Chapter 2: Power Outage at 12:03

The city thrived on light. From neon signs to endless traffic signals, Mumbai's skyline glimmered like a field of stars turned upside down. But on the night of June 2nd, at exactly 12:03 AM, one building — Shivneri Heights — went dark.

Total blackout.

Not just the lights. Everything.

Air conditioners stopped humming, elevators froze mid-floors, and even the glow of emergency exit signs dimmed into nothingness. As if someone had reached into the power grid and pulled the plug — just for that building.

Inside Flat 1102, Mrs. Ritu Sinha dropped her teacup. It shattered on the floor, the porcelain echoing unnaturally in the silence. Her television flickered once before going black, and the mechanical clock on the wall froze with a faint tick. She reached for her phone, but the screen stayed dead, unresponsive — like it had never been charged.

From the floor above, muffled footsteps echoed. Slow. Uneven. Thump… drag… thump… drag…

Ritu leaned toward the door, hand trembling on the knob. She had heard that sound before — decades ago, in the village she had once run from.

She stepped back.

From the building's lobby, the night guard Ramesh sat frozen in his chair. All security cameras had gone dark. His walkie-talkie buzzed, but only faint static came through. He tapped it nervously. "Sir, are you there? 1104? 902? Can anyone hear me?"

No response.

The hair on his arms rose. The air was too still. Too heavy.

Suddenly, Ding!

The elevator doors slid open.

But the power was out.

Ramesh stood up, sweating now, and walked toward the elevator. Its inner lights flickered faintly, as if powered by something other than electricity. There was no one inside.

But the floor panel glowed a dull red.

It displayed: B7

There was no Basement 7 in Shivneri Heights.

Ramesh reached to press the “Close” button, when the panel blinked… and changed.

Now it read: 12:03 — WELCOME BACK

And then the doors slammed shut.

---

In flat 1504, Ayaan was still awake.

His fingers had frozen on his phone screen when the power died. He stared into the darkness, ears straining to pick up any sound.

And then he heard it again.

The whistle.

“Wheee–oo… Wheee–oo…”

This time, it was inside the building. Close. Very close.

Ayaan stood up, heart pounding, and carefully opened his bedroom door. The hallway was barely visible, lit only by the distant glow of a candle someone had lit on the stairwell landing.

He could hear something from the kitchen — soft, metallic clinking.

Like cutlery being arranged… by someone invisible.

He crept toward it. Step by step.

The air was freezing now, though the summer heat had been stifling just moments ago.

He turned the corner.

The kitchen was empty.

But all the knives had been removed from the drawer and placed, one by one, in a neat row on the dining table. Each knife’s blade faced him. Gleaming. Waiting.

Suddenly, the balcony door banged open behind him.

He spun around, heart nearly choking him.

Nothing.

Just the wind.

But the wind carried a whisper.

“Ayaan…”

His name.

---

On the 7th floor, Karan and Meera, a young couple, were still trying to understand what had happened.

“There’s no light in any flat?” Meera whispered.

“No signal. Even emergency lights are dead,” Karan replied. “This is not a normal outage.”

Suddenly, the baby monitor they had plugged in — despite no power — turned on.

Their daughter’s crib was visible on the tiny screen. She was sleeping peacefully. But in the far-left corner of the room… there was movement.

A shape.

Tall, thin, shifting slightly in the darkness.

But when they rushed into the baby’s room, there was nothing.

Just cold.

So much cold, Meera’s breath fogged up.

They clutched their child tightly and returned to the living room. The screen now displayed “We’re already here.”

Meera screamed.

Karan unplugged it, but it stayed on.

---

Outside, on the street, everything remained normal. Buses ran. Streetlights glowed. People walked home from night shifts. No one noticed anything unusual.

Except for one thing.

If you looked up at Shivneri Heights… it had disappeared.

From the outside, the entire high-rise was just a black void. No light. No outline. As if it had been erased from the skyline.

Only one person noticed — Kabir Khan, a freelance photojournalist returning from an assignment.

He looked up, blinked, and raised his camera.

Through the lens, he could see the building perfectly.

Except… it wasn’t how it looked earlier in the day.

Now it was decaying. The walls cracked and bleeding rust. Windows shattered. Vines growing up the sides. A red symbol painted across the topmost flat.

A spiral.

And below it, in dripping letters: “WHEN THE CITY SLEEPS, IT REMEMBERS.”

Kabir took the photo.

But when he checked the camera screen, it was blank.

Static.

Then his phone rang.

No caller ID.

He picked up.

Only breathing on the other side.

Then a whisper: “You took its picture. Now it sees you too.”

The line went dead.

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