Anand sat at his desk, fingers hovering over his keyboard as he stared at the blinking cursor. The blank document taunted him, a digital void waiting to be filled with words. Three cups of coffee had carried him through the morning, but inspiration remained elusive. His deadline loomed just two weeks away, and his editor had been texting with increasing frequency.

He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. "Come on, think," he muttered to himself.

Anand had built a modest reputation writing mysteries with supernatural twists. His last novel had performed well enough to secure another book deal, but the pressure to deliver something equally compelling weighed heavily on him.

A sudden idea flickered in his mind. What if someone could kill with just the gesture of a finger gun? Not through supernatural powers, but through some unexplainable convergence of reality. He began typing rapidly, the words flowing as the concept took shape.
__________

Chapter 1: The Finger Gun

Madhan Kumar was thirty-four years old when he discovered he could kill people by pointing his finger at them and making a shooting gesture. It happened on a Tuesday.
That morning, he had woken up feeling peculiarly light, as if something fundamental had shifted while he slept. He dismissed the sensation and proceeded with his usual routine: brushing his teeth, showering, and making a cup of instant coffee that he drank while scrolling through news headlines.

Nothing in the day suggested it would be any different from the thousands that had preceded it. He went to work at the accounting firm, spent his lunch break at the small park across the street, and left the office at precisely 5:30 PM.

It was at the park near his apartment where everything changed. Madhan often visited this park in the evenings, finding solace in the open space after being confined to his cubicle all day. As he sat on a bench, watching people pass by, he found himself falling into a childhood habit.

When Madhan was a boy, he used to play “Police and Thief” with his cousins. He would shape his hand into a gun – index and middle fingers extended, thumb raised and the remaining two fingers closed – and make soft popping sounds as he pretended to shoot. It was a habit he had mostly outgrown, but occasionally, when bored or distracted, he would find himself absentmindedly forming his hand into that familiar shape.

On this Tuesday evening, two men in business suits stood about twenty feet away, engaged in what appeared to be a heated discussion. Madhan, lost in thought, extended his hand, aimed at one of the men, and made a small "pew" sound under his breath.

The man clutched his chest and collapsed.

At first, Madhan thought the man had tripped or suffered some sort of attack that had coincidentally aligned with his gesture. But then the second man looked around wildly, his eyes eventually landing on Madhan with his finger still pointed.

"You shot him!" the man shouted; his face contorted with horror. "Help! This man just shot my friend!"

Madhan lowered his hand slowly, confusion washing over him. He hadn't heard a gunshot. He didn't own a gun. He had simply pointed his finger.

People began to gather around the fallen man. Someone was on the phone with emergency services. Madhan stood frozen, unable to process what was happening.
When the police arrived, they found no weapon. No bullet holes. But the man was dead – a small, cauterized wound in his chest exactly where Madhan had "aimed."
__________

Anand paused in his writing, rereading what he had just typed. The premise was intriguing, but he needed to work out the mechanics. Would Madhan be arrested? How would he prove his innocence when there was no conventional weapon? And more importantly, would he discover what had caused this impossible ability?

He decided to take a break. The story could use some time to percolate in his mind. Anand stretched, his back cracking after being hunched over his laptop for hours. The evening had descended outside his window, the streetlights casting an amber glow on the quiet neighbourhood.

Anand decided a walk would do him good. He headed out, locking his apartment door behind him.

The night air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of someone's dinner cooking nearby. Anand walked without any particular destination in mind, letting his thoughts wander through the plot points of his emerging story. He was already imagining the psychological toll such a discovery would take on Madhan, how he would struggle with the reality of having killed someone, and the fear of it happening again.

Lost in thought, Anand found himself at a small park a few blocks from his apartment. A few people were still out despite the late hour – a couple walking their dog, a young man sitting on a bench staring at his phone, and two older men engaged in what looked like a game of chess on one of the concrete tables.

Anand sat down on an empty bench, watching the chess players. They reminded him of characters from a different novel he had abandoned months ago – a story about an elderly chess master with a dark past. As he observed their focused expressions, his mind drifted back to Madhan and his deadly finger gun.

Almost absentmindedly, Anand raised his hand, formed it into the shape of a gun, and pointed it at one of the chess players. "Pew," he whispered with a small smile, re-enacting the scene he had just written.

