Mumbai | 11:38 PM | Rain-Soaked Thursday
Tara Arora hated late-night events, especially ones thrown by entitled startup founders who thought free cocktails and white neon lights qualified as “networking.” She’d smiled, pitched, collected a few fake business cards, and then quietly escaped through the hotel’s back elevator.
She stood in the lift, staring at her phone, drenched from a drizzle that made her white silk blouse half-transparent. Her black pencil skirt clung to her thighs, and the subtle scent of Chanel Noir lingered around her—confidence disguised as perfume.
As the elevator doors started to close, a hand slipped in.
A man entered.
Sharp suit. No tie. Slightly wet hair. Confident. Quiet.
Tara didn't look up immediately, but she noticed the scent—musk and leather, with a faint trace of clove cigarettes.
She caught his reflection in the chrome panel beside the floor buttons. Mid-thirties. Broad shoulders. A small scar near his left eye. Not classically handsome, but there was something dangerous about him.
The lift jerked, and the lights flickered.
He looked at her.
“Electricals in this place are shit,” he muttered.
She smiled, polite.
He nodded to her phone. “Tinder date gone wrong?”
She laughed unexpectedly. “Startup party gone worse.”
His eyes sparkled. “Same here.”
Silence.
Tara looked away. The hum of the lift seemed louder. Then he spoke again.
“You ever said yes to something that completely screwed up your life?”
She turned to him. “Depends. Are you offering something?”
He gave a crooked smile. “Maybe.”
The elevator stopped. Her floor.
She stepped out. Turned to him. Something impulsive sparked in her brain.
He hadn’t asked her name.
She hadn’t asked his.
But there was a charge—like touching a live wire and liking the burn.
He didn’t move.
Then she said it.
“Yes.”
And the doors closed.
12:04 AM | Her Apartment
Tara stared at her phone.
One new message from an unknown number.
“You said yes. You sure?”
Her heart fluttered. She hadn't given him her number.
She replied.
“I didn’t expect you to be the type who stalks.”
The response came instantly.
“I didn’t. You left your card on the floor.”
She checked her purse.
Her card was missing.
She should’ve felt violated.
But she felt... intrigued.
She wrote back:
“What happens now?”
Another message:
“What are you wearing?”
She hesitated.
Then typed:
“Why don’t you guess?”
His reply came after a pause.
“A white blouse, slightly wet. Tight black skirt. And no bra.”
Tara swallowed.
He was right.
She should have been alarmed.
But she wasn’t.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she typed:
“What do you want?”
The answer:
“A night you’ll never forget. But it starts with a question.”
She smiled. Typed back.
“What’s the question?”
“Do you trust me?”
She hesitated longer this time. Her mind knew better.
But the other part of her—the one bored of Tinder matches and fragile egos—was awake.
She typed:
“Yes.”
Friday | 9:20 AM | Cuffe Parade Police Station
Inspector Veer Rathod sipped cold chai from a paper cup as the crime scene photos flicked across his monitor.
Apartment 502. Blood on the floor. Broken wine glass. Leather straps. A single high heel.
No body.
No sign of forced entry.
Only a white business card with a lipstick mark… and one word written on the back:
“Yes.”
Back to Thursday Night | Tara’s Apartment
There was a knock on her door.
Not the bell. A knock. Three times.
She opened it.
It was him.
The stranger from the elevator.
Same clothes. Dry now. No umbrella.
No hello. No hesitation.
He walked in, took off his coat, and tossed it on the couch.
Tara stood still, unsure if this was a dream, a mistake, or something she'd regret before sunrise.
He walked up to her.
“I don’t do small talk,” he said.
She raised an eyebrow. “Neither do I.”
He reached out slowly, gently touching her chin.
“Then let’s skip it.”
What followed wasn’t gentle.
It was magnetic. Fast. Muted moans in between jazz music. Her fingers digging into his back. His breath on her neck. The kind of release that left bruises—not just on the body, but on the soul.
She didn’t ask his name.
He didn’t take hers.
And just before he left at 3:12 AM, he kissed her forehead and whispered:
“Remember your yes. You’re in now.”
She thought it was a joke.
Until she woke up the next morning to a news alert.
