The Endless Chase (1970s)
The Phantom’s Shadow
[The train rattles through the fog, dim yellow lights flickering. The air is thick with smoke and the scent of damp wood. Conversations drift, lost in the steady rhythm of the rails.]
Author
December 5, 1976 | A Moving Train
Stranger
(lighting a cigarette) "Long ride ahead."
Detective araav
(glancing out the window) "Seems like it."
[His fingers tap against a stack of black-and-white photographs. He never looks at them for too long.]
Stranger
(exhaling smoke) "Bombay’s restless these days… You hear about the disappearances?"
Detective araav
(without looking up) "Disappearances?"
Stranger
"Girls. No past, no records. Just gone. Some say it's a man, lurking in the city. They call him The Phantom."
[Aarav’s grip on the photographs tightens. The cigarette ember glows, then dies.]
Author
A Room with No Exit | Time Unknown
[A slow melody plays from a gramophone, curling through the dimly lit space. The scent of aged whiskey lingers, but beneath it—something metallic.]
Meera
(stirring, breath uneven) "Where…?"
[Her fingers curl into silk sheets. The air feels too still, too perfect. Panic blooms in her chest.]
Andarin
(smooth, deliberate) "Finally awake, sweetheart?"
[She turns sharply. A man sits beside her. Dark hair. Unreadable eyes. A slow, knowing smile.]
Meera
(whispering) "Who… are you?"
[He tilts his head slightly, amused.]
Detective araav
"You don’t remember?"
[She doesn’t. But something about the way he says it makes her stomach twist.]
[A flicker—a touch in the dark, a whisper against her skin, lips speaking words she can’t recall.]
Meera
(voice shaking) "No. No, this is wrong."
[The man leans closer, brushing a strand of hair from her face. His touch sends a shiver down her spine—fear, or something worse?]
Andarin
(softly) "Don’t worry. It’ll come back to you soon."
[The worst part isn’t that she doesn’t know where she is. It’s the sinking, suffocating feeling that maybe—she’s been here before.]
Author
December 6, 1976 | Bombay Police Headquarters
[The office smells of stale coffee and damp paper. A single overhead fan spins lazily, struggling against the thick air.]
[Aarav drops a manila folder onto the desk. Black-and-white photographs spill out—women’s faces, their eyes frozen in time.]
police officer
(frowning) "Where did you get these?"
[Aarav leans back, lighting a cigarette.]
Detective araav
(quietly) "They don’t exist, do they?"
[The officer doesn’t answer. The silence says enough.]
Author
[Somewhere in the city, a shadow moves. Watching. Waiting.]
Faces in the Dark
Author
December 6, 1976 | Bombay Police Headquarters
[Aarav stands before a cluttered desk, yellowed case files scattered across the surface. The overhead fan creaks, pushing thick air around the dimly lit room. The officer behind the desk flips through the pages, brows furrowing deeper with every turn.]
police officer
(frowning) "These names… you’re sure about them?"
Detective araav
(lighting a cigarette) "More than sure."
[The officer exhales, rubbing his temple. He picks up one of the black-and-white photographs—young women, staring blankly into the camera, their eyes hollow in a way that makes the skin crawl.]
police officer
(hesitant) "There’s something wrong here."
Detective araav
(leaning forward) "Tell me."
[The officer tosses the files aside, a strange, unreadable look in his eyes.]
police officer
"These girls don’t exist."
Detective araav
(pausing mid-drag) "What?"
police officer
(quietly) "No birth records. No missing persons reports. No family. No history. It’s like they were never here."
[Silence stretches between them. Outside, the city moves as if nothing is wrong.]
Author
December 6, 1976 | A Room With No Exit
[A candle burns low, casting Meera’s shadow along the wall. She’s been awake for hours now, staring at the door. Waiting. Listening.]
Andarin
(smiling) "You look well-rested."
Meera
(tensing) "Who are you?"
[His smile widens, slow, deliberate, as if the question itself amuses him.]
Andarin
"A strange question, don’t you think?"
Meera
(whispering) "I don’t know you."
[He steps closer. Too close. Her breath catches.]
Andarin
(softly) "That’s not what you used to say."
[A flicker. A sensation—hands against her skin, a voice in the dark. A memory just out of reach.]
Meera
(shaking) "I don’t remember anything."
Andarin
(gently) "Then let me help you."
[He reaches for her. She flinches. He doesn’t stop.]
[A whisper curls through the dim room, soft as smoke—not his voice. Not hers.]
[The candle flickers. The shadows shift.]
Author
December 6, 1976 | A Street Bathed in Fog
[Aarav walks with purpose, the city's neon glow bouncing off the wet pavement. He stops at a small café, the hum of jazz spilling onto the empty street. A man waits for him at a corner table, face obscured by the dim light.]
Informant
(lighting a cigarette) "You shouldn’t be looking for them."
Detective araav
(sitting down) "Then why did you call me?"
Informant
(smirking) "Because I’m curious how far you’ll go before you realize the truth."
