"A chain does not break all at once.
It rusts. It frays.
Until the first link chooses freedom,
and finds death waiting instead."
Morning was gray.
Washed out.
As if the sun had lost its will to shine over Bhairavpur.
As if the light itself was tired of trying.
The group stirred inside the haveli.
Their bodies stiff from the cold stone floor.
Their faces etched with exhaustion.
With the weight of days that had stopped being days and become something else entirely.
Something that had no name.
No one had truly slept.
Not in any way that counted.
Not in any way that restored.
Diya sat near the window.
Her fingers wrapped around her silver locket.
Staring at the skeletal trees beyond.
The branches reaching like hands.
Like they were begging.
Or warning.
She hadn't moved in hours.
Or perhaps it had been minutes.
Time had become unreliable.
Priya scribbled into her notebook with shaky hands.
Words tumbling out like she feared forgetting the truth if she stopped.
Like if she ceased writing, the words would vanish.
And with them, the last evidence that any of this had been real.
That any of this mattered.
Her fingers cramped.
Her vision blurred.
But she kept writing.
Kabir, though, paced.
His boots scuffed against the dust.
Each step louder than it needed to be.
A sound of aggression.
Of frustration.
Of a man running out of patience with the impossible.
His restlessness gnawed at the others like a mosquito that refused to be swatted.
Like an itch that couldn't be scratched.
Like a wound that kept reopening.
"Another day wasted," he muttered.
His voice sharp.
Cutting.
"Another day sitting around waiting for this hellhole to swallow us."
"No one's waiting," Rohit snapped.
Running a hand through his messy hair.
"We're thinking."
"Planning."
"Trying to survive."
Kabir barked out a laugh.
Humorless.
Bitter.
"Planning what?"
"Which corner to hide in next?"
"How to cry quieter so the monsters don't hear?"
"How to starve more slowly?"
Yashpal rose.
His large frame casting a shadow across the room.
A shadow that seemed too dark.
Too substantial.
"You've done nothing but complain since we got here."
His voice was controlled but underneath was rage.
Building.
Mounting.
"If you hate being with us so much, then—"
"Then what?" Kabir spun on him.
Eyes wild.
"You'll throw me out?"
"You'd love that, wouldn't you?"
"Less weight to carry, fewer mouths to feed."
"Don't think I don't see the way you look at me."
"Like I'm the problem."
"Like I'm the reason we're still trapped here."
The air bristled.
Thick with the promise of another fight.
With the understanding that violence was waiting.
That it had always been waiting.
Just beneath the surface.
Just waiting for the right moment to break through.
But it was Meghna who broke it.
Her voice was sharp.
Brittle.
Like glass about to shatter.
"Stop it."
"Both of you."
"The village doesn't need our help to kill us."
"We're doing its work for it."
Silence fell.
Heavy.
Shameful.
The realization landing like a stone.
Like a truth that couldn't be denied.
Saanvi whispered, "She's right."
But Kabir only scoffed and turned away.
His eyes darted to Diya.
Who hadn't moved.
Hadn't spoken.
Who just sat there by the window.
Still.
Patient.
Something about her stillness made his skin crawl.
Made him feel like she knew something.
Something that gave her certainty.
Something that made her different.
"She hasn't said a word," he sneered.
His voice dripping with accusation.
"Not a damn word."
"While the rest of us break apart, she just sits there."
"Like she knows something we don't."
"Like she's already made a deal."
"Stop," Abhay said sharply.
His voice cutting through like a blade.
He didn't look up from where he sat sharpening a rusted piece of metal into something resembling a knife.
But the warning in his tone was enough.
Was clear.
Was final.
Kabir's jaw tightened.
He wanted to argue.
To push.
To force Abhay to confront what they were all thinking.
But the weight of Abhay's silence pressed against him like a wall.
Like a barrier that couldn't be crossed.
Still, the thought festered.
Growing.
Poisoning.
Spreading through his mind like an infection.
The Village's Teeth.
By afternoon, they decided to scavenge again.
The orchard was behind them.
But Bhairavpur stretched endlessly.
As though new streets grew overnight.
As though the village was expanding.
Feeding.
Growing fat on their presence.
They split into pairs.
Abhay with Diya.
Rohit with Meghna.
Yashpal with Saanvi.
Leaving Kabir and Priya trailing behind.
Together by default rather than choice.
By elimination rather than agreement.
The air felt wrong.
Every lane bent in circles.
Doors swung open without a touch.
Shadows clung to the walls too long after their owners passed.
As if the darkness had a will of its own.
As if the shadows were learning to move independently.
Kabir muttered under his breath:
"This place is alive."
Priya, clutching her camera, whispered back:
"Then stop feeding it with your anger."
He shot her a glare.
Sharp.
Accusatory.
"Don't preach to me about anger."
She looked away.
And in her looking away was surrender.
Was admission.
Was the understanding that she couldn't help him.
That no one could help him.
When they regrouped near the broken schoolhouse, the others compared scraps of supplies.
A torn blanket.
A few rusted tools.
An unopened tin of something unrecognizable.
It wasn't much.
But it was something.
Proof that scavenging mattered.
Proof that they were still trying.
Kabir stared at the pile and laughed.
Bitter.
Harsh.
"This?"
"This is survival?"
"We're dead already."
"We just haven't realized it yet."
Meghna snapped:
"Then leave, Kabir."
"If we're so useless, go find your paradise in the forest."
The words cut deeper than she meant them to.
Much deeper.
The others froze.
Waiting for his eruption.
Waiting for the violence they could all feel building.
But Kabir only smiled.
A strange, hollow smile.
Empty of humor.
Empty of feeling.
Empty of anything human.
"Maybe I will."
Whispers in the Dark.
That night, while the others dozed in uneasy half-sleep, Kabir lay awake.
Staring at the cracked ceiling.
The haveli's silence wasn't empty.
It was layered.
Like a hundred voices whispering just beyond hearing.
Just beyond comprehension.
He swore he heard his name.
Once.
Twice.
Drawn out.
Hissed between the wooden beams.
Kabir.
Kabeeeeeir.
Like something was calling him.
Like something wanted him to know he was being watched.
When he sat up, the voices stopped.
But his heart kept racing.
Kept pounding.
Kept screaming that something was very, very wrong.
He looked at the others.
Huddled close.
Clinging to each other's warmth even in distrust.
And for the first time, he felt apart.
Not just separate.
Unwanted.
Like he didn't belong to the group anymore.
Like the group had already decided he was expendable.
His fists clenched.
The nails biting into his palms.
Drawing blood.
Maybe Meghna was right.
Maybe he would be better off alone.
The forest was dark.
But at least it was honest about its darkness.
At least it didn't pretend.
At least it didn't smile while it killed you.
He stood quietly.
Carefully.
Moving to the window.
Looking out at the paths beyond the haveli.
The lanes that led into shadow.
The roads that twisted back on themselves.
All of it waiting.
All of it patient.
All of it hungry.
And somewhere in that darkness, he heard it again:
His name.
Calling.
Calling him out.
Calling him away.
From the group.
From the haveli.
From everything that was keeping him tethered to this nightmare.
His hand moved to the door.
He didn't remember deciding to open it.
But there it was.
Open.
Leading out.
Leading into the village.
Leading into the dark.
"In the silence of the forest, solitude is never empty.
It watches. It waits.
And those who walk away from the fire of men
become the feast of shadows."