Businessman Suraj Bedi Found Dead in Colaba Hotel Room. Suspected Overdose. Police Investigating.
She blinked.
That was the same party she’d left.
The same man she'd watched arguing with a stranger at the bar.
The same man the stranger in her bed had brushed past in the lobby.
And then another message came:
“Tara, you really should check under your bed.”
Her breath caught.
She crouched, trembling, and pulled out a velvet pouch.
Inside—a diamond bracelet.
She recognized it.
It belonged to Suraj Bedi’s wife.
Friday | 9:30 AM | Tara’s Apartment
Tara stared at the diamond bracelet like it was a live grenade. Suraj Bedi’s wife was famous in Page 3 circles—always wearing this exact bracelet, flaunting it like a status symbol.
And now, it sat under her bed, in a velvet pouch, like a cruel joke.
She grabbed her phone.
Tara: “What the hell is this? Are you trying to frame me?”
A reply buzzed back within seconds.
Unknown: “You said yes. This is part of it.”
Tara: “Who are you?”
Unknown: “You already know me. You just don’t know how.”
She felt the room shift. Her heartbeat was loud in her ears. This isn’t a fling anymore. This is a setup.
She grabbed the bracelet with a tissue and zipped it inside a plastic bag. Her first instinct was to call the police.
But then she remembered:
She had no idea who the man was.
She had no proof he existed.
No cameras. No entry log. No neighbors saw him come in.
And she had a murder bracelet under her bed.
She was already in it.
Too deep.
Friday | 10:30 AM | The Stranger’s Perspective
Somewhere across the city, in a high-rise with a skyline view, the man from the elevator sipped his black coffee. Shirtless. Lean muscle. A tattoo of a chess piece—the queen—inked behind his shoulder.
On his laptop screen were images of Tara Arora.
College photos. Instagram posts. Resume PDFs. Medical records.
He zoomed in on a photo of her laughing at a beach.
“Smart. Lonely. Controlled chaos. But curious enough to say yes,” he whispered to himself.
His phone buzzed.
Unknown: “Status?”
He replied:
“She’s in.”
Friday | 12:15 PM | Cuffe Parade Police Station
Inspector Veer Rathod hated public death cases. Especially when they involved rich bastards overdosing in designer hotel suites.
The official story said Suraj Bedi took his own life after a “nervous breakdown.” His wife was flying in from Dubai.
But Rathod had seen enough crime scenes to smell a lie.
The wine glass was cracked.
The sheets were stained with sweat—two people’s sweat.
The security footage conveniently went missing for 47 minutes. Just enough time for someone to slip in… and out.
And that lipstick on the rim of the glass?
Not Mrs. Bedi’s brand.
He leaned back, staring at the only solid clue so far: a white business card with the name Tara Arora, with a lipstick kiss on the back and the word “Yes” scribbled in black pen.
He picked up the phone.
“Get me everything you have on this woman.”
Friday | 3:33 PM | Tara’s Living Room
The doorbell rang.
Not the knock. The actual bell.
Tara peeked through the peephole. A courier guy. Normal. Mid-20s. Holding a white envelope.
“Delivery for Ms. Tara.”
She opened the door just enough to grab it.
As soon as she shut it, the envelope started vibrating.
There was a phone inside.
A cheap burner.
It lit up: UNKNOWN CALLING
She answered.
“Did you like the bracelet?” said his voice, calm as a whisper on silk.
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because you said yes. And now… you’re part of the game.”
“What game?”
There was a pause.
Then he said:
“Check your email.”
The line disconnected.
Friday | 3:38 PM | Tara’s Email
Subject: ROUND 1
Body:
“There’s a USB drive taped under your dining table.
Plug it in.
Do what it says.
Or everything about last night goes viral.”
She checked.
It was there.
Black USB. No label.
She considered smashing it.
Instead, she plugged it into her old work laptop and disconnected the Wi-Fi.
A single file: Round1_Tara.mp4
She clicked play.
The video was chilling.
It was a live feed of Suraj Bedi, alive, pacing his hotel room.
The timestamp: exactly 17 minutes before his death.
The next frame showed her apartment.
From inside.
There was a brief shot of her sleeping naked, back turned to the camera, then static.
