The CCTV footage was grainy.

  The school corridor—silent, lifeless—stretched into darkness. Every corner seemed to hold its breath.

  Nothing moved. Not a sound. Not a flicker.

  The timestamp blinked: 02:47 AM.

  And just then, from the far edge of the frame, a figure emerged out of nowhere.

  A man. Hood drawn low, face swallowed by shadow. His steps were slow, deliberate, almost cautious, yet weak—like someone carrying more weight than just their body.

  He walked straight toward the store room—their refuge, their battlefield, their home.

  And just as he reached the door—

  The screen glitched.

  Static tore across the image. The video fractured into shards of black and white, the timestamp flickering like a heart struggling to beat.

  Then, abruptly, the footage snapped back.

  The man was gone.

  Only one thing had moved— the store room door, swinging slightly, as if someone had opened it, then walked away without bothering to shut it.

  The screen went black and reflected from the shut screen were four faces— Yug, Rishabh, Kritika, Vivek.

  All staring. Waiting.

  "This is real footage… right?" Vivek’s voice broke the silence, shaky but loud enough to echo in the small room.

  "Yes," Kritika said, still fixated on the screen. "But it felt… unreal. Like a trick of the eyes. Like the camera itself was lying."

  Rishabh leaned in closer, eyes scanning every pixel. "The glitch isn’t random. The camera is fully functional. Which means—"

  "The footage was tampered with," Yug finished, voice low, tense. "And it’s from the night after we fought Sahil. The last time I saw Tarun."

  The room fell silent. Heavy. Pressing.

  Vivek finally whispered, almost to himself, "Random guessing won’t work anymore. If we want answers… we have to do this properly."

  "But how?" Kritika spun around, frustration bleeding into her words. "We don’t even have a place to plan."

  Yug’s gaze drifted somewhere far away, his thoughts not in the room. Then, suddenly, he stepped back.

  All eyes snapped to him.

  "I know a place," he said. The words were careful, deliberate, like weighing every possible reaction.

  A pause, almost like he wasn't sure if he should say it.

  "And… you guys might not like it."

  ——————————————

  "God, I hate this place!" Rishabh shouted, his voice bouncing off the damp concrete walls, echoing through the place. "Was this the only option you could think of?"

  The basement revealed itself slowly, layer by layer, as if it were alive, breathing memories of the past into the present. The stench of rot and iron hit them immediately, clinging to the back of their throats.

  It was the Sector 17 Police Station basement—the same place they had faced Sahil Malhotra. That night’s chaos seemed etched into the walls themselves, refusing to be erased.

  The first layer greeted them with its familiar metallic stench, the floor sticky with old blood. Every step stirred it further, curling in the air like smoke from a fire long extinguished but never forgotten.

  Kritika moved ahead of the group, eyes drawn to the staircase leading to the second basement. Her breath caught as she glimpsed the horrors below.

  The traps were still there. Broken glass, jagged metal, shredded ropes—everything frozen mid-threat.

  Blood clung stubbornly to every corner, darkened and hardened with time.

  And worst of all… patches of dried flesh still clung to surfaces like grotesque trophies.

  Kritika bolted back up the stairs and slammed the door shut with a sound that reverberated through the room like a gunshot.

  "We don’t go there," she said, voice firm, face pale and twisted with disgust. Even breathing felt heavy, as if inhaling the air itself were a violation.

  Yug stepped forward, his voice low but steady.

  "This room… it’s the only option we have. If finding Tarun matters more than comfort, we have to use it."

  Rishabh exhaled sharply, running a hand over his face. The anger in his voice faded as the rational part of his mind took over.

  "You’re right," he admitted. "And the cops… won’t notice. Still drunk, still playing poker… still oblivious like last time."

  Vivek leaned against the wall, eyes flicking over the stains, the shadows, the remnants of broken traps. The bravado he had just got was gone, replaced with unease, an almost physical tension coiling in his shoulders.

  "So… this is where we start…" His voice was quieter now, almost swallowed by the oppressive air.

  He paused, eyes scanning the grim surroundings, letting the silence press down. Finally, when realisation struck him like a speeding bullet, he added, voice low, measured…

  "But… what do we actually do now?"

