Hello lovelies, 

I am so grateful to you all for your responds towards this story, though it was just a prologue. Thanks. 

I hope you like the story concept. Well. i don't want to waste time so here is the FIRST CHAPTER> enjoy. 

(not edited. Sorry for any grammatical and spelling mistakes.) 

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Chapter One

Manik

The camera shutter clicks, a soft, mechanical sound that captures eternity. Through the viewfinder, the scene is perfect. Death has a way of simplifying things, of bestowing a terrible, final peace. My subjects are always most alluring posthumously. Perhaps that's the ultimate reason I do this—they become perfect objects. Still. Silent. Mine.

But that's just an aesthetic justification. The truth is simpler, purer.

I kill.

The need is its own reason, a primal rhythm beneath my civilized skin. The act of extinguishing a life, of feeling that final surrender under your hands... it's a fulfilment so profound it verges on the spiritual. It is lewd, carnal, and utterly divine. Everyone carries this dark potential; I am just one of the few brave enough to unlock it and bask in its glow.

I lower the camera and admire the body directly. Artistically arranged. I chose her for her boldness, the way she'd looked at me in the bar—inviting, demanding, sure of her power. They're all like that in the beginning. They think they are the hunters. I merely facilitate their transformation from predator to precious, permanent art.

I am the granter of death. I decide the when, the how, the final tableau. Seeking a "reason" is a pedestrian pursuit, a desperate attempt by the mundane to categorize the sublime. If the act satiates a deep, screaming need within you, then it is reason enough. Society calls it a crime, dresses it in morality, and in doing so, makes it taboo, which only makes it sweeter.

The media hungers for labels. Psychopath. Monster. Sociopath. Let them. If my artistry is noteworthy enough to earn criticism, then I am doing something right. True art always possesses a sinful beauty.

This isn't a choice anymore; it's my chemistry. My inheritance. My father understood. His father before him. We are bound by a legacy written not in words, but in blood and instinct. We walk among the flock, wearing their faces, speaking their language, but we belong to a different taxonomy altogether.

We are the doom that beauty calls to. I am that answer.

"He's careful. Methodical. This isn't his first time." The voice pulls me back to the present.

I stand at the periphery of a crime scene—my crime scene—watching two of Delhi's finest CID officers circle the drain of their own incompetence. Dhruv and Cabir. My friends. The irony is a private joke I savor daily.

"If it's been years, Cabir, the killer should be old or dead. But the patterns... they're inconsistent," Dhruv argues, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

They are looking at a puzzle to which I hold the box top, and they can't even see the edges.

Dhruv turns to me. "Manik? You've got a knack for seeing angles. What's your take?"

Stupid. Sublimely stupid.

I let a moment of thoughtful silence hang before answering. "I'm a journalist, Dhruv, not an investigator. My job is to report the 'what,' not solve the 'who.' You're asking the wrong man." I adjust my glasses, a prop that adds to the harmless, intellectual image.

"Right, our top crime reporter with zero curiosity," Cabir scoffs.

I offer a thin smile. "My curiosity is reserved for my headlines. And trust me, I'm profoundly curious. But showing it here wouldn't be professional. I already have what I need for my segment." I tap my camera.

Dhruv shakes his head. "Sometimes I don't get you. We're drowning here, and you're worried about your prime-time slot."

"Hunting news is my job. Hunting killers is yours." My tone is light, but the barb lands. I am playing with fire, standing so close to the blaze I can feel its heat. It's intoxicating. "And if you're failing at yours, it unfortunately becomes very good news for mine."

Dhruv's fist hits the hood of a CID van. "Damn it, Manik! Don't you dare spin this into another 'CID Clueless' story!"

"The public has a right to know," I say calmly, turning to leave. "See you at the press conference, gentlemen. Try to have something to say by then."

His threat follows me. "I swear, if you air that, I'll kill you myself!"

I don't look back. You can try, my friend. It would be the most interesting game yet.

But as I walk away, the cool façade cracks. The adrenaline from the scene, from the taunting, curdles into a different kind of need. A tightening in my chest, a dryness in my throat. The images flash—not of the dead girl, but of the process. The struggle. The light fading. The blood.

Not now. Breathe.

But the craving is a living thing, coiling in my gut. I need it. I need the ceremony, the intimacy, the control. Soon.

I force the monster back into its cage and walk into the buzzing offices of Metro Now, my sanctuary and my stage. The newsroom is abuzz with the very story I created.

"Boss!" My assistant, Abhi, grins. "Aryaman's piece on the last murder is trending everywhere!"

Aryaman, a young, eager reporter, beams. "It's all thanks to your access, Manik."

I clap him on the shoulder, the picture of the supportive mentor. "Talent speaks for itself. This calls for a celebration. My treat tonight. Everyone."

The room erupts in cheers. I smile, all charm and camaraderie. Inside, I'm calculating. A public celebration is perfect cover. An alibi, woven from laughter and toasts.

●●●●●

Nandini

The hot water is a temporary blessing, sluicing away the grime of the city but not the fatigue etched into my bones. My fingers trace the contours of my body under the stream—a body that is both my curse and my only reliable asset. I am so tired. But tired is a luxury I can't afford.

I check the chipped clock. 8 PM. Anayv isn't home. The usual cocktail of worry and relief stirs in me. Worry because he's my brother, and the streets are not kind. Relief because if he were here, he'd already be digging through my things, hunting for the money I've hidden.

The money. My secret. My shame. My hope.

Earned in ways I don't let myself think about in the daylight. It's for his rehab, I tell myself. To cure the addiction that's eating him alive. To cure us. We weren't born for this grimy, one-room existence with peeling walls and a future that smells of mildew. Our parents chose honesty and died with nothing. I choose survival.

I wrap myself in a threadbare towel and look in the broken mirror. The reflection shows a girl with too-old eyes in a young face. With the right clothes, the right smile, I could look like them. The ones who come to the club where I work, tossing money like it's confetti.

The Red Pelican. A den of polished predators. My manager, Rohan, gives me the lucrative shifts, the ones where the tips are big and the hands are wanderers. He says he's protecting me. Maybe he is. Or maybe he's just marking his territory. Either way, it's a fragile shield.

I pull on my uniform—a black dress that's just a little too tight, just a little too short. A costume for the role I play: the enticing, unattainable prize. I am always acting. We all are.

I lock the door, checking it twice. Triple. The world is full of threats. Some wear the faces of strangers in dark alleys. Some wear the face of a brother lost to his demons. And some, I suspect, wear the most charming smiles of all.

As I step out into the pulsating, indifferent heart of Delhi, one thought circles like a vulture: How far will I go to escape this? The answer, whispered back from the deepening shadows, terrifies me.

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Hoping that you like the first chapter. I would like to hear your opinion. What do you think of Manik and Nandini's character? And what is your perspective towards this chapter? 

Help me with your opinions. It was hard to write a thriller and crime. and i am still researching. So please enlighten me. And no rude comments and bashing. Constructive criticism is allowed, but please, kindly avoid rudeness.

Thank you.

Love,

_D. A