Then a deep voiceover, modulated:
“You were chosen. You’re not the first. You won’t be the last.”
“In 6 hours, a courier will arrive at Oberoi Chambers, 4th floor. Take the brown envelope from the lobby guard. Deliver it to the red scooter parked outside Churchgate station. If you fail, the video goes public.”
“Do not try to trace the scooter. Do not open the envelope. Do not call the police.”
“Welcome to the game, Tara.”
The video ended.
Friday | 4:00 PM | Meanwhile, at Oberoi Chambers
A brown envelope sat inside the security guard’s drawer, marked: "For Ms. Arora. Handle with care."
Inside?
A wad of ₹2000 notes. And a photo.
A photo of Tara.
Smiling.
With her arm around her ex-boyfriend Rishabh—taken last year.
But there was something odd.
The photo had a red X over Rishabh’s face.
Friday | 4:15 PM | Inspector Rathod’s Office
“Sir,” the constable entered. “We traced the business card. Tara Arora. Copywriter. Lives in Colaba. No prior record. But…”
“But what?”
“She was dating Rishabh Joshi. Who just filed a missing person’s report this morning. Says someone’s stalking him.”
Rathod blinked.
The threads were tangling now.
And Tara Arora was somewhere at the center of this web.
Friday | 5:42 PM | South Mumbai
The roads were slippery from the monsoon drizzle as Tara stepped out of the cab at Oberoi Chambers. Her heart thudded with a rhythm she couldn’t control. In her bag was the burner phone and her work ID—nothing else.
She kept rehearsing her line:
“I was told there’s an envelope for me.”
The building’s guard barely looked up.
“Arora, right?” He opened his drawer, handed her a sealed brown envelope with a label: CONFIDENTIAL.
She tucked it into her coat and walked out quickly, resisting the urge to tear it open. She could feel heat radiating off it—as if whatever was inside was alive and watching her.
Friday | 6:02 PM | Churchgate Station
The red scooter was parked just where the video said it would be—next to the paanwala stand, half-shaded by a dying tree. It looked like someone had carefully chosen a spot where CCTV angles wouldn’t fully catch it.
She looked around. The footpath was buzzing with commuters, chai stalls, and beggars.
No one was watching her.
At least, not visibly.
She approached the scooter. A black helmet hung from one handlebar. No keys.
She slipped the envelope under the seat just like she was told.
The moment she let go, the burner phone buzzed in her coat pocket.
UNKNOWN: “Well done. You made it through Round 1.”
“Now run.”
She blinked.
Run?
Suddenly, the scooter exploded.
BOOM.
A controlled detonation—not Hollywood big, but loud enough to send people screaming, smoke billowing, and car alarms wailing in all directions.
Tara ducked behind a parked rickshaw.
Her ears rang. Her legs shook. Her coat was singed at the edges.
She looked up in horror.
The red scooter was now a fireball.
And the brown envelope? Ash.
Friday | 6:08 PM | Nearby Rooftop
He watched through binoculars, hidden behind a tandoori food stall on a rooftop terrace.
His eyes stayed locked on Tara—watching her stagger, watching her confusion.
He whispered to himself:
“She’s more than I thought. Good reflexes. High cortisol. Beautiful under fire.”
Then, almost fondly, he said:
“Let’s give her something... personal next.”
Friday | 6:44 PM | Tara’s Apartment
She burst through the door, heart still pounding. Clothes half-burned, fingers trembling. Her mind screamed a dozen things at once:
Set-up. Bomb. Frame. Surveillance.
But above all—Why me?
She dumped her clothes into a garbage bag, wiped down her purse with sanitizer, then collapsed on the couch.
The burner phone buzzed again.
UNKNOWN: “You did well. Most people run to the police. You ran home. Smart.”
“But you’ve disappointed me.”
Her eyes widened.
“You disobeyed Rule #1: Never return to the same place twice.”
Her blood froze.
She scanned her apartment.
Then she heard it.
A click.
From inside her bedroom.
She moved slowly, heart rattling. Picked up a paperweight.
She swung open the door—
Nothing.
Then her TV turned on by itself.
Static.
Then… a video.