  ——————————————

  The answer to Vivek’s question wasn’t spoken, but devoured.

  Plates emptied as though they hadn’t eaten in days, forks clattering, bread torn, hands reaching desperately for anything within reach.

  The air was thick with the smell of fried food, spices, and the faint sweetness of something homemade.

  Vivek groaned, shoving the last bite into his mouth, then shouted, "More! Bring more!"

  The group was sprawled around Yug’s small house, moving like creatures starved of comfort, energy, and familiarity.

  Asha Verma, Yug's mother, entered then, her presence calm but sharp. She coughed more frequently, leaning on the counter as she surveyed the scene.

  Her eyes softened at the sight of empty plates piled high. Without a word, she moved to serve more, her hands steady despite the lingering cough that rattled her chest.

  Yug, silently, began helping her—carrying vessels, wiping down counters, stacking plates.

  His mother’s frailty was obvious— each movement measured, each step cautious.

  But something felt off to her, and when she realised what it was, she asked, her voice light but probing.

  "Where’s your other friend? The big one who always makes me laugh… the one who eats the most out of you—Tarun!"

  There was no answer.

  Kritika interjected quickly, "Oh, he’s… busy. Personal work." The lie slipped out, awkward and thin.

  Yug continued washing, avoiding her gaze, until Asha spoke again.

  "You all look different. Something’s… changed. What happened?"

  "Nothing," Yug muttered, his voice low.

  She leaned closer, her tone softening but firm. "Yug… you can’t hide anything from your mother."

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  He paused.

  The silence stretched between them like a tightrope.

  Then, carefully, he said, "Fine. We’re all tense… with the huge assignment we have. And… yes, I’ll be out late for a few days for the project."

  Asha said nothing. Her eyes lingered on him, reading the weight in his shoulders, the shadows in his eyes.

  Mothers see everything. She knew he wasn’t telling the whole truth.

  Without a word, she pulled him into a hug, holding him as if to shield him from everything beyond these walls. Her cough rattled through the embrace, but she didn’t release him.

  Finally, she whispered, a note of quiet authority beneath the softness, "Just… don’t skip your meals."

  ——————————————

  Yug munched on samosas like he hadn’t eaten in days. Each bite was sharp, almost frantic, as if the act of eating could somehow anchor him to reality.

  His other hand clutched a bulging bag of snacks, a silent rebellion against the chaos in his mind—and a quiet promise to his mother’s words: “Just don’t skip your meals.”

  Even in the weight of Tarun’s absence, even with his thoughts clawing at him from every direction, he obeyed her.

  In the center of the basement, Vivek was busy arranging chairs with mechanical precision, his movements sharp but distracted.

  Rishabh dragged a sturdy table into position, muttering under his breath.

  “It’s easy to steal stuff from those drunkards,” he said, though his jaw was tight and his eyes constantly flicked toward the shadows, as if expecting trouble.

  Kritika placed the laptop on the table, the blue screen casting a cold glow across her face. She ran her fingers over the keys, her expression softening briefly.

  “And who even made them police?” she muttered. “They’re useless.” Her voice carried more frustration than fear, a faint laugh breaking the tension—but it was hollow.

  They all settled into the basement, the faint hum of the laptop, the occasional crinkle of wrappers, and the distant dripping of water the only sounds.

  Vivek’s gaze fell on the snacks strewn across the table. “Who did you bring all this for?” he asked, eyebrows raised. “We’re not monsters.”

  Yug’s eyes instantly turned to a single chair, slightly apart from the rest. He pointed. “I guess… you forgot about Tarun here.”

  The group’s heads turned slowly, almost in unison, toward the chair.

  Empty. Silent.

  Yet its presence was deafening.

  The bag of snacks beside it, untouched, was like a ghostly marker of the space Tarun should have occupied.

  A reminder of their missing anchor, the one who kept their chaos in line.

  No one moved the chair. No one spoke.

  The silence pressed down on them, heavy and accusatory. Tarun wasn’t there. And yet, the way their eyes lingered on the chair, the bag, the empty space—it was as if he might appear at any moment.

  Slowly, hesitant words began to fill the basement. The conversation was fragmented, awkward, searching—thoughts stumbled over themselves.

