"Of course the psycho died crying."
Meher leaned back against the wall of his huge Jaipur bedroom, chai in hand, phone resting against his scarred thigh. His thumb scrolled lazily as his eyes scanned the last lines of the novel he swore he'd never finish. He'd promised himself he wouldn't get attached, but here he was—mocking it like it hadn't carved itself into the softest, most bitter part of his mind.
Agrasen, the infamous final villain, had just died.Not with dignity. Not with rage. But quietly. Pathetically.
A knife in his gut. A smile on his lips. A whispered, "I hope he loves you more than I ever did," to his younger half-brother, Caustav—the beloved protagonist.
Meher took another sip of chai and snorted.
"You gotta be kidding me."
He tossed his phone onto the mattress beside him with a dramatic grunt. The novel's app was still open, its title glowing faintly in the late afternoon light.
The End of Eclipse.
"This ain't a romance. This is propaganda for pretty boys with victim complexes," Meher muttered under his breath, rubbing his temple.
His phone buzzed again—notifications popping up one after another, readers gushing over Caustav.
'Ugh I cried when Caustav held Agrasen's body 😭''HE DESERVED BETTER. Caustav is so strong for surviving the trauma 🥺''Agrasen was toxic af. I'm glad he died.'
Meher clicked his tongue in disgust.
"Y'all would excuse a war criminal if he had dimples." He wrote.
He stood, the muscles of his back stretching under his tank top, scars snaking across his bronze skin like faded lightning bolts. One scar tugged down across his left eye, another deeper one carved just to the side of his lip—like a cruel afterthought from a blade.
He walked barefoot to the window, the wooden floor cool under his calloused feet. Outside, the hazy sun dipped behind high-rises and tangled electric wires. The world smelled of car exhaust, roasting peanuts, and monsoon rain that hadn't come yet.
His room was small—clean, barely furnished. A few old books, a pull-up bar, a punching bag hanging from a ceiling hook, and a shelf lined with prescription meds and muscle balm. His world was simple, physical, and painfully real.
That's why he hated that damn novel so much.Because it made him feel again.
The door creaked open behind him.
"Meher, the lunch is ready sweetie," a voice called softly.
Meher turned.
Standing in the doorway was his father—Dr. Samar. A man who looked like he stepped out of a surreal painting: tall, poised, with long raven-black hair tied in a low bun, sharp jawline, and a grace that didn't quite belong to this world. His eyes—deep, narrow, and slitted ever so slightly—glimmered under the hallway light.
He looked like a beautiful snake wearing human skin.Deadly. Calm. Elegant.
"Didn't you say you had an important surgery today?" Meher asked, confused.
"I did," the man replied, smiling faintly. "It finished early. I thought I'd surprise you."
Weird.
Meher narrowed his eyes for a split second. His dad was a top reconstructive surgeon at a private hospital—meticulous, punctual, not the type to leave mid-operation just to share dinner. But…
He was here now. That should've been enough.
"Alright," Meher said. "Give me a minute."
The man nodded and disappeared into the hallway, leaving a soft trail of scent—antiseptic and sandalwood.
Meher grabbed his phone, still on the bed, but didn't check it. He tossed it again without thought and walked into the living room. The air felt… off. Too cold, despite the summer. The light bulbs flickered once, but he ignored it.
On the TV, the news was playing. A grim anchorwoman with tired eyes and a tight bun read aloud:
"—victim count rises to 9 in the Mirror Killer case. Police believe the suspect impersonates close family members using hyper-realistic facial prosthetics and voice mimicking tech to gain access to victims' homes. Once inside, the killer mutilates and disfigures the face of the victim—"
"—a pattern is forming. All the victims have been young men, aged between 17 to 25. The killer leaves no fingerprints. Only one common thread: each victim thought they were safe with someone they trusted."
Meher's breath caught.
The curry bubbling on the stove hissed too loud.The chopping in the kitchen stopped.
The news reporter's voice faded into a buzzing drone as his phone rang from the bedroom.
He turned and slowly walked back toward it. The apartment was silent, except for the bubbling sound and that buzzing inside his chest.
He picked up the phone.
Caller ID: Dad.
The number blinked.
"Hello?" Meher answered, dread dripping into his throat.
"Beta! Just got out of surgery," his real father's voice replied, cheerful and exhausted. "God, it ran long. But I'm so glad it's done. You must be hungry. Let me take you out for dinner today, okay?"
Meher froze.
"You're… not home?"
"Home? No, I told you, surgery was in Ludhiana. I'll be home in a few hours—wait, why?"
Meher's hand trembled.
He turned slowly, eyes wide, heart thudding.
And standing in the kitchen doorway, still holding a dripping kitchen knife, was the man claiming to be his father. His head tilted slightly. His smile too wide. Too patient.
"Meher?" the real voice called out from the phone.
Before he could speak—
The knife-wielding figure was already there.
Fast. Inhuman.
He tore the phone from Meher's hand and slammed it to the ground. The screen shattered. Sparks fizzed.
"Took you long enough," the thing whispered, voice calm as a whisper under water. "You weren't supposed to find out yet."
"You talk too much," the thing in his father's skin whispered.
Meher stumbled back, fists raised. He tried to run, but the killer was stronger, faster, grinning.
Pain bloomed in his chest. Then his ribs. His side.Blood hit the floor like spilled tea.
His last thought wasn't fear.
It was rage.
Agrasen didn't deserve to die either..
Then, darkness.
But in the black, something stirred.
A pulse.
A breath.
And a voice—not his own:
"Outsider detected."
"Host consciousness found. Rewriting narrative file."
"Welcome, outsider."
"Your death has meaning now."
"You have entered the Restricted Section."