The Endless Chase (1970s)
Echoes of Pain
Author
Date: December 11, 1976
Radio Host’s Home, 2:30 AM
A dim yellow bulb swings from the ceiling, casting shifting shadows across the damp walls. The radio host, a frail man in his late forties, sits in his chair, his trembling fingers wrapped around a glass of whiskey. The air smells of sweat and stale alcohol.
Across from him, Araav sits with a cigarette between his lips, tapping the ash onto the host's expensive carpet. He doesn’t say a word. He just watches.
Araav suddenly snatches the whiskey glass from the host's hands and smashes it against the floor.
Detective araav
(calmly): "You wasted my time."
Radio
(stammering): "D-Detective, please… I didn't mean to—"
Araav backhands him so hard that the host falls out of his chair, his lip splitting open as he crashes onto the wooden floor.
Detective araav
(standing up, rolling his sleeves): "You went on air last night. You said a woman saw the Phantom. That she gave a description. That she was terrified."
He steps forward, boot pressing down on the host’s fingers, grinding them into the floor. The host screams, his entire body convulsing in pain.
Detective araav
(mocking): "A scared little girl calls your station, and you put her on air, just like that?"
Radio
(whimpering): "I… I made it up!"
Araav pauses, as if considering this. Then, without warning, he kicks the man in the ribs. The host groans, curling into himself.
Detective araav
(softly): "I hate liars."
He crouches beside the trembling man, gripping his hair and yanking his head back. The host's bloodied face contorts in agony as Araav leans in, his voice a whisper.
Detective araav
"You wasted my night, you wasted my time. And now…" he tilts his head, smirking "I need to get my fun somewhere, don’t I?"
The host’s eyes widen in terror.
Araav reaches into his coat and pulls out a thin, rusted scalpel.
The host begins to shake uncontrollably.
Radio
(panicked, sobbing): "I swear, I don’t know anything! Please—PLEASE!"
Detective araav
"I believe you."
Then he drives the scalpel into the host’s thigh.
The man’s scream rips through the tiny room, but no one outside hears. No one in this city cares.
Araav pulls the scalpel out, slowly, watching the blood seep through the host’s expensive trousers. He stands, wipes the blade on the man's shirt, and pockets it.
The host sobs, clutching his leg, his entire body convulsing in pain.
Detective araav
"Next time you lie to me, I’ll make sure you don’t have a next time."
He picks up his cigarette from the table, takes a slow drag, and flicks it onto the host’s trembling body before stepping out into the cold night.
Author
[The Mansion, 4:45 AM]
Meera steps carefully down the dark hallway, the cold floor sending chills up her spine. The house is eerily quiet, as if holding its breath.
For the first time, she is free to move beyond her room. Andarin had allowed it. No chains tonight. No locked doors.
She moves carefully, every step hesitant. Then, in the dim candlelight, she sees it—a small wooden table with a silver frame on top.
Her fingers tremble as she picks it up.
The picture is old. Worn. Yellowed with time. And yet—
A version of her that shouldn’t exist. Dressed in a style from another era, her eyes staring blankly at the camera. Frozen in time.
Her breath catches. The air around her thickens. Her pulse pounds in her ears.
A floorboard creaks behind her.
Andarin leans against the doorway, watching her with a knowing smirk.
Andarin
"Found something interesting, little doll?"
His voice is smooth, teasing, but there’s something dark beneath it. Meera clutches the photo tighter, her fingers curling around the fragile edges.
Meera
(whispering): "What… is this?"
Andarin steps forward, slow, deliberate, until he is right in front of her. He takes the photo from her hands and examines it with an almost nostalgic smile.
Andarin
(softly): "Memories… they like to play tricks on you."
He tilts her chin up with a single finger, forcing her to meet his gaze.
Andarin
(whispering): "But tell me, Meera… are you sure this is the first time you’ve been here?"
Her breath shudders. Her body betrays her, heat pooling in her stomach. There’s something intoxicating about the way he touches her—possessive, demanding. Andarin’s lips hover just above hers, his breath warm against her skin.
Andarin
"You should sleep, little doll."
He presses the photo back into her hands, turns, and vanishes into the darkness.
Meera remains frozen, her mind spinning, her heart pounding.
Inside, the past whispers.
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