The man jerked back in his seat, a hand flying to his chest. For a brief, absurd moment, Anand thought he was mocking him, having somehow noticed his childish gesture. Then the man slumped forward, knocking chess pieces to the ground.

His opponent stood up in alarm, calling the man's name. When he received no response, he rushed around the table and shook his friend's shoulder. The man's body simply rolled to the side, lifeless.

The chess player looked up, his eyes scanning the area in panic. His gaze landed on Anand, sitting with his hand still formed into a gun shape, frozen in horror.

"You!" the man shouted, pointing a trembling finger. "What did you do to him?"

Anand's mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. This couldn't be real. It was impossible. He had been writing fiction – it was just a story.
Yet the evidence was undeniable. A man was dead, and Anand had "shot" him with a gesture at the exact moment of his death.

He fled the park, running blindly through the streets, his mind racing faster than his feet. By the time he reached his apartment, he was drenched in sweat and struggling to breathe. He slammed the door shut and leaned against it, sliding down to sit on the floor.

"It's not possible," he gasped between breaths. "It's just a story."

But deep down, Anand knew something extraordinary, and terrifying had occurred. His fiction had somehow crossed over into reality. Or perhaps reality had been waiting for the fiction all along.

With trembling hands, he opened his laptop and stared at the document containing Madhan's story. The blinking cursor seemed to mock him now, a digital heartbeat counting down to something he couldn't comprehend.
__________

Anand didn't sleep that night. He sat at his desk, alternating between manic writing and paralyzed contemplation. If what had happened at the park was real – and the rational part of his brain insisted it couldn't be – then he needed to understand how and why.

He returned to his story, deciding to write the next chapter of Madhan's journey. Perhaps by exploring the fictional consequences, he could make sense of his own impossible experience.
__________

Chapter 2: The Investigation

Madhan spent the night in police custody, bewildered and terrified. Inspector Raghavan had questioned him for hours, sceptical of his claims of innocence despite the lack of physical evidence.

"If you didn't shoot him, Mr. Madhan, then explain to me how Mr. Muthu ended up dead," Inspector Raghavan said, his voice level but his eyes sharp and assessing.

"I don't know," Madhan replied for what felt like the hundredth time. "I was just sitting there. I didn't have a gun."

"Multiple witnesses saw you pointing at the victim just before he collapsed."

Madhan swallowed. "I was... I was just making a gesture. Like a child playing. I didn't shoot anyone."

The Inspector sighed, closing his notebook. "We'll continue this tomorrow. In the meantime, you'll remain in custody while we investigate further."

Alone in his cell, Madhan replayed the incident in his mind. He had pointed his finger, made a childish "pew" sound, and somehow a man had died. It defied all logic and all the natural laws. Was he losing his mind? Was this some elaborate setup?

The next morning, Inspector Raghavan returned with news that made Madhan's blood run cold.

"The autopsy results are in," he said, placing a folder on the table between them. "Mr. Muthu died from what appears to be a perfectly cauterized wound through his heart. No bullet was found, no exit wound. The medical examiner said it's as if something burned a clean hole through his chest, cauterizing the blood vessels simultaneously."

Madhan felt nauseous. "That's impossible."

"Yes, it should be," the Inspector agreed. "Which is why I'm even more interested in hearing your explanation."

"I told you, I didn't do anything. I just pointed my finger."

Inspector Raghavan leaned forward. "Show me."

"What?"

"Show me exactly what you did."

Madhan hesitated, then slowly raised his hand, forming it into the familiar gun shape. He pointed it at the wall behind the Inspector.

"And then?"

Madhan made a soft "pew" sound, his face flushing with embarrassment.

The Inspector's expression remained inscrutable. "That's it? That's what you did before Mr. Muthu collapsed?"

"Yes."

Inspector Raghavan stood up. "You'll be released pending further investigation. We have no evidence to charge you with, but don't leave town. This case is far from closed."
Madhan was free, but he felt anything but liberated. As he walked out of the police station, he kept his hands firmly in his pockets, terrified of what they might do.
__________

Anand stopped writing again, rubbing his eyes. The parallels were too eerie. He wondered what would happen to him now. Would the police come knocking on his door? Had someone identified him at the park?

