I was never supposed to hear it.
That whisper—barely audible over the hum of the vending machine at the edge of the deserted library wing—was not meant for me. It slithered through the air like smoke: "It has to look like an accident. No traces."
I froze, fingers still hovering near the B4 button, the packet of salted chips I never actually wanted sitting untouched behind the glass.
My pulse quickened. I waited, pretending to dig through my bag for coins, but my ears strained.
A second voice—harsher, older. “He’s asking too many questions. You know what to do.”
Footsteps retreated down the narrow hallway. A door creaked open. Then silence.
I didn’t move. Couldn’t. Not for a full minute.
Then I slowly backed away, careful not to let my shoes squeak on the polished floor.
I wasn’t supposed to be there in the first place. The library wing was under renovation, off-limits. I only slipped in because it was quiet, and after the week I'd had—failing an exam, losing my part-time job—I needed quiet.
But what I heard wasn’t just gossip. It was something darker. Something real.
I left the building, heart pounding, telling myself to forget it. People talked. I probably misheard.
Except… the next day, a student from our department—a senior named Arjun—was found dead.
Fell from the fourth-floor balcony, they said. A tragic accident.
But I remembered that voice. It has to look like an accident.
And I knew—this was no coincidence.
---
I didn’t go to the police. Who would believe me?
Instead, I started watching. Listening. Arjun had been working on a student project related to the college’s funding irregularities. I remembered overhearing him argue with a professor the week before.
I searched his name online. Found a few blog posts. Hidden among tech reviews was a buried post titled: “The Numbers Don’t Add Up.”
The post ended abruptly. No comments. No shares.
I printed it out. Took notes. Traced the names he’d mentioned. Two of them were faculty members. One of them was in the library that day.
---
That evening, I got a message from an unknown number:
“You don’t know what you’re getting into. Stop digging.”
I felt the blood drain from my face. I hadn’t told anyone.
How did they know?
I activated airplane mode. Pulled out the SIM. Tossed it down a storm drain. Then I walked to the nearest public Wi-Fi spot and created a new encrypted email address. I sent the post to myself. Backed it up.
The more I learned, the deeper it went.
A slush fund. Falsified grant documents. Threats. Silenced students.
One name kept popping up: Professor Vihaan Suresh. Department head. Respected. Charismatic. But Arjun’s post linked him to forged expense reports and fake research assistants.
And then, last night, I found something I wasn’t supposed to—an audio file hidden in Arjun’s blog draft folder. It was only ten seconds long, but I knew the voice.
“If she doesn’t shut up, we’ll make her disappear like the others.”
Not he. She.
They weren’t talking about Arjun.
They were talking about me.
---
Now I’m running out of time.
Every shadow feels like it’s watching. I sleep with a chair jammed against my door. My laptop’s been tampered with. I see the same black car pass my house twice a day.
But I have one shot.
Tomorrow night is the college’s annual gala. Everyone will be there. Including the media.
I’m going to upload everything onto a USB. Audio. Documents. Photos.
I’ll drop it into the press booth’s anonymous tip box.
Because if I don’t—
They’ll silence me.
Just like they silenced Arjun.
---
But there’s something they didn’t count on.
I wasn’t supposed to hear that whisper…
But now that I have, I won’t stop.
Even if it’s the last thing I do.
---
The Gala Night
I dressed in black, blending with the night. The USB was in my coat pocket—disguised as a keychain. Every step toward the college auditorium felt like walking a tightrope over fire.
Cameras flashed. Music played. Laughter echoed. But all I saw were the faces of suspects and victims. And I knew one thing: someone in this crowd had killed Arjun. And they were watching me.
The press booth was on the left wing. I made my way slowly, stopping to greet professors, shaking hands with alumni. I had to look normal. Calm. Not like a girl holding a bomb of truth.
I slipped the USB into the drop box, just as planned.
But just as I turned around—there he was.
Professor Vihaan.
Smiling.
“Ah, I thought I saw you earlier,” he said warmly, hand on my shoulder. “Glad to see you here. You’ve been... quiet lately.”
I forced a smile. “Just focusing on studies.”
His eyes held mine. Cold. Calculating.
“Smart. Staying quiet can be… safer.”
He knew.
He knew I knew.
But I didn’t flinch.
“Sometimes speaking up can be safer too,” I said, and walked away.
My heart raced. I didn’t dare look back.
---
That night, the story broke.
Someone from the press leaked it within hours—files, voice recordings, even Arjun’s hidden blog post. It spread like wildfire across social media and news channels.
By morning, campus was in chaos.
Vihaan disappeared.
Arrests were made.
And I?
I didn’t disappear.
I survived.
But I’ve learned one thing—truth whispers before it screams.
And when you hear it, you can either turn away… or become its voice.
They say justice is loud. But what followed felt nothing like it.
In the days after the story broke, campus turned into a battlefield of rumors, protests, and whispered truths. Half the staff resigned. The Dean released statements full of vague promises and PR polish. But Vihaan was still missing. And that was not justice.
For me, silence became unbearable.
I started seeing shadows where there were none. Every time someone looked at me too long, I wondered if they knew. Knew that I was the girl who pulled the thread holding their perfect world together. And I started to wonder—
Did I really pull it all the way out?
Because something still didn’t fit.
---
I couldn’t sleep. I kept rereading Arjun’s messages. Listening to the corrupted audio files on loop. I’d memorized every word, every static beat, trying to find what my brain refused to show me.
Then, late one night, it came back.
A sound in the background.
Not static. Not a glitch.
A bell.
Three short rings. Then silence.
It wasn’t from Arjun’s room. I knew that. We studied in the same block. That sound came from somewhere else.
I played it again.
Ding. Ding. Ding.
Then, beneath it—barely audible—someone whispered:
> “She’s next.”
My stomach turned. I paused the audio.
Who whispered it?
Was it Vihaan?
Or was someone else still playing the game?
---
The next morning, I visited the old audio lab near the west wing. It was supposed to be shut down, but I knew the guard. I convinced him I needed the sound system for a personal project.
What I needed was clarity.
I ran the audio through several filters. Cleaned up the background. Slowed it down.
And when I played the final version—
It wasn’t Vihaan’s voice.
It was a woman.
Sharp. Deliberate.
And very, very familiar.
---
I raced out of the lab, heart in my throat.
I knew that voice.
It belonged to Professor Meera Sen. The one who cried the loudest at Arjun’s memorial. The one who told me to “stay strong, stay quiet.” The one who handed me a white rose and whispered, “Be careful, some things are better left buried.”
She didn’t mean it as comfort.
She meant it as a warning.
---
Later That Night
I went back to the lab, this time with a friend—Naveen, Arjun’s roommate. He didn’t know the whole truth, but he believed me when I said something was still wrong.
We broke into Meera Sen’s office.
No cameras. She had insisted years ago that professors deserved “privacy.”
Inside, the air smelled like lilies and old paper. Her desk was clean. Too clean.
But behind a shelf, I found it.
A small black device. A recorder.
One file.
"Confession.mp3"
---
> "This wasn’t supposed to happen. Arjun was never the target. He just wouldn’t stop digging. We told Vihaan to scare him. That’s all. But he panicked. He always panics."
> "Now the girl—Fida—she’s starting to ask questions. We can’t afford more mistakes."
> click
---
My hands trembled. The recorder slipped from my grip and clattered on the floor.
She knew my name.
Not just my face. Not just my article.
She. Knew. My. Name.
And now I knew hers.
This wasn’t over.
It was just getting started.
React
