Threads of the unseen

The fluorescent lights hummed faintly, casting an artificial glow over the sprawling office floor. The building stood tall and silent, a lonely sentinel against the midnight sky of Mumbai. It was a Friday, and while most employees had left to celebrate the weekend, Asha Mehra sat at her desk on the 14th floor, finishing up her work. She was the executive assistant to Rajiv Malhotra, the senior vice president of one of India’s largest conglomerates.

Rajiv was a man of power, charm, and a streak of cold cruelty that everyone in the office whispered about. He had a magnetic quality, a presence that demanded attention. Asha had spent two years in his shadow, organizing his life, shielding him from scandals, and, sometimes, from his own recklessness. It was a lucrative position, but it came at a price.

Asha had learned to blend in, to make herself almost invisible. But tonight felt different. The air in the office was heavier, almost oppressive. The echo of her heels as she walked across the open floor made her uneasy. She glanced at the clock—it was nearing midnight.

Her phone buzzed, startling her. It was a text from Rajiv.

“Conference room. Now.”

Asha’s stomach twisted. It wasn’t unusual for him to summon her late at night, but this felt… off. She hesitated for a moment before standing, smoothing her pencil skirt, and walking to the glass-walled conference room at the far end of the floor.

When she stepped in, Rajiv was seated at the head of the table, a glass of whiskey in hand. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, revealing toned forearms. His tie hung loose around his neck, and his eyes were dark, intense.

“You’re late,” he said, his voice calm but edged with annoyance.

“Apologies, sir,” Asha said, her voice steady despite the knot tightening in her chest.

He gestured for her to sit, and she obeyed, placing her notebook on the table.

“There’s something I need to discuss with you,” he said, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “But first, pour yourself a drink. You look tense.”

Asha hesitated. She rarely drank, especially not in his presence. But his tone left no room for argument. She poured herself a small measure of whiskey and took a cautious sip, the burn spreading through her chest.

“You’ve been loyal, Asha,” Rajiv said, leaning back in his chair. “More loyal than anyone I’ve ever worked with. But loyalty… it comes at a cost.”

Asha’s pulse quickened. There was something in his voice—an undercurrent of danger.

“I’m not sure I understand,” she said carefully.

Rajiv smirked, a predator sizing up its prey. “I think you do. You’ve seen things, heard things. Things that could ruin me.”

Her heart raced. She thought of the secrets she had buried for him—the illicit deals, the affairs, the whispered threats that never made it to paper.

“I’ve only ever acted in your best interest,” Asha said, her voice trembling slightly.

“I know,” Rajiv said, standing and walking around the table. He stopped behind her chair, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder. She stiffened.

“But trust,” he continued, “is a fragile thing.”

Suddenly, his grip tightened, and Asha’s breath hitched.

“Rajiv,” she began, but he cut her off.

“Shh,” he whispered. “I need you to do one more thing for me, Asha. One last act of loyalty.”

Before she could respond, he let go and stepped back. She turned to look at him, her confusion evident.

“I need you to delete everything,” he said. “Emails, files, backups. Every trace of anything that could implicate me. Tonight.”

Asha nodded, her mind racing. She knew the files he was referring to. They were damning—evidence of embezzlement, bribery, even ties to a mysterious disappearance.

“I’ll take care of it,” she said, standing.

Rajiv’s eyes narrowed. “Good. But understand this, Asha—if I find out you’ve kept anything, even the smallest file…” He trailed off, his meaning clear.

As she left the conference room, her hands were trembling. She returned to her desk and began the process of wiping the files, her mind spinning. She had to make a decision—protect him and continue living under his thumb, or keep the evidence and risk everything.

As the files disappeared one by one, a thought began to form. She remembered the USB drive in her purse, a backup she had made weeks ago, out of paranoia.

Asha’s phone buzzed again. Another message from Rajiv.

“Come to my office when you’re done.”

Her throat tightened.

