The Wrong Room: Room No. 17

The storm was heavier than the clouds promised. Winds slapped against the valley like fists, and the old hill station hotel groaned as if it hated being alive.

Kaavya Verma didn’t cared this time.

She’d left her screaming house, broken family, and suffocating life behind — and taken a solo trip to breathe.To forget.

The receptionist looked half-asleep when he handed her the keycard.

> “Room 17, ma’am. End of the left corridor. Don’t worry if the lights flicker — old place.”

Kaavya nodded, soaked coat in one hand, travel bag in the other. She just needed a hot shower, dry clothes, and a few hours to cry without someone asking her “Ab kya hua?”

She reached Room 17, tapped the key, stepped inside....

🕯️ Dim yellow lights. Dark furniture. A heater humming low in the corner.

Oddly lavish for such a quiet, unknown hotel.

Kaavya didn’t care. She slipped off her coat and boots, tossed her bag near the bed, and began unbuttoning her top to change.

The wind howled outside.Then — a click.

Not thunder.

A door latch. From inside.

She froze.

And in the next breath, the bathroom door creaked open — and he stepped out.

Tall,Black shirt rolled to the elbows. Wet hair dripping onto sharp cheekbones.

Eyes: deep brown, unreadable, not normal.

His presence filled the entire room, sucked the breath from the walls.

Kaavya stumbled back and grabbed the bedsheet, covering her front.

> “This is my room,” he said, voice rough, low, like smoke.

> “No—it can’t be—reception—Room 17—”

He tilted his head. No emotion. Just a slow blink.

> “Leave.”

> “I didn’t know—please, I’m sorry—”

He stepped forward.

She backed into the mirror.

The lights flickered.

He didn’t shout.

Didn’t move fast.

But somehow... he felt more dangerous than a man with a gun.

> “Why are you still here?” he asked.

Kaavya’s throat dried.

> “B-Because the storm… the door—locked—”

He looked at her. Really looked.

Not at her body. Not at her lips.

At her fear.

His eyes dropped to her hands — where she gripped the bedsheet tight.

> Slice.

A sharp edge of the bedpost tore into her skin.

Blood welled up, fast, trailing over her palm.

> “Aahh—!” she gasped, stumbling back, trying to press the bleeding shut.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.Just watched.

Like a predator watching prey bleed before the kill.

> “You’re bleeding,” he said — not with concern.

But like an observation.

> “W-What is wrong with you?!” she stammered, panicked.

> “You walked into my room,” he said, voice low, chilling.

“Now bleed quietly… or leave.”

Her breath hitched.

His eyes… cold. Focused. Unblinking.

He stepped forward.

> “I don’t like messes in my space.”

“Especially noisy ones.”

She backed into the wall, dizzy, skin cold despite the heater.

> “Who... are you?”

He stopped inches from her.Leaning slightly forward, he whispered:

> “Not someone you were meant to survive.”

She dropped her bag, ran out barefoot, barely remembering how she got past the door.

She just ran.Down the stairs. Through the lobby. Into the storm.Soaked in rain.Soaked in blood.And soaked in a fear that now had a name — even if she didn’t know it yet.

🔻 Behind the Glass

The storm outside screamed, but he stood perfectly still.

Unmoving. Untouched. Unshaken.

Like the eye of a hurricane watching the world lose control.

But inside him—

Something had cracked.

She walked in.

Unannounced.

Uninvited.

And she walked out… alive.

> “She entered my room,” he whispered, voice flat.

“And breathed like she belonged there.”

His eyes burned into the reflection in the glass — a reflection he’d spent years building to perfection.

Now stained.

By her.

He hadn’t even seen her name.

But her presence alone... was an insult.

> “Reyansh,” he said, each syllable heavy like thunder about to strike.

> “Sir?”

> “Who. Was. She?”

His tone didn’t rise. It didn’t need to.

It slithered like poison.

Soft. Precise. Lethal.

> “Someone let a woman into my silence.”

“Into a space where not even God dares to knock.”

> “And she stood there. In my air. Wearing my night’s peace like it was hers to borrow.”

His gloved hand flexed—controlled fury radiating from every joint.

> “I didn’t touch her.”

“I didn’t need to.”

> “Her mistake wasn’t touching me… it was thinking she could exist near me and walk away untouched.”

His eyes narrowed.

> “Find out everything. Name. Number. Bank accounts. Her dead goldfish’s name if she had one.”

> “I want her life on my table by sunrise.”

> “Understood.”

A long pause.

Then softer. Darker. Deadlier.

> “And Reyansh...”

> “Yes?”

> “Punishment isn’t just for those who cause pain.”

He turned slowly.

> “It’s for those who dare to interrupt my stillness.”

> “That girl… she didn’t enter the wrong room.”

“She entered her last moment of freedom.”

> “Now... she belongs to me.”

Click.

The call ended.

But the hunt had begun.

And Ishan Veer Rathod doesn’t hunt for closure.

He hunts to own.