  They had no leads, no real evidence, no clear path forward. Only fragments, hunches, shadows of information that refused to coalesce.

  “Maybe we should start by… retracing where he could’ve gone,” Rishabh muttered, his voice low. “But… we don’t even know what we’re looking for.”

  “And what if we find nothing?” Kritika whispered, almost to herself, tapping the laptop’s screen. “What if he’s… gone?”

  The question hung, unspoken, in the air.

  No one had an answer. None of them wanted one.

  Finally, a decision was made.

  They would split up. Each of them would follow different threads, chase different leads, and gather what they could.

  Later, they would reconvene, connect the dots, and try to make sense of the puzzle Tarun’s disappearance had left behind.

  The four of them moved with purpose, each aware of the void left behind, each carrying the weight of absence, and each silently promising themselves—Tarun will not be lost without a fight.

  Even as they dispersed, the chair sat quietly in the dim light, and the bag of snacks beside it whispered the one truth they refused to say out loud.

  Somehow, in their hearts, he was still there.

  ——————————————

  Kritika sat cross-legged on the cold, tiled floor of the school office, a small desk lamp flickering beside her like it was struggling against the darkness.

  Around her, piles of files teetered precariously, the smell of old paper mixing with the faint musk of dust and mildew.

  The silence was oppressive, broken only by the occasional creak of the ceiling fans or the distant echo of footsteps from somewhere down the hall.

  She flipped open the duty roster for the night after the Sahil incident, her eyes scanning every column with obsessive precision.

  Names, shifts, timestamps, signatures—every detail, every scribble had to be examined.

  She traced her finger along the line that corresponded to the night Tarun had disappeared, reading and rereading the name of the guard who was supposedly on duty.

  Something felt wrong. Too neat. Too casual.

  Kritika rose, the file clutched to her chest like a weapon, and stepped out into the corridor. Her footsteps echoed against the concrete walls.

  She found the current night guard leaning lazily against the wall near the main gate, cigarette smoke curling upward into the dim light.

  His face was lined and tired, eyes glazed with the boredom of routine.

  Kritika’s sudden approach made him shift slightly, but he didn’t speak.

  “The guard on duty that night,” she began, showing the records with her voice low but firm, “the one who was supposed to be here at this time… was he actually on shift?”

  The man’s eyes flicked toward her, narrowing.

  It seemed as if he tried to remember what happened, and after a wait of what felt like an eternity, he spoke.

  “No. He wasn’t. Sent someone else instead.”

  “Someone else?” Kritika pressed, stepping closer, her pulse quickening. “Who? Why? And who approved it?”

  The guard scratched the back of his neck nervously, the questions too much for him to process.

  “I don’t know his number. Just got a message. Said he had urgent work. Couldn’t come. Told me to cover it. Left a note on the table the next morning."

  Kritika’s breath caught. “No one knows where he went? And what did that note have?”

  The guard shook his head slowly, almost as if admitting guilt. “Nothing. Just… urgent work. Nothing more. And… he hasn’t been back since that night.”

  “Urgent work,” Kritika murmured, her voice low, almost a whisper. The words echoed ominously through the empty hallway.

  There was something calculated about it, something deliberate. Someone had made sure the guard wouldn’t be there, someone had deliberately left only a hollow excuse.

  Urgent work. Simple. Clean. Terrifying.

  She turned back to the files on the desk, flipping through page after page, looking for patterns, anomalies, anything that could give her a clue.

  Her fingers brushed against the edges of papers, some yellowed with age, some still crisp, and for a moment, she felt a shiver.

  The thought that someone had manipulated the very schedule they trusted—the very foundation of the school’s security—made her stomach twist.

  It wasn’t random. This was intentional. Someone had known.

  Someone had planned. And now, the pieces of the night were scattered, hidden, obscured.

  She carefully gathered the files, stacking them neatly, but her hands trembled slightly. This investigation had only just begun.

  And somewhere in the back of her mind, she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone had already anticipated her moves—that the truth she was hunting was always one step ahead.

  ——————————————

  Vivek stepped into the small shop, the faint jingle of the bell announcing his presence.

  The shop smelled of fried snacks and warm bread, the dim fluorescent lights flickering slightly above the counters.

