It started with a text. A simple, forgettable errand typed during a rushed lunch break.
"Milk, eggs, bleach, trash bags, red apples, sharp cheddar."
Ram sent the list, set down his phone, and sipped lukewarm filter coffee — unaware he'd just texted the wrong number. One digit off from Seetha's.
No big deal, right?
Until his phone vibrated again twenty minutes later.
Unknown Number:
"Target acquired. Job done. Clean. No blowback."
He blinked.
At first, he chuckled. Some prank? Spam?
He typed a casual response:
"Wrong number?"
No reply.
Frowning, he opened the number. No name. No photo. Just digits — clean, empty, anonymous. One digit different from Seetha's.
"Job done"?
A joke… or something darker?
Ping.
Unknown Number: [Photo Attached]
*****
His thumb hesitated before he tapped it.
The image loaded slowly on his mobile data.
A man — face down on a tiled kitchen floor — surrounded by a slick, dark pool. Red apples spilled across the counter. A box of sharp cheddar sat beside them.
Ram's coffee cup slipped from his hand and shattered on the floor.
This couldn't be real.
He stared. No timestamp. No context. Just a man, face down, clearly dead.
His breath caught. His chest, tight.
He stared at the list. Was it mistaken for a hit?
Was bleach interpreted as "clean the scene"?
Trash bags for disposal?
Red apples and cheddar — the calling card? Or a code?
He stared at the screen. Part of him wanted to believe it was a prank, some elaborate scam. But his gut told him otherwise.
He rushed to call Seetha. She answered on the third ring.
"Seetha… I sent the list to the wrong number. I think someone took it as a hit."
"I told you to delete the old number! What are you saying, Ram?" Seetha shouted.
"I thought I had…" he whispered, scrolling through his contacts. Two entries: Seetha (New) and Seetha.
"There's a photo. A dead man. Blood everywhere. Apples on the counter. Cheese. It's the list, Seetha. It's all there."
Silence.
Then she said softly, "Ram… are you joking?"
"I wish I was."
Ping.
Unknown Number: "Second package?"
His throat dried.
He didn't reply.
Ping.
Unknown Number:
"No confirmation received. Assigning next based on pattern. Standing by."
*****
He stumbled back, phone slipping from his grip as if it had burned him.
"Pattern?" he murmured, rereading the message.
His mind raced. What did they mean — pattern?
Then it hit him — he'd sent lists last Thursday and Monday.
She kept asking him to text them.
Could it be?
He opened his message history.
Last Thursday's list:
Toilet cleaner, ammonia, gloves, duct tape, oranges, butter.
Monday's list:
Drain opener, floor wipes, zip ties, grapes, smoked cheese.
They all sounded… normal. Harmless. But now, through a darker lens — toilet cleaner, duct tape, zip ties — they read like coded instructions.
No replies. No confirmation. But what if there had been actions?
Heart hammering, he searched for news.
His fingers shook as he typed: "Local deaths... Thursday... Monday."
Two separate incidents.
Thursday: A real estate agent found dead in his home. No signs of forced entry. "Suspected gas leak."
Monday: A retired professor, found in his garden. Head trauma. No suspects.
In the photos attached to the articles — oranges on the kitchen counter. A grocery bag near the garden containing grapes.
"No… this isn't real… this can't be real."
First list, fifth item: oranges. Present at the crime scene.
Second list, fifth item: grapes. Found beside the body.
Today's list — red apples.
His mouth went dry.
This wasn't a mistake.
It was a trigger.
He gripped his phone, knuckles white. He couldn't let this continue.
He called the police.
*****
One Week Later...
In a quiet interview room at the police station, he stared at the steel tabletop. Across from him, an exhausted inspector flipped through a thick case file — photos, statements, reports — all stemming from a single, accidental text message.
They had traced the number Ram received those chilling replies from. With the help of cybercrime officers, they tracked the signal to a crumbling old lodge on the city's outskirts. A scarred man with dead eyes and no ID, wearing a faded shirt with a small red apple embroidered above the pocket — almost like a twisted signature. On a nearby wall, a small chart: grocery items and dates. Some scratched out. Others… waiting.
Red apples. Grapes. Oranges. Smoked cheese.
All tied to lists Ram had unknowingly sent.
Ram told them everything.
Every text. Every pattern. Every list.
And finally, the police believed him.
The killer had been working alone, it seemed — or at least that's what the report said. But deep down, Ram wasn't sure.
Later, at home…
Ram stood by the window, the soft hum of the ceiling fan slicing through the silence.
He pulled out his phone.
His thumb hovered over the old contact — the number he had mistakenly texted, the one that triggered it all.
The killer was in custody now.
It should be over.
He hit Delete.
A prompt popped up:
"Are you sure you want to remove this contact?"
He didn't hesitate.
Tapped Yes.
For a moment, the screen returned to normal.
Then—
Ping.
Unknown Number:
"Deleting me doesn’t end this."
Ram's breath caught in his throat.
The number was different.
Another burner.
He looked up. Seetha had entered the room, holding two packed bags in her hands.
She read his face. The answer was there — pale, shaken. "Still think we're safe?"
The words pulsed.
Not a warning.
A promise.
He nodded.
"Let's go."
*****
React
