Chapter 1
Dawn bled slowly across the city, a bruised gray light crawling over the skyline and settling on the sprawling duplex mansion of Mr. Baset like a warning.
Zaheer sat rigid on the wide verandah, his jaw clenched, a cigarette burning forgotten between his fingers. The morning air was thick with damp earth, construction dust, and something else—something foul.
Spit.
A wet, hacking sound shattered the fragile silence again.
Then another.
Zaheer’s eyes narrowed.
Across the gate, half-shrouded by mist and rain, a bloated man stood on the roadside, hocking and spitting onto the muddy ground with grotesque regularity, as though determined to poison the earth itself. Each disgusting splash sent a fresh wave of revulsion through Zaheer’s body.
His temper snapped.
Disgust churned in his stomach as he rose abruptly from his chair. He had only been in this cursed house for a week, but already every corner of it seemed soaked in irritation, decay, and secrets. This... this filth was unbearable.
He stepped off the verandah and into the street, instantly regretting it.
Mud sucked greedily at his polished shoes.
Rain had transformed the road into a swamp of sludge, dirt, and stagnant puddles that reflected the darkening sky like pools of disease. Each careful step was a battle. Construction at the front gate had turned the once-grand entrance into a wasteland, and now his expensive shoes were stained with thick brown muck.
Zaheer cursed under his breath.
And then he saw him again.
The fat man.
Still spitting.
Still oblivious.
Still vile.
A hot surge of anger flared inside him, but the growing swamp ahead blocked his path completely. With nowhere to go, Zaheer turned back toward the house—a prison of wealth and silence that somehow felt safer than the world outside.
Inside, the heavy air offered little comfort.
“Would you like something to drink?”
Rahima.
The old maid’s sudden voice cut through his pounding headache like a rusted blade.
Zaheer spun around, fury flashing in his eyes.
“How many times have I told you?” he snapped. “Knock before entering.”
Rahima didn’t flinch. Her weathered face hardened.
“I have too much work to knock every time,” she muttered bitterly. “Keep your door closed if it bothers you so much.”
Zaheer stared at her, his frustration simmering beneath the surface. But arguing here was useless. Everyone in this house carried the same lifeless bitterness—as though laughter had been murdered long ago.
“Fine,” he said coldly. “Bring me tea. Strong.”
Rahima shuffled away, grumbling under her breath.
Zaheer exhaled sharply and rubbed his temples.
This house disturbed him.
Its servants moved like ghosts. Its halls were too quiet. Its walls seemed to listen.
And then there was Aditi—Mr. Baset’s daughter.
A woman he had not yet seen.
Not once.
Strange.
His gaze drifted to the motionless clock on the wall.
Stopped.
An icy ripple moved through him.
Why did that unsettle him so much?
He checked his phone.
11:00 AM.
Outside, storm clouds had swallowed the day whole, casting unnatural darkness over the estate. It looked less like noon and more like the dying breath of evening.
Zaheer moved to the window and pushed it open.
Wind rushed in.
The world beyond seemed wrong—twisted beneath rolling black clouds.
He lit another cigarette.
Behind him, Rahima returned silently, setting down his tea before vanishing once more.
He drank.
Sweet. Strong. Perfect.
For one brief moment, calm returned.
Then he saw it.
From his upstairs window, through curtains of mist and rain, a sleek black car glided through the mansion gates.
Silent.
Elegant.
Predatory.
Ali, the caretaker with his ever-present sinister grin, opened the gate without question.
Zaheer frowned.
Whoever was inside that car was no stranger here.
And yet... Zaheer had never seen him before.
The vehicle disappeared into the estate like a shadow swallowed by darkness.
A cold knot tightened in Zaheer’s chest.
By half-past eleven, it was time.
Every day at noon, he met with Mr. Baset to review accounts, finances, and business records. Routine. Predictable.
Today felt different.
Wrong.
He climbed the grand staircase, each creak beneath his feet sounding unnaturally loud.
The house was darker than before.
Too dark.
The silence pressed against him from every side.
Then—
A sound.
Faint.
Unclear.
His pulse quickened.
He moved slowly down the upper hallway, his breath shallow, his instincts screaming.
At the far end stood Mr. Baset’s door.
Closed.
Zaheer knocked.
Once.
Twice.
No answer.
A chill slithered down his spine.
His hand trembled slightly as he pushed the door open.
And froze.
Mr. Baset lay sprawled on the floor.
Dead.
A knife jutted grotesquely from his chest.
Blood spread across the polished floor in dark, glistening rivers.
But it was his face—
His eyes—
Gone.
Both of them.
Destroyed.
Zaheer staggered backward, his mind fracturing beneath the horror.
The dead man’s empty sockets stared upward in eternal agony.
His breath caught.
His heart pounded like thunder.
This wasn’t murder.
This was slaughter.
Panic gripped him.
Then—
Footsteps.
Ali.
The caretaker appeared in the doorway.
For one suspended second, his wicked grin vanished, replaced by theatrical shock.
Then his eyes locked onto Zaheer.
And everything changed.
“You—”
Ali’s voice cracked.
“Did you kill Sir?”
Zaheer’s blood turned to ice.
“No!” he shouted. “No! I didn’t—”
But Ali was already screaming.
“Murder! Murder!”
His voice tore through the mansion like a siren.
“He killed Mr. Baset!”
Zaheer’s body went numb.
“No—!”
But it was too late.
The trap had sprung.
And as the house awakened around him, Zaheer realized with horrifying clarity—
Someone had not only murdered Mr. Baset.
They had prepared Zaheer to take the fall.