He decided to continue the story, hoping it might offer some clarity or guidance.
__________

Chapter 3: Testing the Limits

After three days of hiding in his apartment, Madhan knew he needed to understand what was happening to him. If he truly possessed this impossible ability, he needed to know its limits, its rules.

He went to a deserted construction site on the outskirts of the city. With shaking hands, he gathered a few empty soda cans from a recycling bin along the way and set them up on a concrete barrier.

Taking a deep breath, he aimed his finger at one of the cans and "fired."

The can flew backward as if struck by an invisible force.

Madhan gasped, his suspicions confirmed. This was real. Somehow, inexplicably, he could project force – deadly force – through a simple gesture.

He spent the next hour testing different aspects of his newfound ability. He discovered that the effect seemed strongest when he made the "pew" sound, though it still worked without it. The range appeared limited to about fifty feet. Most significantly, he found that his intention mattered – if he wasn't mentally "shooting," nothing happened regardless of the gesture.

As the sun began to set, Madhan sat on the ground, overwhelmed by the implications. He possessed a power that defied explanation, that could kill without leaving conventional evidence. It was terrifying, and yet a small part of him – a part he was ashamed to acknowledge – found it exhilarating.

His phone rang, startling him. It was Inspector Raghavan.

"Mr. Madhan, there's been another incident. A man collapsed at a restaurant downtown an hour ago. Same unusual wound. Security footage shows no one near him, no weapon, nothing. But just before he collapsed, he was looking out the window. And guess who was walking by at that exact moment?"

Madhan's blood ran cold. "I haven't left my apartment all day until coming here."

"We'll need to verify that," the Inspector said. "In the meantime, I'd appreciate if you came down to the station to answer a few more questions."

Madhan agreed, his mind racing. If he wasn't responsible for this second death, did that mean there was someone else out there with the same impossible ability?
__________

Anand paused in his writing, disturbed by the direction the story was taking. Was he subconsciously setting up an explanation for what had happened at the park? Was he trying to convince himself that someone else might be responsible for the chess player's death?

He shook his head. This was madness. People didn't die from finger guns. There had to be a rational explanation.

His phone rang, making him jump. It was an unknown number.

"Hello?" he answered cautiously.

"Mr. Anand?" a deep voice inquired.

"Yes, speaking."

"This is Inspector Jeeva from the city police. I'd like to ask you a few questions about an incident at VOC Park earlier this evening."

Anand's heart raced. "What incident?"

"A man died under unusual circumstances. We're speaking with everyone who was in the area. Would you be available to come to the station tomorrow morning?"

"Yes, of course," Anand replied, trying to keep his voice steady.

After hanging up, he returned to his laptop with renewed urgency. If his fiction was somehow bleeding into reality, he needed to understand how and why – and quickly.
__________

Chapter 4: Parallel Paths

Madhan sat across from Inspector Raghavan for the third time in a week. This time, the Inspector seemed less accusatory and more puzzled.

"The second victim, Dr. Rajan, died exactly the same way as Mr. Muthu," Inspector Raghavan explained. "But as you pointed out, you have an alibi. Multiple neighbours confirm you were in your apartment at the time."

"Then you know I couldn't have been responsible," Madhan said, relief washing over him.

"For Dr. Rajan, no. For Mr. Muthu..." The Inspector shrugged. "The cases are identical in too many ways to be coincidental. Either two people are running around with the same impossible weapon, or..."

"Or what?"

"Or there's something happening here that goes beyond conventional investigation."

Madhan hesitated, then decided to take a risk. "What if I told you I think I know how Mr. Muthu died?"

Inspector Raghavan leaned forward. "I'm listening."

"You'll think I'm crazy."

"Try me."

Madhan took a deep breath. "I think he died because I pointed my finger at him and pretended to shoot. Not with a hidden weapon, not with some advanced technology. Just... this." He formed his hand into the familiar gun shape.

To his surprise, Inspector Raghavan didn't laugh or dismiss him. Instead, he looked thoughtful. "Show me."

"What? No! I'm not going to risk hurting anyone else."

"Not at a person," the Inspector clarified. He stood up and retrieved an apple from his lunch bag. He placed it on the corner of the table. "Show me on this."

Madhan looked at the apple, then at the Inspector. Was this a trap? If he demonstrated his ability, would that be an admission of guilt? But if he refused, would he ever be free from suspicion?