  The man behind the counter looked up, squinting at him. “Can I help you?”

  “I… I’m looking for someone,” Vivek began, hesitating. “Tarun…”

  The man’s eyes lit up instantly, recognition flashing across his face. “Tarun? That boy? Ah! Tarun… sweetest kid you’d ever meet! Always polite, always helping me around the shop.”

  Vivek smiled faintly. “I see… I’m actually a friend of his. Did he happen to come here recently?”

  The man leaned back, recalling.

  “Recently… yes, a few days ago. Around… eleven, I think, the shop was about to close. Didn’t look like the boy I knew. Pale, weak… walking slowly, carefully."

  Vivek frowned. “Was there anything specific about him?"

  “Umm… I don't recall that well,” the man wondered, scratching his head. "But yes, when I asked about it, he suddenly turned rude. Very unusual of him."

  Vivek leaned on the counter. “Did he… say anything else? Or do anything unusual while he was here?”

  The man shook his head. “No. I guess he was just there to pay off all his debts. He kept cash on the table and left quietly.”

  "Debts?" Vivek wondered. "He had to pay you money?"

  "I'd usually let him take things for free… in exchange for some help," the man looked around, as if he was remembering the way Tarun helped him with a smile.

  "He paid whenever he had some money. Even worked for me part-time. But still, there was a lot of unpaid debt."

  Vivek’s mind raced, expecting Tarun to be so kind but suspicious of whatever he heard yet. “Was anyone with him? Did anyone follow him in?”

  The man paused, rubbing his chin. “Not that I saw. But… now that you mention it, he kept glancing around. Kept checking the door, looking over his shoulder. Something was off, yes.”

  Vivek scribbled a note. “Do you know if he’s been here other nights like that?”

  “He came sometimes, mostly to pick up his favorite pineapple pizza. But that night… it wasn’t the same." The man leaned back, a faint worry in his eyes.

  Vivek nodded slowly. The pieces were small, but they were there.

  As he left, the man called him one last time, still smiling but slightly tense.

  "I don't know what happened to him. But do let me know if I'll be of any help to that sweet boy.”

  ——————————————

  Another hospital. Another disappointment.

  Rishabh stepped out of yet another hospital, the cold night air hitting his face, but it didn’t ease the disappointment weighing on his chest.

  He had searched countless corridors, questioned every nurse and attendant, only to find nothing. Tarun wasn’t anywhere.

  He expected Tarun to visit any one of the hospitals, judging by the intensity of the wounds he got during the fight with Sahil.

  He walked down the dimly lit street, every step echoing off the walls of shuttered clinics. His mind ran over every possibility.

  Then, from the corner of his eye, movement.

  A man emerged from a small, local clinic across the road.

  Casual, almost too casual, like he had nothing to hide. The man tossed a plastic polythene bag into the nearby dustbin.

  Most would have ignored it. But Rishabh’s gaze caught a flash of metal.

  A shard of a glass bottle glimmered briefly in the streetlight, like a warning.

  ——————————————

  The shard was a reminder of that night— the bottle Sahil used as a weapon.

  Sahil smashed a beer bottle against the table, the sound sharp and final. Jagged edges gleamed in his grip.

  Before Tarun could react, Sahil drove the broken end forward.

  It sank into Tarun’s abdomen.

  Blood spilled instantly, warm and unstoppable, soaking his hands as his body folded. His knees hit the floor.

  The bottle stayed lodged there, trembling with every breath he tried to take and Tarun collapsed.

  ——————————————

  Rishabh’s heart thudded violently. Memories of Tarun’s brutal attack flooded back—the broken bottle, the blood, the fear.

  Without a second thought, he sprinted across the street. His hands tore into the polythene, revealing a jagged fragment of glass.

  His breath came fast. This… this was part of the weapon. Part of what had nearly killed Tarun.

  He didn’t pause.

  Adrenaline pushed him forward as he stormed into the clinic. “Who came in with this? Who brought a boy with these injuries?” His voice cracked slightly, raw with urgency.

  The receptionist flinched at his sudden entrance, eyes wide. After a moment, she opened a register and began flipping through records.

  Rishabh stood there, his whole body sweating endlessly, but all that mattered to him at that time was Tarun.

