Blood soaked the wooden floors, darkening in the dim lantern light. A man lay twisted, his fingers clawing at his own throat, mouth frozen mid-scream. His eyes—wide, glassy, and unblinking—reflected something unseen, something monstrous. His last breath had long escaped, but the echo of his final words still clung to the room like the stench of death.
"He is watching… He sees me… I see… myself."
In another dawn, a child's small body hung limply from the wooden rafters. No signs of struggle, no hesitation in the knot tied around his neck. His family found him in the morning, a smile carved across his face. On the walls, written in trembling fingers, were the same words:
"He is watching… He sees me… I see… myself."
The deaths began as whispers, tragedies hidden behind doors, but soon, the streets could not hold the silence. Every night, more were found—some with hearts that had simply stopped, others who had clawed at their own faces until there was nothing left to see. No cause. No connection. Only the words.
Ambika Kalna had once been a town of peace, where prayers floated into the air and families slept with doors unbarred. Now, the people no longer whispered their gods' names at night. They whispered his.
And the town had begun to rot under its own fear.
Dhaka, Bengal Presidency – 1899
Rain had kissed the city, but it hadn't washed anything away. Not the stench of iron. Not the sins clinging to old wood and older skin.
In the belly of Dhaka's forgotten quarter, beneath flickering gaslight and the hush of homes too tired to scream, a body slumped against a crumbling alley wall.
No sounds but the soft patter of droplets on stone—and the quiet inhale of a man standing over the dead.
His silhouette cut the mist. His cigarette glowed like a soft sin between his fingers.
Isarish.
Coat crisp. Shoes silent. Expression unreadable.
He crouched beside the corpse—one eye missing, blood still glistening at the lips, a crude symbol carved into the chest like scripture etched by a hand that believed in pain.
He took a long drag from the cigarette. Exhaled like he was whispering to the dead.
"Nice."
Behind him, the local inspector flinched.
Inspector Rayhan's voice cracked. "This is the fifth this week."
"And the first," Isarish murmured, brushing ash off his glove, "since I arrived."
---
The victim's face was twisted—not in surprise, but terror that hadn't had time to finish becoming a scream. The eye socket stared skyward, empty. Hollow. As if something had been taken not just from the body—but from the story it was trying to tell.
And on the chest, the symbol again. Familiar now. Precise. Too clean for rage. Too slow for panic.
"A craftsman," Isarish whispered. "No… an artist."
He leaned closer, studying the cut, his fingers gliding just above the skin.
"See this angle?" he murmured. "You don't get this depth unless you pause. Press. Breathe. Whoever did this… knew how to make pain last."
Rayhan swallowed. "We found this nearby."
He handed over a note—bloodstained, half-crumpled, but legible.
Would you like to know the truth?
Isarish read it aloud, a trace of amusement curling on his lips.
"A poet… and a butcher."
He tucked the paper into his coat, rising to his feet with the same grace a predator uses when it's full, but still curious.
Rayhan shuffled beside him, uncomfortable. "Same note as the last two. Same symbol. We thought it was random at first. Now…"
"It's a message," Isarish said plainly. "Not for us. For them."
Rayhan blinked. "Them?"
Isarish didn't answer. He was already walking. Smoke trailing. Eyes scanning. And in the stillness of that moment, he paused—his spine subtly tensing.
Someone was watching.
---
Moments Later They walked through the city's underbelly, the streets damp and breathless. Children peeked from cracks. Doors closed with soft panic. The people of Dhaka had learned to fear dawn.
Rayhan flipped open a worn file as they walked, his brow furrowed. "First victim's name was Kaleem. Thirty-five. Former clerk. Found with the same symbol… carved into the stomach."
Isarish tilted his head. "How deep?"
"Bone-deep."
A twitch of approval crossed his lips.
"And the orientation?"
Rayhan hesitated, then flipped to a sketch. "Here."
Isarish glanced—and stopped walking.
The symbol.
Now familiar.
It wasn't random. It was geometric. Weighted. Directional.
"Turn it 90 degrees clockwise," he said quietly.
Rayhan obeyed. The symbol shifted.
It aligned.
And something clicked.
Isarish's eyes lit, not with awe—but precision. He saw the symbol not as art… but map. A directional cipher.
"Each body," he whispered, "was a marker."
"Sir?"
"They're not just dying. They're being… placed."
---
Rayhan looked horrified. "Placed where?"
But Isarish was already moving again. Fast. Focused.
"Second victim. Take me to him."
Rayhan hesitated. "His house?"
Before the words could settle, a slow drizzle began—soft at first, like a whisper. Then heavier.
The sky had been holding it back for hours. Now, it wept without ceremony.
Each drop struck the ground with purpose, as if nature itself was trying to rinse something vile from its streets.
Isarish tilted his head to the sky. His hair dampened, his coat catching the first sting of rain—but he didn't move faster. He simply smiled, faint and amused.
"How considerate," he murmured. "Even the sky wants to warn us."
Rayhan pulled up his collar, glancing around nervously as they walked.
The streets narrowed. The houses leaned in closer. And the sound of the rain blurred everything—voices, footsteps, even guilt.
But not silence.
Silence still echoed.