Dawn bled into the city like a ghost—cold, gray, and unwilling to leave. The streets of Bhopal still glistened from the night's storm, puddles catching the pale morning light in cracked reflections.
Rahul crouched in the narrow gap between two abandoned buildings, his breath misting in the chill. His clothes clung to his skin, soaked and sticky with blood. The rain had stopped an hour ago, but the world around him still smelled of wet earth and diesel.
His shoulder throbbed with a deep, burning ache.
He'd tied a strip of torn fabric around the wound—makeshift, desperate—but it was soaked through, crimson blooming like a flower across the cotton. Every breath sent a fresh wave of agony crawling down his arm.
I need a doctor.
No. A hospital meant cameras, forms, uniforms. The moment someone recognized his face, it would be over.
That inner voice slithered back, sharp as broken glass.
You're on borrowed time. Infection kills you. Police kill you. Either way, you're dead. Tick-tock, Rahul.
He pressed his back against the wall and forced himself upright. His legs trembled, the world tilting in dizzy waves. He caught himself against the brick and stayed still until the nausea passed.
He couldn't stay here. Too open. Too close to the main road where vendors would soon arrive, shouting over the hiss of tea kettles and the clatter of morning life.
Move. Now.
Rahul stumbled forward, hugging the shadows. Only a milk truck rattled past, and a few early risers cycled through the puddles, their tires whispering across the wet asphalt. He pulled his collar high, keeping his face hidden. Each step was a blade of pain through his shoulder, but stopping wasn't an option.
Every sound became a threat. Every passing vehicle felt like a predator circling.
Across the city, Inspector Kumar stood before a map of Bhopal pinned with red dots—checkpoints, routes, possible hideouts. His eyes were hard as granite.
"Every major road," he ordered. "Bus stands, railway stations, hospitals. I want his face in every chai stall, paan shop, rickshaw stand—everywhere."
A constable shifted uneasily. "Sir, we already checked his house—"
"He won't go home," Kumar snapped. "He's not that stupid. Focus on the old market area. He's bleeding, needs shelter. Check pharmacies, clinics, chemists—anyone desperate enough to patch up a fugitive."
Another officer asked, "Should we inform the media?"
Kumar's mouth curved into something resembling a smile. "Already handled."
He lifted the morning edition of Bhopal Samachar. The front page screamed in black ink:
"पुलिस परीक्षार्थी हत्यारा भागा!"
"POLICE CANDIDATE TURNED KILLER ESCAPES!"
Beneath the headline, Rahul's photo stared back—bright-eyed, innocent, smiling for a college ID. Now, under the headline, it looked like the grin of a murderer.
Rahul Kumar (22), accused of kidnapping and brutally murdering his former girlfriend, Ananya Sharma, escaped police custody last night. Considered armed and dangerous. Reward for information: ₹50,000.
Kumar folded the paper with grim satisfaction. "Let the city hunt him for us."
Rahul froze when he saw the newspapers stacked beside a chai stall near the old bus depot.
The vendor, an elderly man with a white beard, was lighting his stove, the air thick with the smell of burning kerosene and cardamom. A pile of newspapers sat beside the counter—his face plastered on every one.
His pulse roared in his ears.
No. No. No.
He stepped closer, scanning the words.
"...brutally murdered…"
"…escaped custody…"
"…armed and dangerous…"
Each headline carved deeper into his skull. His stomach twisted as bile rose in his throat.
The chaiwala looked up. Rahul yanked his collar higher, muttering something about being late, and walked away fast. The old man barely glanced twice, but Rahul's heart was hammering like it wanted to tear through his chest.
He turned down a lane, broke into a shaky run. Pain seared through his shoulder. He didn't stop.
For the next hour, he drifted through the city's underbelly—tight gullies behind the old market, half-collapsed houses smelling of damp brick and frying oil. Every jeep that passed felt like a countdown.
Bhopal was waking. The air filled with the honk of scooters, the chatter of schoolchildren, the rhythmic clang of shutters rising. Life went on, mercilessly normal, while his life burned down around him.
At another stall, men huddled around a radio, their voices thick with judgment.
"These boys today—kill their girlfriends, no shame at all."
"Fifty thousand reward," another murmured. "Could pay my rent for months."
Rahul turned away before they could notice the tremor in his hands.
I can't do this alone.
Who would even help me?
He had no family. His parents were gone. His friends—if they could be called that—would vanish at the first whiff of danger.
Alone, the inner voice whispered. Always alone. That's who you are.
His knees nearly buckled. The pain blurred his sight until the world turned watery and gray.
Then—a name clawed its way from memory.
Manish Sir.
The university. Too risky. Patrols would be everywhere. Niraj worked there now, wearing a uniform, carrying a gun. But Rahul had no choice.
He crept through the back lanes of the faculty colony, past crumbling walls overrun with moss. Old peepal trees bent low, their roots cracking the pavement. Somewhere, a pressure cooker whistled. The air smelled of dust, curry, and rain.
The blue gate. The old scooter. Still there.
His legs felt like stone as he walked up and knocked—once, twice, harder.
The door opened. Manish Sir stood there, glasses on, tea in hand.
"Rahul?"
"Sir…" His voice broke. "Please. I need help."
Manish's eyes flicked to the blood-soaked bandage, to Rahul's shaking hands. For a long second, he said nothing. Then, quietly: "Come in. Jaldi."
Rahul stumbled inside. The familiar scent of old books and chalk dust hit him like a memory of safety. He collapsed onto a wooden chair.
"This will hurt," Manish said, fetching a first aid box and warm water. His tone was clinical, almost detached. He peeled away the soaked fabric.
Rahul hissed, teeth gritted.
The bullet had passed through. Clean wound, but deep.
"You're lucky," Manish muttered. "If it had hit the bone—"
"I can't go to a hospital," Rahul cut in.
"I know." Manish's voice softened just enough. He cleaned the wound, the antiseptic burning like fire. Rahul bit his lip to keep from crying out.
When it was done, Manish wrapped the arm tightly. "It'll hold. But not for long. You can rest here a few hours—no more."
"Thank you, sir," Rahul whispered.
A jeep rumbled past outside. Both men froze.
Manish's expression changed instantly. "Back room. Go."
Rahul limped to the small bedroom. He barely made it before the knock came.
"Open up! Police check!"
Rahul's blood turned to ice.
Manish opened the door calmly. "Yes, officers?"
A constable thrust a photo forward. "Looking for this man. Rahul Kumar. Escaped custody. Dangerous. Seen him?"
Manish glanced once at the photo, then back up, expression unreadable. "No. Haven't seen him."
"You're university faculty, right? He might contact you. If he does, call this number. Reward for information."
"Of course."
The door shut. Silence. Then the jeep's engine faded into distance.
Rahul sagged onto the bed, body shaking with exhaustion and adrenaline.
Manish returned quietly. "You've got a few hours. Rest, then disappear before evening patrol."
Rahul nodded weakly. "Sir… if they find you—"
"They won't," he said, almost gently. "Now sleep. We'll talk later."
Rahul lay back. The ceiling blurred. Pain throbbed in time with his heartbeat. But beneath the ache, a fragile warmth spread—a spark of trust, or foolish hope.
Outside, the sirens wailed again. The hunt continued. Somewhere out there, the real murderer still breathed free air.
In this small, quiet room, Rahul had one thing left.
Time.
He closed his eyes, letting the darkness take him. The storm wasn't over. It had only changed shape.