  He tapped his feet on the floor with anxiety, and just when his patience gave up, the receptionist spoke.

  “There’s… no name entered,” she said slowly, tension threading her voice. “But the injuries are listed.”

  She scanned the page again, even more carefully like it was still unbelievable to her. “Torn palm, deep cuts along the forearms, severe lacerations on the back… and a broken glass bottle shoved into the abdomen.”

  Rishabh’s stomach sank. Every word matched exactly what he remembered from that night of chaos.

  “And… the boy? What did he say?” he demanded, leaning forward.

  The receptionist hesitated, then shook her head in denial. “He was unconscious. Completely. But a man in long hair… he brought him in. Told us to clean the wounds, stop the bleeding. Said the boy would be taken to a better hospital.”

  Rishabh froze. The pieces of the puzzle clicked into place in a terrifying clarity.

  A stranger had been involved— someone who didn’t want Tarun’s injuries documented. It was someone who had vanished with him into the night.

  Rishabh knew the hunt had just begun. Whoever this man was, and whoever was there with the man, they had taken Tarun somewhere else.

  Somewhere hidden.

  And Rishabh— he had sworn he would find out where.

  ——————————————

  Yug slipped through the winding alleys of the slum, where the air was thick with smoke, rot, and the stench of stale garbage.

  The walls, coated in peeling paint and grime, leaned inward, shadows stretching like dark fingers, curling around every step he took.

  Rats scurried across broken tiles, clattering metal lids echoed somewhere behind closed doors, and the distant wail of a child made him flinch.

  He moved door to door, asking the same questions, each one more desperate than the last. “Do you know him? Tarun… has he been here? Did someone come for him?”

  No one knew his name. Only fragments emerged—fragments of a life Yug thought he understood.

  “He’s the one who always helped me carry heavy bundles,” said a man with sunken eyes, leaning against a doorway.

  “The boy who always makes me laugh,” whispered an old woman, her fingers trembling, remembering Tarun like a memory she didn't want to forget.

  “Worked at the small grocery shop nearby,” muttered a teenager, voice low and frustrated of Yug's constant questions.

  “Delivery boy… always running around with parcels,” said another, shaking his head as if trying to clear a memory trapped in fog.

  No one properly knew about Tarun, but there was one thing that was common between all of their answers to Yug.

  "He always had a smile on his face."

  Yug’s chest tightened.

  None of it connected. None of it led to answers. The threads were there, but the pattern remained invisible.

  Frustration gnawed at him, and the disappointment felt even more stinging than the pain in his own body.

  As he turned to leave, a sudden shift in the air made him stop. The slum, usually noisy with its restless energy, fell eerily silent.

  And just then—

  SLAM!

  A sharp crash shattered the tension. A glass bottle smashed against the wall—just inches from his crutch. His heart jumped into his throat. He spun around, eyes wide, every nerve on edge.

  From the shadows, a drunk man emerged. Stumbling slightly, reeking of alcohol, the man’s grin was jagged, teeth yellowed and glinting under the dim streetlight.

  His finger jabbed toward Yug like a weapon.

  “You… you’re one of them,” he slurred, voice thick with menace.

  “I—I don’t know what you mean!” Yug’s voice shook, cracking with the man's sudden arrival.

  The man’s grin widened, stretching into something colder, something horrifying, and then suddenly disappearing like it wasn't ever there.

  And then, the words that he uttered made Yug freeze instantly.

  The words struck Yug like a physical blow. The alley seemed to tighten around him, walls pressing closer, shadows swallowing the space around him.

  The stench of garbage and decay became almost suffocating, mingling with the sweat of fear on his skin.

  For a moment, the world tilted. He realized he wasn’t just looking for Tarun anymore. He had stepped into a truth far darker, far more dangerous than he could have imagined.

  The man’s laughter rang, hollow and echoing, fading slowly into the labyrinth of alleys. Yug’s eyes widened, heart hammering.

  The shadows of the slum seemed to whisper around him, but the words of the man burned bright in his mind. The man said something that made Yug spiral in his own mind.

  “You were one of them," the man said without an after thought, like he was sure of what he had seen.

  "The ones who came here that night.”