The Endless Chase (1970s)
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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