Lights blinked harshly overhead as Rohan pushed the stretcher down the corridor. Everything moved in slow motion—nurses shouting, doctors rushing beside him, the wheels of the stretcher squeaking against the floor.
They reached the operation theater. The red bulb above the door glowed like a warning. Rohan stood back, breathing hard, blood still on his hands. The doors shut behind the medical team, taking Inspector Suryavanshi inside.
Moments later, Suryavanshi's mother, wife, and five-year-old daughter arrived. His mother was in tears. His wife's face was frozen with fear, clutching their daughter tightly. Rohan stepped back, watching them silently. The pain on their faces felt heavier than his own injuries.
A nurse approached him gently.
"Sir, you need bandaging too. You're wounded."
Rohan blinked, as if pulled from somewhere far away.
"Oh... yes. I forgot," he murmured.
Later, seated with a fresh bandage across his forehead, he looked at Suryavanshi's daughter again. Something struck him. Her face. Her presence.
The whisper from that night echoed again—"Please help... release me..."
The voice of a child.
His thoughts spun.
They killed us... We will kill them...
What exactly happened that night?
Who were they?
Who killed them?
Why did a child's voice plead for help?
More questions. No answers.
Exhausted, overwhelmed, Rohan leaned against the cold bench in the hallway. His eyes closed slowly.
And in the silence of the hospital, haunted by voices and memories, he drifted into a troubled sleep.
At 9:00 a.m., Rohan stirred awake on the hospital bench. His back ached, and his neck was stiff. Blinking against the morning light streaming through the corridor windows, he looked around, confused for a moment.
He spotted a nurse walking by and called out, "Excuse me… where is Mr. Suryavanshi?"
The nurse paused. "He was shifted to a special room on the second floor around 2 a.m." She gave a polite nod and continued on.
Rohan stood, stretched slightly, and made his way upstairs.
Inside the private room, Inspector Suryavanshi lay still, unconscious on the hospital bed. Beside him sat his wife, holding their young daughter on her lap. His mother sat near the window, silently praying, worry etched deep into her face.
Rohan stepped in quietly. The room fell into a hush as they noticed him.
"How is he now?" he asked gently, eyes fixed on the inspector.
Suryavanshi's wife offered a tired smile. "The doctor said he'll recover… you brought him here just in time. Thank you."
Then, the inspector's mother rose from her chair, eyes glistening. She walked to Rohan, wrapped her arms around him, and whispered, "Thank you, son. Thank you for saving my child."
Rohan stood frozen. The warmth of that embrace—so simple, so pure—cut through him. For the first time in years, he felt something he never had: the comfort of a mother's touch. His throat tightened. Tears welled up, but he turned his face away before anyone could see.
Without a word, he gently stepped back, nodded once, and walked out of the room—and out of the hospital. The echo of the mother's embrace stayed with him long after the door closed behind him.
Steam still curled faintly in the bathroom as Rohan stood shirtless in front of the mirror, a towel slung around his neck. His fingers traced the fresh bandage above his brow, still tender to the touch. Dried blood marked the edge. The mirror was fogged at the corners, but his reflection stared back—tired, bruised, and haunted.
Why did they attack me?
The question echoed in his head as he leaned closer to the mirror, narrowing his eyes.
And why Inspector Suryavanshi?
He thought of that voice again. No… voices. One vengeful. One desperate. And both, somehow… connected to the bridge.
Is this about revenge? If yes—revenge for what?
The wound pulsed beneath the bandage. His chest rose and fell with tension. It wasn't just the physical pain—it was the fear of not knowing why. He had powers he didn't understand, was caught in a storm he couldn't define.
He turned away, trying to refocus.
---
Minutes later, dressed in a loose tee and track pants, Rohan sat cross-legged on the floor near the window, a plate of chopped fruit on one side, his laptop open before him. The cold air drifted in, carrying a faint scent of early morning dust and dew.
He opened the browser, typed:
"Holkar Bridge accidents 2005 onwards"
A list of news articles, police blotters, and forum threads filled the screen.
Click. Scroll. Click. Scroll.
His eyes caught on a headline:
"Mysterious Pattern in Bridge Deaths? Locals Say It's Cursed"
Another:
"Accidents at Holkar Bridge Spike Post-2005: Coincidence or Cover-up?"
The numbers chilled him.
89 deaths.
From 2005 to now.
Yet, something felt off. The bridge had existed long before that. So why did the fatal incidents suddenly surge after 2005?
Rohan's fingers hovered over the touchpad. He filtered the data—Month-wise breakdown.
This month: Four accidents.
Three of them fatal.
Including… Suryavanshi.
His brow furrowed.
But people cross that bridge every day. Hundreds—maybe thousands. Why only these few? Why always after 1:00 a.m.?
He checked timestamps. Each reported accident occurred between 1:00 a.m. and 3:00 a.m.
Pattern.