[Aarav slides a photograph across the table. The informant barely glances at it before shaking his head.]
Informant
"I’ve seen ghosts with more history than these girls."
[Aarav watches him carefully.]
Detective araav
(low voice) "Then tell me what you do know."
[The informant leans in, voice barely above a whisper.]
Informant
"They didn’t just disappear. They were never here to begin with."
[The streetlight flickers. A shadow moves at the edge of his vision.]
[Aarav doesn’t look away.]
Threads of Desire and Deception
[The candle’s flame flickers, casting Meera’s shadow against the wooden walls. The room is silent—unnervingly so. Andarin sits on the edge of the bed, watching her. His gaze isn’t impatient, nor is it kind. It’s something else. Something deeper. Something dangerous.]
Meera
(pulling the sheets over herself) "Why am I here?"
[His lips curl into a slow, knowing smile. He takes a sip from the glass of red wine resting in his hand, savoring it before setting it down with a soft clink.]
Andarin
(softly) "You ask the wrong questions."
Meera
(hesitant) "Then what should I ask?"
[He stands, his movements slow, calculated. A predator who enjoys the quiet moments before the hunt. He stops just inches from her, tilting his head as if studying something delicate, fragile.]
Andarin
(low voice) "Do you want to be here?"
[Her throat tightens. She should say no. She should fight. She should run. But the weight of his presence pins her in place. The way his fingers trail lazily along the rim of the glass… the way his voice wraps around her like silk—it’s suffocating.]
Meera
(whispering) "I don’t know."
[He steps closer, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw, lifting her face to meet his. His touch is deceptively gentle. Almost affectionate. But his eyes hold no warmth.]
Andarin
(murmuring) "Your body knows. Even if your mind doesn’t."
[Her breath catches as his hand moves lower, fingers tracing the curve of her collarbone, grazing the thin fabric of her dress. Her skin burns under his touch. She wants to pull away, but she doesn’t. She can’t.]
Meera
(shivering) "This isn’t right."
Andarin
(smirking) "Then stop me."
[Her lips part, but no words come. He waits, watching, searching for defiance. But there is none. Only silence. And that’s all the permission he needs.]
[His lips crash against hers, claiming, possessive, as if branding her. The taste of wine and something darker lingers on his tongue. His hands move with an excruciating slowness, fingertips ghosting over her bare skin, teasing, unraveling. A gasp escapes her as his teeth graze the sensitive skin of her neck.]
[He doesn’t let her finish. His mouth swallows her protests, his hands sliding lower, drawing shivers from her skin. Her mind screams, but her body betrays her. She’s losing herself, sinking into his touch, into the dark pull of something she doesn’t understand.]
Andarin
(whispering) "Shhh… Just feel."
[And she does. Against logic. Against reason. Against everything.]
Author
December 7, 1976 | A Smoky Bar in Bombay
[Aarav sits in the dimly lit corner of a run-down bar, his fingers wrapped around a glass of whiskey. The air is thick with cigarette smoke and the scent of spilled alcohol. Across from him, his informant takes a slow drag from his cigarette, eyes hooded, unreadable.]
Informant
(exhaling smoke) "You look like a man chasing ghosts, detective."
Detective araav
(flatly) "Maybe I am."
[The informant smirks, tapping the ash off his cigarette, watching the way it crumbles onto the table before glancing at the photograph Aarav slides toward him. A set of girls. The same ones he’s been chasing.]
Detective araav
"Tell me what you know."
[The informant picks up the photo, studies it, then lets out a quiet chuckle before shaking his head.]
Informant
(amused) "You don’t get it, do you?"
Detective araav
(sharply) "Get what?"
[The informant tosses the photograph back onto the table, leaning forward slightly, voice dropping into something almost conspiratorial.]
Informant
(softly) "There’s nothing to get. These girls?" (pauses) "They don’t exist."
[Aarav’s grip tightens on his glass. His pulse remains steady, but something cold creeps into his spine.]
Detective araav
"What the hell do you mean by that?"
[The informant takes another slow drag, exhaling through his nose before meeting Aarav’s gaze.]
Informant
"No names. No families. No records. Nothing." (leans in) "You’re looking for people who were never there to begin with."
[Aarav doesn’t react. He just watches, waiting, pressing against the silence until the informant speaks again.]
Informant
(shrugging) "And this so-called Phantom?" (smirks) "Just whispers. A story drunks tell when they want to sound interesting. No one’s ever seen him. No one knows his face. No real victims. Just a legend."
[Aarav clenches his jaw, a muscle ticking near his temple. Every instinct in his body tells him that’s a lie. A carefully crafted illusion meant to keep him running in circles.]
Detective araav
(low voice) "Then why does everyone seem so afraid of a ghost?"
[The informant gives a slow, knowing smile, tapping his cigarette against the ashtray.]
Informant
(quietly) "Maybe because sometimes… ghosts are real."
[Outside, the city hums, oblivious to the shadows that slip through its streets.]
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