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.]