This story contains fictional depictions of crime and justice. It does not promote violence or vigilante behavior. Reader discretion is advised.
The room was dark—too dark to see anything. The air was heavy, still, and cold like something out of a forgotten nightmare. Then came the echoing sound of chains rattling as the man suspended in the middle of the room stirred awake.
"Where the hell am I, you fuckers?!" he screamed, fear clinging to his voice. "Do you even know who I am? You'll regret this! I swear you'll—!"
A calm voice cut through the darkness, indifferent and sharp like a blade gliding across dry wood.
"Your name is Suraj. Age: 34. Your wife left you because of your gambling and drinking. You beat her so much the neighbors had to drag you off her. You even laid hands on her younger sister when she tried to protect her. Your own parents chose your brother over you. So, let me ask—who exactly are we supposed to fear here?"
The lights flickered on—fluorescent, sterile, bright white—and revealed the room.
A cold, spotless space. Four walls. No windows. No escape. In the center, the man—Suraj—was hanging from the ceiling by thick ropes looped under his arms and chest. Blood already crusted over some rope burns on his arms from the initial struggle.
And in the chair just a few feet away, sat Kavir.
No longer the disinterested waiter with hair draped over his eyes. Today, his face was clear. His eyes glowed—not with rage, but with something colder. Something dangerous. A quiet joy.
Beside him was an object, tall and covered in a crimson cloth.
Suraj looked around, his voice shaking. "What is this? What the hell are you doing?! Let me go!"
"You said you wanted to be free, didn't you?" Kavir tilted his head with a crooked smile.
"Yeah, free from this bullshit! Let me go, you bastard!"
Kavir chuckled softly. "Then let's get started. It took me over a week to build this, you know."
Suraj blinked. "Build what?"
Kavir pulled the red cloth away.
Underneath was something straight from a medieval horror story.
The Iron Chair.
A rusted iron throne covered in spikes. Backrest, armrests, seat—every inch of it, filled with iron needles, barely visible under the grime but sharp enough to tear flesh.
Kavir stood up. "This one was used in Europe. The design's old, but it still works. Oh, and since you like alcohol..."
He walked toward Suraj, pulled his mouth open and began pouring a full bottle of liquor down his throat.
Suraj coughed and spluttered at first, but then smirked. "That's it? Booze? I'll take this punishment every day!"
Kavir laughed softly, then nodded.
"Sure. Just don't go back on your word now."
From the ceiling, a tile slid open, and a metal ladder clanked down.
Ratan descended, casual as ever, carrying a large black duffel bag. He didn't speak. He didn't need to.
He unzipped the bag. Inside were two thick wooden sticks, splintered on one side—clearly used before.
Kavir and Ratan each took one.
Suraj's smirk disappeared.
"You agreed," Kavir said, his eyes glinting. "To be free."
And then the sticks came down.
Once. Twice. Over and over.
They didn't scream at him or insult him. They didn't yell or threaten. They simply beat him—methodically, quietly, like they were just fixing something broken.
Bones cracked. Skin tore. The alcohol burned every open wound, and Suraj's howls bounced off the white walls like opera.
An hour later, he was still alive. Barely.
His body hung limp, bleeding from everywhere.
Kavir dropped the stick and walked up to him.
"Well done," he whispered, wiping sweat from his brow. "Still breathing."
They cut him down and lowered him into the chair.
The spikes pierced him immediately. Suraj howled and writhed, but the pain only grew worse the more he moved. Blood poured from every stab point.
"Now the real torture begins," Kavir said, stepping back.
They lit a burner beneath the chair.
The metal slowly heated up. First warm, then scalding. The blood started to boil around the spikes.
Suraj screamed until his throat gave out.
And then… silence.
Kavir stood for a long time, watching his handiwork.
Ratan stepped up and patted him on the shoulder. "I'll handle the body. This place has seen worse. No one's coming here."
Kavir nodded.
Outside, the jungle-like overgrowth swallowed the crumbling road. Abandoned houses lined the path, long forgotten by society.
Ratan stayed behind, whistling an old Bollywood tune as he dragged what was left of Suraj into the shadows.
Kavir walked to the car parked near the boundary.
He changed clothes. Put on his plain shirt. Let his hair fall back over his face.
Depression returned to his expression like a familiar old coat.
By the time he reached the front gate of the detective office, he was once again just Kavir, the quiet guy with messy hair and emotionless eyes.
But someone stood waiting.
It was Chhavi.
She was standing with a paper bag in her hand, shifting from foot to foot, as if debating whether to stay or run.
Kavir paused, staring at her. She noticed and opened her mouth to speak.
But Kavir beat her to it.
"Come inside."
She followed him into the dim office. Ratan's desk was empty. The fan above spun lazily.
Kavir gestured to the sofa.
"Sit," he said softly. "Are you okay?"
Chhavi nodded but didn't speak.
"Is anyone bothering you again?" he asked.
She looked up, surprised. "No. No… that man—he hasn't shown up."
"Good." Kavir nodded. "He won't be showing up. Ever again."
There was a quiet in the room. The kind that wasn't awkward, but heavy with unspoken truth.
She swallowed, her voice trembling. "I… I came to say thank you. I still can't believe I got out safe."
Kavir leaned back in the chair. "You did. That's what matters."
She held the paper bag out. "I made a cake… I can't pay you. I mean, I… I don't have any money. But this—"
Kavir took the bag, setting it down gently.
"We don't take money from everyone," he said. "Some people need help. You were one of them. That's enough."
Chhavi smiled. Her eyes shimmered, but this time—not from fear or sadness.
From relief.
Then, without another word, she stepped forward and hugged him.
Soft. Gentle. No crying. Just a warm, genuine embrace.
Kavir blinked, unsure what to do.
She whispered, "Thank you."
And then, before he could reply, she stepped back, gave a small wave, and left the office.
The door creaked shut behind her.
Kavir stood still for a moment, hand slowly lowering from where it had awkwardly hovered behind her back.
He sat back down, stared at the slowly spinning fan above, and let out a soft sigh.
Outside, the breeze was picking up again. The wind didn't care about stalkers or violence or justice.
But inside the office, there was quiet peace—for now.