at work?”

Me (shaking my head quickly): “Not really… I just… lost something.”

Priyanka: “You did? What was it?”

Me: “My favorite book.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. She glanced around the hall, then shrugged.

Priyanka: “I don’t know, dear. Sana didn’t find anything while cleaning. What kind of book was it?”

Me (evasively, tight smile): “Doesn’t matter anymore…”

A thought flared suddenly.

Me: “Mrs. Chauhan, may I ask you something? Do you know of sects practicing Shaktism in Calcutta?”

She stiffened. Just slightly — but I noticed.

Priyanka (forcing a dismissive tone): “Why do you ask?”

Me (shrugging lightly): “I was just wondering.”

Priyanka (nervous, evasive): “Calcutta is large. Of course there are… odd people here. Every city has them.”

Her tone was too quick, her body visibly uncomfortable at the question.

Me (nodding, casually): “Hmm. Okay. Thanks.”

As I left, I felt her gaze linger on me, sharp, calculating.

My room brought no relief — the book wasn’t there either. My worst fear edged closer: I had truly lost it.

The hall thundered with screams. Heart-wrenching, gut-tearing screams of a man in agony. Dozens of voices chanting drowned him, a single name echoed over and over, but the sound of suffering broke through anyway.

Stranger in red (arms raised high, conducting the nightmare like an orchestra):

“May the fire purify your body and soul! May the water rinse you of your atrocities!” 🔥💧

A circle of black-cloaked figures surrounded him, echoing his chant in perfect, chilling rhythm.

Stranger (voice booming, rapturous):

“Sacrifice in the name of Dasa Mahavidya! Sacrifice in the name of the Great Kali — the fiercest, the most powerful among you!”

Dragged into the center, a man, beaten and bruised, thrashed in terror. His eyes were round, filled with a primal horror. He screamed as hands restrained him in place.

Victim (wild, breaking voice): “No! No—NO! No-o-o! Let me go!”

His frantic, hopeless cries echoed through the hall.

Stranger in red (arms trembling with ecstatic zeal):

“You are the highest knowledge… and the great delusion. You are reason itself… and great contemplation!”

The chanting surged louder around him. The hall shook with voices and ritual power — and the air itself carried the scent of impending blood.

Emmet’s hands were shaking. His lips pressed tight until they were almost white. Hopelessness pinned him harder than the cloaked figures ever could.

Stranger in Red (his voice booming, fanatical):

“Great Goddess and Great Demoness… Accept this gift!”

The ritual dagger shimmered in the torchlight — a blade drenched in the dried memory of other victims. Emmet’s eyes widened, the dreadful realization settling in: this was it.

A single swing. The glint of cold steel. The lightning-flash of pain. Copper filled his mouth, metallic and bitter. And then, mercifully — darkness.

I shot upright in my bed with a strangled gasp. My chest heaved, ears filled with the pounding of my own heartbeat. My skin was drenched; sweat slicked my back, and wet strands of hair clung grimly to my forehead.

Me (whispering, shaking): “Oh my god…”

I rubbed my eyes with clammy palms, but the terror sat in me like a weight. These dreams — again and again — they didn’t rest me. They hollowed me out, left me anxious and raw.

Me (trying to focus): “What… what did I just see?”

Before I could process it further, a loud, frantic pounding rattled through my door.

Sana (on the other side, panicked, breathless): “Miss! Miss Khan, please, get up! All your colleagues are here — they’ve come to see you!”

Me (internally, an icy dread crawling up my spine): Oh no. This feels bad. Really bad.

I forced myself to move, splashing water on my face, pulling clothes on with shaking fingers. Composed enough, I raced downstairs.

On the first floor, I froze.

Lima, Killian, and Ratan stood there waiting for me. Their faces weren’t neutral — they were shadowed, troubled. The silence in the room pressed against my skull.

I frowned, fear sinking deeper.

Me: “What’s going on?”

Me (internally, pulse quickening): Why am I so worried? What’s happened?

The silence echoed.

Then Killian stepped forward, his jaw tight, his voice grim but steady — like a man carrying news carved in stone:

Killian: “Amala… we have dreadful news. At dawn today, the local police found another ritual murder site.”

He hesitated, just for a breath, before delivering the blow.

Killian (slow, heavy): “Emmet Rose… has been murdered.”

P.S. Well, my deliciously curious darlings… did your jaw just hit the floorboards? Mine certainly did while writing this. 🎭 One moment Mr. Rose is snapping like a self-important schoolmaster at supper, and the next—BAM!—he’s the offering on someone else’s altar. Brutal, poetic, inevitable? You tell me. Was it karma, divine justice in Kali’s court… or just the tangled hand of fate dealing its bloodiest card yet? 🔪🕯️

Now here’s the scandalous question I must tempt you with: do you feel a pinch of guilty satisfaction at Rose’s fate (be honest, you rolled your eyes at him too 👀), or does his fall rattle you like a cold draft in a locked room?

Spill it in the comments, darlings—justice, tragedy, or both? I’m dying (pun intended 😉) to hear your take.

—Ever yours in drama and danger,

Your Mistress of Midnight Masala 💋✨🕯️