The nightmare clawed at him with iron talons.
Faces. Hundreds of them. Twisted in rage and disgust.
"Killer!"
"Murderer!"
Fingers pointed from every direction. Police guns gleamed. Inspector Kumar's cold smirk hovered before him. And behind them all—Ananya's lifeless eyes stared straight through him. The crowd pressed closer, crushing the air from his lungs.
"Rahul Kumar—guilty!"
"NO!"
Rahul jolted awake, gasping. His heart pounded against his ribs like it wanted out. Sweat drenched his shirt despite the morning chill. For a few moments, he couldn't tell where the dream ended and reality began.
Gray walls. Wooden ceiling. faded curtains filtering weak sunlight.
Not a cell. Not the alley.
The door creaked open.
Manish Sir stepped in, carrying a cloth bag heavy with fruit—bananas, apples, a few tired oranges—and several small paper packets in his other hand. Medicine. His reading glasses perched low on his nose, his face calm but observant.
"Oh, you're awake," he said, setting everything on the bedside table. "You were out the whole night."
Rahul tried to sit up. Pain flared through his shoulder, sharp and white-hot. He sank back onto the thin pillow, teeth gritted.
"Easy." Manish Sir moved closer. "Let me check you."
He pulled out a mercury thermometer, the old-fashioned kind, and slipped it under Rahul's tongue. The silence between them was filled with distant sounds—early traffic on the main road, a crow cawing somewhere in the garden, the faint clink of utensils from the kitchen.
Manish Sir removed the thermometer and frowned. "As I thought. High fever. The wound's showing signs of infection."
The word hit Rahul like a threat. Infection. In his condition, it could kill him faster than a police bullet.
Manish Sir began sorting through the medicine packets—antibiotics, antiseptic, bandages—each motion careful and steady. Rahul watched him, something heavy building inside him. Gratitude. Relief. Guilt.
"Sir…" Rahul's voice cracked. "Thank you. If you hadn't opened that door, I would've died out there."
Manish Sir paused, turning to him with a faint smile. "You're my best student, Rahul. How could I leave you on the street?"
The words hit deeper than they should have. Rahul looked away, blinking hard.
Manish Sir handed him a pill and a glass of water. "Take this. Three times a day. And eat something before it."
Rahul obeyed, grimacing at the bitterness on his tongue.
The morning crawled by.
Manish Sir made simple food—dal, rice, roti. Warm. Real. Rahul ate mechanically, but his mind refused to rest.
Who did this to me? Why me?
The questions circled like vultures over a corpse.
He stared at the half-eaten roti.
"What are you thinking?" Manish Sir asked from across the table.
Rahul looked up, eyes hard. "I want to clear my name. But I don't know where to start."
Manish Sir leaned back, fingers steepled. "In mathematics, where do you start?"
Rahul frowned. "The basics."
"Exactly. So start where it all began."
The words lingered in the air.
Where it all began.
The arrest. The headlines screaming KILLER. But before that—
A flash.
Ananya's kidnapping.
"It started there," he muttered. "Why was she kidnapped? And why did Niraj frame me?"
His thoughts tangled like wires. Niraj hated him, yes—but enough to destroy his entire life? Unless… Niraj knew more.
Rahul's pulse quickened.
He looked at Manish Sir, eyes burning with resolve. "Sir, I need your help. I can't just hide here. I have to go out. Find something."
Manish Sir's face darkened. "Rahul, your photo's everywhere. Every chai stall, every police notice board. Step outside, and you're done."
"I know." Rahul's voice was steady. "That's why I need your help."
For a long moment, the old man said nothing. Then he sighed and disappeared into the next room. When he returned, he carried a pair of scissors and an old razor.
"If you're going out," he said, voice quiet but firm, "you need to stop being Rahul Kumar."
Snip. Snip.
Locks of dark hair fell to the floor like feathers. The mirror reflected a stranger—eyes hollow, face lean, haunted.
When he finished, Manish Sir stepped back and said, "From today, you're Rajesh Mishra. My sister's son. Visiting from out of town."
Rahul stared at his reflection. The boy who once dreamed of joining the police was gone. In his place stood someone new. Someone hunted.
"And Rahul," Manish Sir added, his tone grave, "no one must know who you are. Except me."
Rahul nodded. "Yes, sir."
"Good." The old man swept the hair into a dustpan. "But there's still the question of how you'll move. Even with this disguise, the police have eyes everywhere."
Rahul opened his mouth to answer, but Manish Sir lifted a hand. "Not now. Rest. Tomorrow, I'll tell you where to go."
Rahul wanted to argue, but the weight of exhaustion dragged him down. His mind, though, stayed restless.
"Alright," he whispered.
The door clicked shut.
He lay back, staring at the ceiling. The mirror on the opposite wall reflected a ghost—half-dead, half-born.
Rajesh Mishra. A new name. A new mask.
But the same nightmare.
Police Station — Evening
Inspector Anuj Kumar sat at his desk, fingers tapping against the wood. The table was buried in reports—witness statements, patrol notes, dead ends. Rahul Kumar had vanished like smoke in a storm.
Kumar's jaw flexed. He's wounded. He can't run forever.
Outside, the screech of tires. A black sedan rolled to a stop. Polished, expensive, out of place among the battered jeeps and scooters.
Niraj stepped out. His uniform was spotless, his face a mask of grief—red eyes, trembling hands, every detail perfect.
He stormed into the station, voice cracking with practiced fury. "Where is that bastard Rahul?! I'll kill him with my own hands! He murdered my Ananya!"
Kumar rose slowly, unreadable. "Calm down, Mr. Niraj. We're on it. It's only a matter of time."
"Time?!" Niraj slammed his fist against the desk. "You people are useless!"
He reached inside his coat and threw a thick envelope across the table. The dull thud of cash filled the silence.
"Find him," Niraj hissed. "I don't care what it costs."
Kumar looked at the envelope. His expression didn't shift, but his eyes gleamed faintly.
"Consider it done."
Niraj straightened, wiping fake tears. "Good. Because if you don't find him…" He leaned closer, voice dropping to ice. "I will."
Moments later, the sedan roared back to life and vanished into the night.
Kumar lifted the envelope, weighing it in his hand. A thin smile spread across his lips. "Fifty thousand from the department, now this." He thumbed through the notes. "Rahul Kumar, you've become quite the prize."
He crushed his cigarette into the ashtray and barked, "Double patrols! Every safe house, every friend, every slum where he could crawl. I want him by the end of the week!"
The station burst into motion.
Kumar leaned back, lighting another cigarette. Smoke curled up like ghostly fingers.
Run, Rahul. Run as far as you want. We're coming.
Back in the quiet room, Rahul lay awake. The fever still simmered beneath his skin, but his mind cut through it like glass.
Where it all started.
Ananya's kidnapping.
Niraj's lies.
The puppet doll with her organs.
Who benefits from this?
His inner voice whispered coldly: Everyone. Niraj gets revenge. The real killer stays hidden. And you—you're the perfect scapegoat.
Rahul's fists tightened around the bedsheet.
Not anymore.
Tomorrow, Rajesh Mishra would walk the streets.
And Rahul Kumar would start hunting the truth.
Outside, Bhopal slept, the neon hum fading into darkness—unaware that the hunted had just become the hunter.