Chapter 1
The ceiling fan made that tired creaking sound again, like it didn’t want to spin anymore. Vihaan lay flat on the cold floor, not because he liked it, but because the bed had cracked two weeks ago and no one had bothered to fix it.
He stared at the ceiling.
A spider in the corner.
A long line of dust near the bulb.
A crack running like a scar from one end to the other.
His mother’s voice came from the kitchen, weak but routine. ”Vihaan, you’re getting late.”
He didn’t reply.
He just blinked slowly, then sat up without saying a word. The room was dim, one window half-covered by a torn curtain. No posters. No pictures. Just peeling paint and silence.
His uniform was folded neatly near the corner — two shirts, one pant. Ironed, but too old to hide its age. The collar was fading. The cloth felt thin on his skin.
He didn’t look in the mirror. He already knew what he’d see.
A thin boy with uncombed hair. Dark circles under dull brown eyes. A face that always looked tired, even after sleep.
Vihaan.
He picked up his school bag — the same one from eighth grade, stitched twice. One strap was tied with blue thread, barely holding together. The zipper opened halfway and got stuck.
His mother walked in and handed him a small tiffin box.
“I could only make potato with salt,” she said. “There’s nothing else left.”
He took it from her hands and nodded.
“Thank you.”
That was it. No extra words. No fake smiles. Just a quiet exchange — like every other morning.
He wore slippers again. His shoes had torn a month ago and they still hadn’t managed to replace them. He’d stopped asking.
Then, without looking back, he left the house.
---
The walk to school was short. Familiar.
Same broken road. Same tea stalls. Same early morning noise. Scooters passed by with kids in polished shoes, laughing, being dropped off by their fathers.
Vihaan just kept walking — head low, steps slow.
The school gate came into view. Big, rusting, with a fading quote on top: “Excellence is our habit.”
Vihaan stepped in.
The school was already alive with noise — students chatting, laughing, shouting, moving around like the world was theirs. Nobody looked at him. Nobody waved. Nobody even noticed he had arrived.
He passed a group of boys. One of them looked at his torn bag, whispered something, and they all laughed quietly.
He didn’t stop.
He entered his class — 10th B — and walked to the last bench near the window. His usual spot. Not because he liked it. But because it was always empty.
As he sat down, the wooden bench creaked under him. He placed his bag on the desk and looked out the window.
The sky was pale. Cloudy. Even the sun looked like it didn’t want to show up today.
He heard voices behind him.
“Still wearing those same slippers?” “Guess the topper’s brains don’t earn him any shoes.”
He didn’t turn around.
It wasn’t the first time. And probably not the last.
He just closed his eyes for a moment and let the words float past him. He didn’t hate them. He just... didn’t feel anything anymore.
The class slowly filled up. Friends greeting friends. Notes being passed. Stories being shared. And Vihaan, sitting in the corner like background noise.
Then the teacher walked in — Mrs. D’Souza. English.
Everyone stood up. “Good morning, ma’am!” She didn’t even glance at Vihaan.
As the class settled, her eyes scanned the room.
“Let’s begin with the essay submissions. Roll number 3, Aarav — come forward.”
One by one, students went up.
When Vihaan’s turn came — roll number 17 — she just said, without looking up, “Leave yours on the desk.”
He walked to the front, placed his essay gently on the edge.
She didn’t take it.
He stood there for a second longer. Still nothing.
He walked back without a word. He sat down. Back to the window. His fingers curled slightly on the desk.
He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t sad. He just… existed.
A bird flew past outside. And somewhere deep in his chest, a small voice whispered something he wouldn’t say out loud.
“Even the stars... they must’ve forgotten my name too.”
The lunch break felt louder than usual.
Steel tiffin boxes opened. Benches scraped the floor. Someone at the front was singing badly while others laughed.
Vihaan quietly opened his own tiffin under the desk.
Boiled potato. Salt. Nothing else.
Before he could take a bite, a sudden voice echoed from the corridor.
“Did you hear about Sector 9?”
A few students immediately turned.
“My cousin lives there,” another boy said. “They found three people dead near the old market yesterday.”
“No, not dead,” someone whispered dramatically. “Massacred.”
The class grew quieter.
A girl near the front lowered her voice. “They said the bodies were completely destroyed.”
“Shut up, idiot. You’re lying.”
“I’m serious! My brother saw the police there.”
Vihaan kept eating silently, eyes lowered.
These stories had been spreading for days now.
Different parts of the city. Different victims. No witnesses. No clear reason.
Just blood.
At first people treated it like gossip. Then schools started warning students not to stay outside after evening. Shops began closing earlier. Parents started calling their children home before dark.
But still— nobody knew who was doing it.
Or why.
A sudden announcement crackled through the classroom speaker.
“All students are advised to return home directly after school hours. Avoid isolated areas. This is for your safety.”
The speaker buzzed and died.
An uncomfortable silence spread through the room.
Then, slowly, the noise returned again. People always got used to fear faster than they should.
Vihaan looked outside the window once more.
The cloudy sky had turned darker.
For some reason, he felt cold.
Not scared.
Just... strange.
Like something invisible was slowly moving toward the city.
And nobody could stop it.
Meanwhile.
Inside the central police station of the city, tension sat heavier than the smoke in the room.
A projector screen showed blurry crime scene photos.
Broken streets. Dark alleys. Bodies covered in white sheets.
Some officers avoided looking too closely.
A middle-aged officer slammed a file onto the table.
“Seven murders in twelve days,” Inspector Rathore said angrily. “And we still don’t have a single suspect.”
Nobody replied.
Another officer rubbed his tired eyes. “No fingerprints. No CCTV footage. Nothing.”
“What about witnesses?”
“Everyone says the same thing.”
The room fell silent for a second.
Inspector Rathore frowned. “What?”
The officer hesitated.
“They heard screams... and then complete silence.”
Another policeman spoke quietly, “One survivor from the first attack said he saw someone standing in the dark.”
“And?”
“He couldn’t describe the face.”
The officer swallowed slowly.
“He just kept repeating one thing before passing out.”
The room waited.
Outside, thunder rumbled faintly.
Then the officer finally spoke.
“He said the killer’s eyes were glowing.”
Silence.
A few officers exchanged annoyed looks immediately.
“Fantastic,” one muttered. “Now we’re chasing ghosts too.”
But nobody laughed.
Because deep down— every person in that room knew something about these murders felt wrong.
Too wrong.
Inspector Rathore stared at the crime scene photos again.
Something about the wounds didn’t feel human.
The lights flickered once.
Then again.
For a brief moment, the entire meeting room went dark.
And when the lights returned—
One of the photos on the screen had changed.
A blurry image.
Tall figure. Standing at the end of an alley.
Watching.
Nobody in the room had touched the projector.
An officer whispered, “What the hell...”
Then suddenly—
The screen went black.
