Date: 11th December 1976

Location: An unknown mansion... and Mumbai's decaying streets.

---

The room trembled with every thrust.

Andarin gripped Meera’s wrists above her head, his body crashing into hers with brutal, rhythmic violence.

The ancient bed beneath them creaked dangerously, each sharp sound swallowed into the mansion’s hollow, rotting walls.

The air was thick — filled with the musk of their bodies, the sting of sweat, the raw music of Meera’s moans, echoing like a siren song down the blackened halls.

Andarin’s mouth twisted into a wicked grin, feeding off every broken sound that tore itself from Meera's throat.

He loved it — loved how she fought at first, gasped for breath, and then slowly, so slowly, melted into his cruelty.

Her back arched beneath him, her legs trembling against the bruising power of his thrusts, her nails clawing helplessly at the sheets.

The heavy slap of flesh meeting flesh filled the room, the brutal collision of his hips against her thighs, her back slamming the wooden headboard again and again.

Outside the cracked windows, the mansion loomed silent, abandoned... but inside, the ghosts themselves must have stirred, drinking in the savage symphony of pain and pleasure.

Andarin’s hand slid down her flushed body, gripping her hair, pulling her head back to bare her throat.

He licked along her skin, tasting her terror... and her need.

A low, dark laugh rumbled from his chest when she cried out louder — no longer from fear, but something far more dangerous.

Something that made his blood burn.

"Scream for me," he growled against her ear, voice thick with possession.

And Meera obeyed, the sound of it shattering the suffocating air, bouncing off every decaying corner of the house.

In the brief moments between his thrusts, Meera's mind flickered back—

—to the photograph she had found.

A life she didn’t recognize.

A memory trapped in time.

She had to get out.

She had to know the truth.

Gasping between kisses, her voice barely a whimper against his chest, she whispered:

"Tomorrow... can I go outside? Please..."

Andarin only smiled again, slower this time — a cruel, loving monster savoring his prize.

He kissed her again, deeper, leaving no promises.

Only hunger.

---

Meanwhile, deep within Mumbai’s sleeping veins...

Araav stumbled through the rain-wet streets, the city's neon lights bleeding into rivers at his feet.

Bottles clinked in the gutter.

An old Hindi song whispered from a radio shop’s broken window, a ghost from another time.

Tonight he had drowned himself in liquor.

Tonight he had let himself remember.

His brother's face swam in his vision — laughing, alive, fearless.

Until the night he wasn't.

Until the night they found him cold and broken, another body swallowed by a case too dark to solve.

A "syco" they had called the killer.

A phantom who left no trace... just silence.

Araav slammed a fist into the side of a rusted car, his chest heaving.

"I should have been there..." he whispered, voice cracking.

"I should have saved you."

Tears blurred the dirty world around him, and that's when he saw him—

A man, standing utterly still across the street.

Long black coat.

Hat pulled low, face hidden.

Araav wiped his face, blinking hard.

The man crossed the road without a sound and dropped a small, cracked card at Araav’s feet.

When Araav looked up again—

The street was empty.

Fingers trembling, he picked up the card.

There was nothing on it but a single address, scrawled in shaking handwriting.

No name. No explanation.

Almost sleepwalking, Araav followed it — down crumbling alleys, past howling stray dogs, into the dead heart of the city.

And there it was:

The Mansion.

A monster of stone and wood, forgotten by time.

The iron gate hung from one hinge.

Dead vines clawed the rotting facade.

And in the highest window—

For just a second—

Araav thought he saw a figure watching him.

Or maybe it was just the drink.

Maybe it was just the memories.

The wind howled through the empty halls, carrying with it the scent of wet earth and something fouler — something old, something wrong.

The door creaked open by itself.

And Araav, without understanding why, stumbled inside.

Date: 11th December 1976 — Late Night:

The night wrapped the city like a shroud.

Mist curling in the gutters, the wind howling between broken buildings.

Somewhere in the maze of Mumbai’s forgotten streets, Detective Araav stumbled.

Blind drunk.

Grieving.

Hollow.

He barely remembered how he ended up here — facing a man in a black coat, face hidden under a wide hat.

The man said nothing — simply handing Araav a crumpled, stained card.

An address.