The screen flickered to life:
It showed Rishabh, her ex-boyfriend. Tied to a chair. Eyes swollen. Lip bleeding.
He looked terrified.
“Tara… please… I don’t know what’s going on… they… they said you chose this…”
The screen cut to black.
Then a single line in white:
“Round 2 begins now. Save him, if you want. But know this—your past is not what you think.”
Friday | 8:22 PM | Inspector Veer Rathod’s Flat
Rathod watched the news replay the scooter explosion on a loop. No casualties, the report said. Just chaos and mystery. No leads.
But Rathod had one.
Tara Arora.
And now her ex-boyfriend, Rishabh Joshi, was missing.
Too coincidental.
He poured himself a drink. Picked up his mobile.
Dialed his old contact in cybercrime.
“I need a trace on a number. Burner type. Starts messaging from 11:54 PM yesterday.”
“Whose number?”
“A ghost,” Rathod muttered. “But I think it’s playing a very real game.”
Friday | 9:05 PM | Tara’s Flashback
She sat on the edge of her bed, wrapping her arms around her knees. Shaking.
Why was Rishabh pulled into this?
They hadn’t spoken in six months. The breakup was mutual… or at least she thought it was.
But now she was starting to remember things.
Whispers in the dark.
An email she once found—Rishabh talking to someone about “recruitment.”
She had assumed it was a new job.
But what if it wasn’t?
What if he had already been part of this…?
The phone buzzed. Again.
UNKNOWN: “He lied to you, Tara. He said he loved you. But he volunteered.”
A photo arrived.
It showed Rishabh smiling—at a café—with the man from the elevator.
The stranger.
Side by side.
Laughing.
Date: Two weeks before she ever met him.
Tara’s hands went numb.
Friday | 9:09 PM | Meanwhile, Inside a Basement
Rishabh was gagged now. A single light swung above him.
The elevator man leaned forward, whispering in his ear.
“She said yes. You didn’t think she would, did you?”
Rishabh mumbled something through the gag. His eyes burned with panic.
The man smiled.
“I told you… curiosity is the deadliest sin.”
Friday | 11:17 PM | Tara’s Apartment
The rain had returned, this time heavier—like the city was trying to cleanse itself of something unspeakable.
Tara stood in front of the mirror, her skin damp with sweat and water. The air was humid, oppressive. Her blouse clung to her chest, translucent in parts. She didn’t care.
She stared at her reflection, then slowly peeled off her clothes. It wasn’t for comfort. It was control. In a world where every move was manipulated, her body was the only thing she still owned. For now.
She turned on the hot shower and let the scalding water slide over her, washing away the day’s blood, smoke, and fear.
But not the memory.
His breath. His hands. His mouth. His control.
The way he had studied her body as if it told secrets even she didn’t know.
Her fingers drifted lower, as if retracing the path he had taken.
She stopped.
What are you doing?
She looked in the mirror again.
There was a lipstick mark.
Not hers.
It was faint, near her left collarbone.
How long had it been there?
A whisper in her mind echoed:
“Your skin remembers more than your mind does.”
Saturday | 12:04 AM | Unknown Location
The elevator man—now known in internal records as "Subject Epsilon"—watched Tara’s shower feed on a split-screen wall. He wasn’t watching with lust.
He was watching with method.
“Still fighting,” he muttered. “Still trying to dominate chaos with routine.”
He admired her resolve.
He admired her body too—yes—but it was her mind that fascinated him.
The way she followed the trail. The way she didn’t break, even after Round 1 and 2.
He pressed a button on his keyboard.
Another message, queued.
Saturday | 12:11 AM | Tara’s Phone Buzzed
UNKNOWN: “You think your pain started last night. It didn’t.”
“It started in 1997. In a house with red curtains and a locked basement. Remember yet?”
Her breath caught.
1997.
She was seven.
There was a room her mother always told her never to enter. Her father used to go in there. Always alone. Always locking the door.
One night, she had snuck in.
What she saw had never made sense to her… until now.
Cameras.
Files.
Photos of other women.
Names. Tags. Symbols.
And a man—not her father—a stranger.
Talking to her father about “conditioning and consent.”
She had forgotten all of it.
Until now.