He raised his hand slowly, aimed at the apple, and "fired."

The apple exploded, pieces of fruit splattering across the table and wall.

Inspector Raghavan's face drained of colour. "That's..."

"Impossible," Madhan finished for him. "I know."
__________

Anand stared at what he had written, a chill running down his spine. The story was developing a logic of its own, suggesting answers to questions he was afraid to ask. If fiction could become reality, what responsibility did that place on him as the author?

He decided to test a theory. Taking a deep breath, he pointed his finger at an empty coffee mug on his desk and made a soft "pew" sound.

The mug shattered, ceramic shards flying across his desk.

Anand jumped back from his chair, his heart pounding in his chest. It was real. All of it was real. Somehow, he had written an ability into existence, and now both he and his fictional character possessed it.

But who had killed the second victim in his story? Was there another writer out there, creating parallel fiction that was also becoming reality? Or was something else at play?

With trembling hands, he returned to his keyboard. If writing had caused this, perhaps writing could explain it – or even end it.
__________

Chapter 5: The Writer

Madhan couldn't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Mr. Muthu collapsing in the park, saw the apple exploding in the interrogation room. He was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, when a strange thought occurred to him.

What if he wasn't real?

The thought came from nowhere, but once it surfaced, he couldn't shake it. What if he was a character in someone's story? What if his sudden, impossible ability was simply a plot device?

He dismissed the idea as sleep-deprived paranoia, but it lingered in the back of his mind.

The next morning, he received a call from Inspector Raghavan.

"There's been a third incident," the Inspector said without preamble. "Another death, same circumstances."

"I was at home all night," Madhan protested immediately.

"I know. You're not a suspect in this one. But I think you should come see something."

An hour later, Madhan stood in a small apartment filled with police personnel. Inspector Raghavan led him to a desk where a laptop sat open.

"This belongs to the third victim," the Inspector explained. "His name was Anand. He was a writer."

Madhan glanced at the screen and felt his world tilt. On the screen was a document – a story about a man named Madhan Kumar who discovered he could kill people by pointing his finger at them.

"That's... that's me," he whispered. "Those are my exact thoughts, my experiences."

Inspector Raghavan nodded grimly. "Anand was working on this novel when he died. According to the timestamp, he was writing it at the exact moment Mr. Muthu died in the park."

"I don't understand."

"Neither do I, but there's more." The Inspector scrolled down in the document. "After Mr. Muthu's death, continued writing. He added a second victim – Dr. Rajan – and then a third."

"Who was the third?"

"Himself. In the story, he theorizes that he's been writing reality into existence, that somehow his fiction is becoming real. And then..." The Inspector paused. "And then he decided to test if he could write his own death into the story."

Madhan felt cold all over. "Did it work?"

"We found him dead at his desk. Same wound as the others."

Madhan looked at the final paragraphs on the screen:
__________

Anand realized with growing horror that if his writing was creating reality, then he had inadvertently caused the deaths of two innocent people. Even worse, he had created a fictional character who now existed in the real world, endowed with the same deadly power.

What responsibility did he bear for the actions of his creation? What would happen to Madhan now that he, Anand, understood the truth? Would Madhan cease to exist if Anand stopped writing? Or had he taken on a life of his own?

There was only one way to find out. Anand formed his hand into a gun, pointed it at his own chest, and whispered, "Pew."
__________

The document ended there.

"If this is true," Madhan said slowly, "if I only exist because he wrote me into existence..."

"Then what happens now that he's gone?" Inspector Raghavan finished the thought.

Madhan didn't have an answer. He looked at his hands – hands that could kill with a gesture because a writer had imagined it so. Was he real? Had he always been real? Or was he simply a figment of imagination that had somehow crossed over into reality?

And if the writer was gone, was he now free to write his own story?
__________

The cursor blinked at the end of the document, waiting for words that would never come. In a small apartment across the city, Inspector Raghavan closed the laptop containing Anand 's unfinished novel. The case would go unsolved, filed away as one of those inexplicable mysteries that occasionally confound law enforcement.

And somewhere, a man named Madhan was either ceasing to exist as the story that created him ended, or he was walking into the world, free to determine his own fate for the first time.

In the space between fiction and reality, even the writer cannot know for certain how the story truly ends.