Before Araav could ask anything, the man vanished — like a shadow swallowed by the night.

Araav, dazed and desperate, found himself pushing through rusted gates toward a crumbling mansion.

It stood there — proud and rotting — as if waiting for him.

The heavy doors creaked open on their own.

Inside, darkness swallowed him.

The house whispered around him.

Old, broken walls seemed to sigh as he passed.

He roamed through ruined halls, splintered floors, windows cracked like fractured bones.

And then he found it — a photograph half-buried under dust.

The image blurred with age.

Meera.

Smiling, bright — untouched by the rot around her.

Beside her — another figure.

A man, but his face was burnt beyond recognition.

Araav’s drunk mind reeled.

Meera...

The Phantom case...

The girl from the missing files.

But why was her photo here?

And who was this man beside her?

The mansion around him groaned, wood cracking under invisible weight.

Doors opened by themselves.

Shadows slid just beyond sight.

Araav felt it —

Another presence.

Someone — or something — moved through the house with him.

But when he turned, he found nothing but the empty corridors breathing.

He wasn't alone.

---

Elsewhere in the same mansion — but on a different line of time —

Andarin stalked the halls.

Silent.

Predatory.

The house welcomed him, whispered to him.

He moved through the same rooms as Araav — brushed against the same broken frames, opened the same decaying doors.

Yet they never saw each other.

Two men.

One place.

Split across the blade of time.

Sometimes Araav would spin, heart hammering, feeling breath on his neck —

But there would be nothing.

Only the echo of steps from a time he couldn't touch.

---

The next morning

The light bleeding through the shattered windows was cold and grey.

Araav woke up on the hard floor, a painful throb in his head.

For a moment he didn't remember where he was.

He sat up slowly, the dust clinging to his coat.

The massive wooden door of the mansion stood wide open.

Cold wind whispered through it.

Confused, dizzy, Araav pulled himself up.

In his hand — still clutched tight — was the photograph of Meera.

Something was wrong.

Terribly wrong.

The world outside looked frozen, like an old photograph left too long in the sun.

Araav stumbled toward the exit, the mansion behind him groaning — almost calling him back.

---

Meanwhile, elsewhere in the same mansion...

Meera woke in her room.

Soft light poured through her tall windows, painting the walls golden.

She blinked up to find Andarin standing by the door, dressed sharply, ready to leave.

“Get dressed,” he said, voice smooth.

“You wanted a tour, didn’t you?”

Meera’s heart raced — half in fear, half in... something else.

For days, she had been a prisoner here, trapped inside these ancient walls.

Today, she was allowed out.

Today, she could taste freedom — even if it was an illusion.

Hurriedly, she slipped into a simple dress Andarin had left for her — soft fabric, fitting her body almost too perfectly.

When she stepped out into the hall, she saw it clearer:

The mansion was old — much older than she remembered.

The floors creaked under their feet.

Portraits hung crookedly on the peeling walls.

She paused — heart skipping — when she noticed a familiar crack in the marble staircase.

Hadn’t she seen that same crack yesterday?

Or was it... decades ago?

Shaking off the unease, she followed Andarin.

---

They stepped out through the massive front doors.

The city beyond wasn't the one Meera remembered.

The cars were old, rounded things coughing thick black smoke.

The streets were lined with small shops selling cloth, fruit, radios.

The people wore bell-bottoms and thick glasses —

Newspapers sold on the corners screamed about political emergencies and curfews.

1976.

It wasn’t just a different place — it was a different time.

But Meera didn’t realize it fully — not yet.

She clung to Andarin’s arm as they wandered through the bustling streets.

Shopping.

Laughing.

For the first time, she felt... almost normal.

Andarin bought her sweet jalebis from a street vendor, gold bangles from a tiny shop tucked between two collapsing buildings.

His hand lingered at the small of her back.

Guiding her.

Claiming her.

She should have been afraid.

But the sun was warm.

The food was sweet.

The air smelled like old Mumbai — dusty, spicy, alive.

And Meera let herself believe —

Just for a little while —

That maybe this nightmare could be beautiful.

---

But if she had looked closely...

If she had turned just a little faster...

She might have seen it:

A shadow, standing at the window of the mansion behind them.

Watching.