Saturday | 1:30 AM | Cuffe Parade Police Station
Rathod’s cybercrime contact finally called back.
“Tracked the burner messages. They’re being sent via rotating virtual numbers. But there’s a pattern.”
“What kind?”
“Each message pings from a different dark net node, but they all mirror from one VPN base in Vienna.”
“Vienna?” Rathod frowned.
“Yes. And that’s not all. We ran voice modulation filters. The voice in Tara’s apartment video—the distorted one—it matches an old file.”
“Whose?”
“An ex-RAW psychological warfare asset. Went rogue in 2016. Vanished without a trace. Codename: Epsilon.”
Rathod’s glass slipped from his hand.
“This isn’t about romance or murder,” he muttered.
“This is experimentation.”
Saturday | 2:10 AM | Tara’s Apartment
The lights flickered again.
She looked up. Then down. Her carpet had a wet patch. As if something had leaked… or someone had stepped in with wet shoes.
She grabbed a knife from the kitchen.
A new message arrived:
“Ready for Round 3?”
“There’s someone waiting for you. Someone you forgot. Someone who didn’t forget you.”
“Put on the red dress. Go to 37/A Ridgeview Lane. Ring the bell three times.”
She almost threw the phone.
But then she saw the photo attached.
It was her—age 10.
Standing next to a young boy with burn scars on his jawline.
Caption: “He remembered.”
Tara fell to the floor.
That boy’s name was Vihaan.
Her childhood best friend.
He had disappeared after an accident in 2001. Everyone said he’d died.
But she remembered the final thing he’d said to her before vanishing:
“One day, I’ll come back, Tara. And you’ll say yes again.”
Saturday | 2:51 AM | Ridgeview Lane
The house looked abandoned.
Vines curled over shattered windows. The paint peeled like decaying skin.
She wore the red dress.
Not because he said so—but because she needed to control something. Even her own compliance.
She rang the bell. Once. Twice. Three times.
The door clicked open.
Inside, candles flickered along the floor. The house smelled of sandalwood and dust.
And there—standing by the fireplace—was a man with half his face scarred. Hands behind his back. Tall. Poised.
He turned.
Vihaan.
But older. Harder. Colder.
“You came,” he said.
Tara didn’t know whether to cry or run.
“What is this, Vihaan? Why me?”
He stepped closer.
“You were always meant for this. You were the first one they tested. At seven.”
Her throat dried.
“You were part of it too?”
He nodded.
“Back then, I was a subject. Now… I’m a conductor.”
She laughed. Dry. Bitter. “So this whole thing—Rishabh, the elevator man, the bracelet—was all your design?”
He smiled.
“I never got to kiss you when we were children.”
He reached out, brushing her lower lip with his thumb.
“But I remember how badly I wanted to.”
She slapped his hand away.
“You’re insane.”
He leaned in. “Maybe. But so are you, Tara. You just haven’t accepted it yet.”
He touched her neck, and for a moment, she didn’t move.
Her body responded in betrayal—old memory fused with new danger.
Then he whispered:
“Your final test is simple. Kill the past. Or be killed by it.”
He handed her a gun.
Saturday | 3:10 AM | Ridgeview Lane – Inside the House
Tara stood frozen, the gun in her hand trembling like a secret exposed.
Vihaan’s scarred face was inches from hers. “It’s loaded,” he whispered. “One bullet. One truth.”
She looked down at the gun. It felt heavier than guilt.
He circled her slowly, like a predator savoring the kill.
“You thought this was about sex, Tara. About danger. Lust. Obsession. But it was always about memory.”
He leaned in, voice brushing her ear:
“Your yes that night... it wasn't the first.”
She swallowed.
“Then tell me. What did I agree to?”
He stepped back and clicked a button on a small remote.
The walls lit up—screens everywhere, like an underground command center.
Each screen played fragments of Tara’s life:
Her as a child in a room full of machines.
Her kissing Rishabh at Marine Drive.
Her crying on a hospital bed.
Her laughing with her mother… who was wearing a lab coat.
Tara stared. “My mother… was part of this?”
Vihaan nodded. “Your mother was one of the first neural architects in the Indian PsyOps program. You were Subject Zero. You volunteered—at age seven.”