So it's not the bridge itself. It's… time-bound? Targeted?
He opened a new tab and searched:
"Holkar Bridge accident victims' list with names and addresses"
A few old police PDFs surfaced. With effort, he cross-referenced names through social media and obituaries, slowly building a personal list of victims.
Where did they live? What did they do? Did they know each other?
The more he read, the deeper the spiral.
Each name now felt like a thread.
A story waiting to be pulled.
And Rohan was ready to follow wherever it led.
Afternoon sun hung low, casting long shadows as Rohan walked down a narrow residential lane. The first house on his list stood modest behind a rusted gate—faded nameplate, potted plants wilting in the heat.
He rang the bell.
A middle-aged woman opened the door. Her eyes were tired, the kind that forget how to look surprised. When Rohan introduced himself—using a crafted story about researching Holkar Bridge incidents—she simply nodded and invited him in.
Her husband, she said, had died two months ago. Returning from a late shift. Bike skidded near the railing. No one saw what happened.
"No enemy. No drinking. Just… gone," she whispered.
He visited three more families that day. All stories echoed the same strange beat—ordinary people, no known threats, no foul play. Only the timing aligned.
Between 12:00 and 1:00 a.m.
Back home, Rohan sat still in his chair, the silence loud in his ears.
"Why that hour? What changes during that time?"
The pattern was real. The randomness was not.
---
Determined, Rohan made his way to the nearby police station that evening. He wore a plain shirt, carried a notebook, and introduced himself at the reception as a freelance crime reporter digging into Holkar Bridge's rising accident rate.
The constable barely looked up.
"Everything is public domain. File RTI if you want proper reports."
Rohan smiled politely and waited until a junior officer passed by. He repeated the same story—this time more convincing, leaning on urgency and citing "citizen safety."
Eventually, after much back-and-forth, he got access to some archived data—scanned printouts of five earliest recorded deaths near Holkar Bridge, starting in 2005.
He thanked them, left quickly, and reached home by nightfall.
---
Rohan spread the papers across his desk like puzzle pieces.
Case 1 – March 2005: A local businessman. Died falling off the bridge.
Case 2 – July 2005: Teenager. Crushed under his own bike.
Case 3 – December 2006: Female college student. Witnesses say she "jumped."
Case 4 – May 2007: A rickshaw driver. Vehicle found turned upside down.
Case 5 – October 2007: An unknown man. Body found in the river, never identified.
All between 12:00 and 1:00.
No CCTV footage. No consistent witness accounts.
And strangely… all within the first five meters of the bridge's start.
Rohan circled the names. Underlined the timestamps. Made notes.
"They aren't victims of accidents… they're victims of something else. Something hidden."
He leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
This wasn't random.
Midnight. Holkar Bridge.
Rohan stood at the mouth of the bridge, cloaked in silence. The night was unnaturally still—no wind, no crickets, just a low hum beneath the fog that began to coil around the structure like smoke from an unseen fire.
He stepped forward.
The temperature dropped sharply. Frost edged the railing. The fog thickened, swirling around him as he walked. But Rohan didn't hesitate. Not this time. The fear was gone—replaced by a calm defiance.
Then, from within the fog—
"You again?"
A sharp, shrill voice sliced the air. A scream… filled with rage and disbelief.
Rohan smiled coldly.
"Yes. Let's talk."
A whisper, dripping with venom, hissed from all directions—
"I will kill you."
Rohan didn't flinch.
"You can try again."
Suddenly, the air around him shifted. He felt it—like icy needles piercing his skin, pressure pushing against his mind. The entity was trying to enter him… possess him.
But instead of resisting, Rohan spread his arms wide.
And that's when it happened.
A surge of energy erupted in his palms. His veins pulsed with unfamiliar heat, crackling under his skin like lightning trapped in flesh.
Inner thought: So this is it. This is how it begins. My power awakens through confrontation… through darkness. Without evil, this gift stays dormant.
The whisper paused.
"What… are you?"
Rohan clenched his fists, the power now burning in his hands. He stared into the void, eyes unblinking.
"I'm the one who's not afraid of you anymore."
He thrust his palm forward—energy burst out like a wave—hurling the dark soul backward into the fog.
Another voice rose from the mist.
Soft. Desperate. Human.
"Help me… please… release me…"
Rohan turned his head.
"Who are you? Why can't you leave?"
The whisper returned, strained now.
"Bound. Cursed. An oath. A revenge… together."
Rohan narrowed his eyes.
"What revenge?"
The voice answered like a cracked mirror—broken, echoing from all directions:
"They watched us die. Did nothing. Now… they all die."
Suddenly, the black entity appeared beside Rohan—silent as death, its form a swirling void in humanoid shape.
But Rohan didn't wait this time.
"Attack." he commanded.
The spirit lunged forward, cutting through the fog like a shadow with purpose—heading straight for the tormented soul that refused to let go.