CHAPTER 2

Mumbai, 1993. The city hums, relentlessly. Horns, voices, the ever-present murmur of life.

But inside his apartment, it's silent. Too silent.

The clock on the wall ticks steadily, but time feels irrelevant to Ashwin Nair as he stares at his hands, his breath hitching.

Blood.

Not his first time. Not his last. But tonight... tonight feels different. It’s still warm, staining his skin, streaking his shirt, and pooling beneath his nails. The scent—metallic and sharp—refuses to let go, coiling around him like a noose. He stumbles into the bathroom, flicking on the light. A dull buzz fills his ears as he grips the edges of the sink, the cold porcelain grounding him against the swirling nausea. He tries not to look in the mirror, but his gaze betrays him.

A man stares back. Late twenties, hair dishevelled, jaw tight, eyes hollow. His face is sculpted, sharp enough to belong to a Bollywood star, but there’s something broken beneath the surface. He looks like a man wearing his skin as a mask.

At the sink, he scrubs at his hands, watching the water turn red. His fingers move quickly, desperately, but the blood won’t disappear. It’s still there, seeping into his skin, as though the act itself is tattooed into his very being.

It won’t wash off. He thought.

Soap turns pink in his palms. And he scrubs again furiously, but no amount of soap can wash away what he’s done.

> Do you feel it? the voice whispers.

Ashwin stiffens. It isn’t a real voice, of course. Not exactly. It lives somewhere in the back of his mind, curling around his thoughts like smoke, indistinct but always present.

> Do you feel the power? The thrill? You wanted this, didn’t you?

“No,” Ashwin muttered, shaking his head. His voice sounded foreign to him. “I didn’t want this.”

But the voice laughed.

> Liar.

The buzzing light above him quickens his pulse. He forces himself to stop and takes a shaky breath.

Control. He can’t lose it. Not now.

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He leaves the bathroom, glancing briefly at his reflection. There’s nothing there but a man drowning in his own choices.

The apartment is as cold as ever. Empty. Too pristine. Too perfect. The sleek furniture, the polished glass, the luxury of it all. His life, contained in these walls, feels like... a lie. He collapses into the leather chair by the window. His wet hair drips onto the fine material, staining it. He touches the armrest, fingers tracing the texture, grounding himself. The space reeks of opulence—a flat-screen television dominates one wall, while crystal chandeliers hang above a leather sofa set that costs more than some apartments.

He stretches his legs, feeling the velvety softness of the upholstery against his skin, and settles deeper into the comfort it offers. With a flick of his wrist, he grasps the remote control and the television flickers to life with the press of a button. Ashwin flips through the channels mindlessly, before he stops.

> "Breaking News."

A reporter stands before a crime scene, the glow of emergency lights reflecting on her face.

> "Another high-profile murder shakes the city. Business magnate Rohit Varma was found dead in his South Mumbai apartment, stabbed multiple times—"

Ashwin doesn’t hear the rest. His lips curl into a smile. Sinister. A twisted delight. The satisfaction crawling through his veins feels foreign, as though it belongs to someone else.

He leans back, his laughter morphing into uncontrollable scratching at his forearm, a habit he doesn’t remember picking up. The marks left behind faint, pale red trails that stand in stark contrast to his bronzed skin.

He’s done it before. He’s done worse. He repeats to himself.

But still, the itch crawls beneath his skin, gnawing at him. He curls into himself, forehead pressed to his knees, trying to steady his breathing. Trying to calm himself, calm the storm inside.

Ashwin’s lips part, a sharp inhale escaping as his muscles tighten.

> "Now we will be talking to the Late Mr.Varma's family —"

He throws the remote at the screen which goes dark with broken pieces scattered all over the floor.

A sudden buzz jolts him upright.

His phone vibrates against the glass table.

No name on the screen this time, just an anonymous number.

Ashwin hesitates. He knows. His instincts scream at him to ignore it. But he knows that wasn't even an option.

His hand moves on its own. He answers, bringing the phone to his ear.

> "Hello"

But silence greets him. A long, oppressive pause that stretches out, amplifying his unease.

> “Good work tonight,” a voice finally says.

Ashwin freezes.

> “You’re proving... useful. Do not disappoint."

The line goes dead.

Ashwin sits motionless, staring at the screen. His fingers tighten around the phone, the familiar anger rising inside him. It simmers beneath his skin, the rage that follows every job, the need to keep going. He despises it.

He moves to the window, pulling the curtains aside. The city sprawls beneath him, its lights glittering like stars. Somewhere out there, someone is watching. He grips the phone tightly, his knuckles whitening. The cracks in the screen splinter outward, distorting his reflection—a face he no longer recognizes.

He steps into the kitchen, his movements sloppy. The light overhead flickers again, casting odd shadows on the walls. He opens the fridge, pulls out a bottle of whiskey, and pours himself a drink.His hands shake as he lifts the glass to his lips. The burn is familiar, but it doesn’t do enough.

It never does.

In the oppressive silence, the faucet in the kitchen begins to drip.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.