“No,” she whispered. “I don’t remember.”
“Because they wiped it. But some memories—the body stores.”
Meanwhile | 3:17 AM | Cuffe Parade Police Station
Inspector Rathod burst into the briefing room, waving files.
“She was a test subject!” he shouted. “All of them were! Tara, Vihaan, even Rishabh. This entire ‘game’—it’s a reconstructed psychological simulation gone rogue!”
His team looked confused.
Rathod slammed a file down. “The project was shut down in 2007. But someone rebooted it. Off the grid.”
He pointed to a name circled in red:
Project Director: Kavita Arora.
Tara’s mother.
Back at Ridgeview Lane | 3:19 AM
“Why are you doing this?” Tara asked, voice hoarse.
Vihaan tilted his head. “Because I loved you. Because I still do. And because you were built to survive this.”
He placed a photo in her hand. It was old.
Her mother. Vihaan’s father. And the elevator man—Epsilon—all standing beside a young Tara.
“You were engineered,” Vihaan said. “To handle chaos. Desire. Pain. Trust. Betrayal. You’re not broken, Tara… you’re perfectly designed.”
She turned the photo over.
A scribbled phrase:
“Consent is the illusion. Conditioning is the truth.”
Suddenly, a voice echoed through the house.
The elevator man’s voice.
“I never liked him playing with you this way,” he said, his voice clear through hidden speakers. “Vihaan always loved dramatics.”
Tara turned sharply.
Epsilon stepped out of the shadows—calm, dressed in a black shirt, his eyes gleaming.
“I only wanted to see if you would choose yourself… or fall back into old patterns.”
“Enough,” Vihaan growled.
Epsilon walked over to Tara, gently touching her hand, guiding the barrel of the gun.
“Kill him. And I’ll make it all stop.”
Vihaan scoffed. “Don’t listen to him. He’s the architect of this entire madness.”
Epsilon smiled at Tara. “So am I... but so are you.”
He handed her a flash drive.
“This contains your full memory sequence. Everything they erased. All five stages of your original training. Open it... or destroy it.”
Her hands shook.
One bullet. One flash drive.
Two men.
Both liars. Both dangerous. One, maybe, a version of love. The other… a mirror.
She stepped back.
Gun in one hand. Drive in the other.
“Tell me why Rishabh had to suffer,” she said.
Vihaan replied, “Because he betrayed you. He gave your profile to the rebooters. He let them use you again.”
Epsilon said, “Because pain rewires trust. He was just a pawn.”
Then Vihaan said something that froze her blood:
“Or maybe… you ordered it.”
FLASHBACK | Inside Tara’s Memory | 1997
A young Tara sits inside a cold lab.
Epsilon stands beside her.
He leans down.
“Do you understand what you’re saying yes to, Tara?”
She nods.
“If I ever forget, make me remember… but not all at once.”
“Why?”
She looks at Vihaan, younger, wounded, across the glass room.
“Because if I remember everything... I’ll never love again.”
Back to Present | Ridgeview Lane | 3:30 AM
Tara lowers the gun.
Then she looks at both men.
Then at the firepit in the center of the room.
Without another word, she throws the flash drive into the fire.
Vihaan’s eyes go wide. “What are you doing?”
Epsilon steps back. “No. No, no… you were supposed to choose!”
She raises the gun.
Then turns it around.
And drops it.
“I’ve already chosen.”
She walks to the door.
Turns.
And says:
“I said yes once. That doesn’t mean I keep saying it.”
One Month Later | Goa
Tara sips black coffee, seated under a beach umbrella. Her skin glows bronze. Her eyes—still tired—watch the waves like she’s waiting for an answer the sea might give.
Beside her, a man walks by and drops a newspaper on her table.
She doesn’t look at him.
She looks at the headline:
“Ex-RAW PsyOps Operative Found Dead in Burnt Facility in Rajasthan — Police Suspect Internal Conflict”
Her phone buzzes.
Unknown Number.
She sighs and answers.
“Still running?” the voice asks.
“No,” she replies. “Just breathing.”
Pause.
“You’ll say yes again one day.”
She smiles.
“Only to myself.”
She cuts the call.
Then walks toward the water, barefoot, free.
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