Varan’s skyline burned with a promise of salvation, its steel and glass towers piercing the dusk like a city built to devour secrets. I was Anika Roy, 32, a ghost fleeing Kolkata with a battered suitcase and a name I’d stitched together from lies. A fresh start, the world called it. I called it a lifeline, a desperate bid to outrun the man who’d nearly broken me. My fifth-floor apartment was a cramped refuge—cracked walls, a rusted lock, a view of a grimy alley. It was mine, invisible, a place to vanish. For 12 days, I dared to believe I was safe.
I found work at The Dusty Page, a bookstore swallowed by Varan’s neon chaos. I shelved novels, their spines a quiet comfort, while customers prattled about their mundane lives. No one noticed me. No one cared. I was a shadow among shadows, and that was how I wanted it. Until the first letter came, sliding under my door at 3 a.m. like a venomous snake. No envelope, no stamp—just my name in a jagged scrawl that clawed at my heart. My pulse thundered as I unfolded it. You thought you could hide, Anika? No signature, but I didn’t need one. It was Vikram.
Vikram—my ex-husband, whose fists had painted my skin with bruises, whose voice slithered through my nightmares. Six months ago, I’d slipped out of Kolkata under a moonless sky, leaving no trace—or so I’d thought. I burned the letter in the sink, flames devouring his words, but they branded themselves into my mind. I checked the locks, the windows, the alley below—nothing but shadows. Yet the air felt heavier, like eyes were pressing against my skin.
The next morning, I saw him. Or thought I did. A man in a grey coat stood across from the bookstore, scarf obscuring half his face, his gaze a cold blade slicing through the crowd. Books slipped from my hands, spines cracking on the floor. A customer bumped me, muttering, and I blinked—he was gone. My palms sweated through my shift, every creak of the old floorboards a gunshot. Was it Vikram? Or was my mind betraying me, conjuring him from fear?
That night, another letter. I watched you today. You’re still so predictable. Sleep became a stranger. Varan’s hum—horns, voices, footsteps—roared in my ears, a constant reminder of how small I was, how exposed. I woke to find my coffee cup an inch from where I’d left it. A window I’d locked stood ajar, letting in the city’s damp breath. At work, a man in a leather jacket lingered too long, his eyes too sharp as he asked for thrillers. “Ever feel like you’re in one?” he said, smirking. I forced a laugh, my voice splintering, and turned away.
By day seven, the letters were relentless, each one bolder, hungrier. You belong to me. Always. I bought a knife, its sleek weight a cold comfort in my pocket. Varan’s crowds, once my shield, now hid him. Every stranger’s glance was a blade, every shadow a threat. I saw Vikram everywhere—the man at the chai stall, his back too familiar; the silhouette in the metro, his posture etched in my memory. My phone buzzed at midnight: Check your balcony. I tore the curtains open, heart clawing at my ribs. The balcony was empty, but the glass bore a handprint, too large to be mine, its edges smudged like a warning.
I called the police, my voice shaking. They came, poked around, and left with shrugs. “No evidence,” they said, eyeing my trembling hands. “Maybe take a break.” I wanted to scream that Vikram was no phantom, that he was real and closing in. Instead, I turned to the internet, scouring Varan’s public records for any trace of him. Nothing. But a news archive stopped my heart: Maya Sen, 29, found in an alley three streets away, throat slit, case unsolved. Vikram’s ex before me. She’d warned me once, her eyes hollow over a cup of chai. “He never lets go,” she’d said. I hadn’t listened. Now her blood was a message.
Fear turned to resolve. I couldn’t wait for him to strike. On day 14, I set a trap. I left my door unlocked, lights off, knife gripped so tight my knuckles ached. The clock ticked past 2 a.m., each second a hammer against my skull. My breath was shallow, the air thick with anticipation. Then—a creak. The door inched open, and a figure filled the frame, his cologne flooding my senses, a sickening memory of nights I’d fought to forget. “Anika,” Vikram whispered, his voice smooth as venom, sharp as glass. “You’re mine.”
I lunged, the knife slashing through the dark. He caught my wrist, twisting until I screamed, the blade clattering to the floor. A lamp crashed, and light flooded his face—those cruel eyes, that twisted smile, unchanged by time or distance. “You can’t win,” he hissed, his grip tightening. We fought, a blur of pain and panic. Glass shattered—a mirror, a vase, I couldn’t tell. Blood slicked my hands, warm and sticky, but whose? His? Mine? He shoved me against the wall, his breath hot on my face, a knife—my knife—now in his hand, its edge grazing my throat.
“You thought you could escape?” he snarled, pressing closer. My vision blurred, panic clawing at my chest, but something snapped inside me. I wasn’t that woman anymore, the one who cowered. I drove my knee into his groin, and he staggered, cursing. I scrambled for the door, heart pounding, but he was faster, grabbing my ankle and yanking me back. The floor slammed into my ribs, air rushing out of me. He loomed above, knife gleaming, his smile a predator’s triumph.
But I wasn’t done. My hand found a shard of broken glass from the shattered mirror, its edge biting into my palm. With a scream, I slashed upward, catching his cheek. Blood sprayed, and he roared, clutching his face. I crawled away, gasping, and grabbed a chair, swinging it with every ounce of strength I had. It cracked against his shoulder, and he stumbled, the knife skittering across the floor. I didn’t wait—I ran, barefoot, down the stairwell, my pulse a drumbeat, the city’s cold air hitting me like a slap as I burst outside.
The alley was dark, but I didn’t stop, weaving through Varan’s streets, my breath ragged, blood dripping from my hand. I found a crowded night market, its lights and noise a shield, and hid among the stalls, trembling. I didn’t know if he’d followed or was watching even now. My phone was gone, left in the wreckage of my apartment, but the box of letters was still there, under the bed—proof I wasn’t insane.
I’m leaving Varan tonight, a bus ticket to nowhere clutched in my bandaged hand. New city, new name, new locks. But as I board, the crowd parts, and for a split second, I see a man in a gray coat, scarf high, eyes locked on me. I blink, and he’s gone. Vikram doesn’t follow. He hunts. And somewhere, in the next city, another letter is already waiting.
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