Waiting.

The timelines bleeding together.

The past reaching for the present.

And the Endless Chase only just beginning.

---

The café on the busy street corner buzzed with noise —

clinking cups, muttered conversations, the low hum of Mumbai outside.

But at a small corner table, the air was heavy, serious.

Araav sat across from Inspector Salvi — a man he’d met when first arriving in Mumbai for the Phantom Case.

Salvi, a wiry man with sharp eyes, stirred his black coffee nervously.

Across from him, Araav leaned back in his chair, calm but intense — his very posture radiating power.

He wasn’t just a detective.

He was the detective — known nationwide for solving impossible cases.

His family name alone carried weight — rich, connected, respected.

But right now, even Araav looked disturbed.

He pulled out the photograph from his coat — the one found in the abandoned mansion.

He placed it on the table gently, like handling something alive.

Salvi leaned forward, squinting at it.

“Her,” Araav said, tapping Meera’s smiling face.

“She’s on the list. The missing girls connected to the Phantom abductions.”

Salvi nodded slowly. “Yes. Name: Meera Sahay. Reported missing six months ago.

Twenty-four years old. Parents filed a report — then... disappeared themselves. The case went cold.”

Araav’s voice was low.

"But this photo—"

He paused.

"This photo is not six months old."

Salvi looked up, confused.

Araav continued, voice deadly serious.

“This photograph is seventy years old — maybe more.

Paper type, chemical fading, ink degradation — I had a quick lab analysis done overnight."

The Inspector’s face drained of color.

“That’s impossible.”

Araav’s eyes burned into his.

“Exactly.”

He leaned forward, dropping his voice even lower.

“If Meera went missing a few months ago...

How does her photo exist in a mansion abandoned since 1950?"

The question hung between them, heavy and sickening.

There were no answers.

Only deeper, darker questions.

---

Meanwhile, in another layer of the same nightmare...

Meera lay curled up on her wide bed, staring at the cracked ceiling.

She was smiling faintly —

remembering yesterday.

The way Andarin held her hand.

The way the streets smelled of old dust and burning sugar.

For the first time in months — maybe years — she had felt almost free.

A soft knock at the door broke her thoughts.

“Come in,” she called lazily, thinking it was Andarin.

The door creaked open.

She turned casually —

and froze.

Standing there was a man —

tall, shadowed —

his features half-hidden in the dim light.

At first glance — the sharp jawline, the tilt of the head — he looked like Andarin.

So much that Meera smiled in relief.

But something was wrong.

His hair was slightly grayer, though only at the temples.

His stance was heavier, angrier.

And his eyes —

those weren't the warm eyes she knew.

They were colder.

Sharper.

Like they had seen something terrible and never recovered.

Meera's smile faltered.

Before she could say anything, the man stepped closer.

"You've done very well," he said softly.

"But this time... there will be consequences."

His voice wasn't cruel, exactly.

It was something worse — full of regret. Full of finality.

"You'll face everything you've built," he added, almost sadly.

Then, without waiting for a response, he turned and walked out the door, silent as a ghost.

Meera blinked, confused.

Her heart was beating too fast, but she forced herself to laugh.

“Stop joking, Andarin!” she called after him, playfully scolding.

The door swung closed behind the figure.

But far below, two floors down —

in the mansion's grand hall —

Andarin stood by the fireplace, going over old records and papers.

He frowned sharply when he heard Meera’s voice echoing from upstairs —

playful, teasing —

calling his name.

Without a word, he dropped everything and took the stairs two at a time.

He burst into Meera’s room, slightly out of breath.

She turned, surprised but still smiling faintly.

"You changed clothes so fast?" she teased, tilting her head.

Andarin blinked at her.

Same black pants.

Same white open-collar shirt.

Exactly what he had been wearing for hours.

"I didn't," he said simply.

Meera’s smile froze.

She looked past him, at the door.

No one was there.

Only the long, empty corridor beyond —

cold air whispering along the walls.

The floorboards creaking under a weight that was no longer there.

The warmth drained from the room, leaving only a growing, gnawing chill inside her chest.

For the first time, a thought slithered through her mind —

something had come into her room.

Something wearing a familiar face.

And maybe...

it had been waiting for a very long time.

--