When Asha entered Rajiv’s office, she noticed the change immediately. The room felt colder, the shadows deeper. Rajiv stood by the window, looking out over the city.

“Is it done?” he asked without turning.

“Yes,” Asha lied, her voice steady.

He turned to face her, his expression unreadable. For a moment, there was silence, the tension crackling between them.

Then, he smiled. “Good.”

He walked toward her, stopping just inches away. She could smell the whiskey on his breath, feel the heat radiating off him.

“You’ve always been my favorite,” he said softly, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from her face.

Asha forced herself to stay still, to not flinch under his touch.

“Rajiv,” she said, her voice firm. “You don’t have to worry about me. I’ve always been on your side.”

He chuckled, a low, chilling sound. “I wish I could believe that.”

Before she could respond, the lights flickered.

Asha froze.

“What the—” Rajiv began, but he was cut off by the sound of glass shattering.

The window behind him exploded inward, shards raining down as a dark figure stepped into the room. A masked intruder, clad in black from head to toe, moved with precision.

Rajiv turned, but before he could react, the figure struck him across the face with a blunt object. He crumpled to the floor, blood pooling beneath him.

Asha screamed, backing away, but the intruder turned to her, raising a finger to their lips in a gesture of silence.

Her heart pounded as the figure approached, but instead of attacking, they handed her a slip of paper.

It read: “You know what to do.”

And just like that, they vanished, slipping back through the broken window.

Asha stood frozen, her mind struggling to process what had just happened. Rajiv lay unconscious—or worse—at her feet, the paper clutched in her hand.

She looked down at him, her mind racing. The USB drive in her purse felt heavier than ever.

She had a choice.

By the time the police arrived, summoned by an anonymous tip, Asha was gone. The office was in disarray, and Rajiv’s body lay cold, his throat slit.

Detectives combed through the scene, piecing together the fragments of a brutal crime.

But the USB drive, tucked safely in Asha’s apartment, told the real story.

And as she watched the morning news from her bed, a cup of chai in hand, Asha smiled.

Loyalty, after all, was a fragile thing.

          ~

Asha couldn’t stop trembling as she stared at the screen. The news anchor’s voice was steady, but the words made her pulse pound in her ears.

“Senior VP Rajiv Malhotra was found dead in his Mumbai office early this morning. Sources claim it was a case of premeditated murder. Police are investigating. No arrests have been made.”

They showed his photo: confident, poised, smirking at the camera. The face of a man who thought he was untouchable. And now, he was gone.

Asha set down her cup of chai. The USB drive sat in a drawer just feet away, pulsing like a heartbeat in her mind. The files on it could dismantle the empire Rajiv had built—if she dared use them.

The slip of paper from the masked intruder burned in her memory.

“You know what to do.”

But who were they? How had they known about her connection to Rajiv? And why had they left her alive?

The questions haunted her for days. She kept her head low at work, answering police inquiries with practiced calm. Yes, she’d seen Rajiv that night. No, she hadn’t noticed anything unusual. Yes, she’d left before midnight.

Her coworkers whispered behind her back, their eyes darting to her desk. Asha ignored them, focused on her plan. She couldn’t risk being next.

But then, the first package arrived.

It was a small envelope, slipped under her apartment door late one evening. Inside was a single Polaroid photograph.

It was of her, taken in the office on the night of the murder. She was sitting at her desk, her face illuminated by the faint glow of her monitor.

Her breath caught.

Someone had been watching her.

The back of the photo bore a message, scrawled in red ink: “Keep going. Or we’ll finish what he started.”

The second package arrived three days later. This time, it was a black box tied with crimson ribbon. Asha hesitated before opening it, her fingers trembling.

Inside was a single item: a bloodied tie.

Rajiv’s tie.

The message this time was sharper: “Deadline approaching.”

Asha’s stomach churned. Whoever these people were, they weren’t just watching her. They were controlling her.

By the fifth night, sleep had become a distant memory. Asha couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was always there, lurking in the shadows. Every sound in her apartment made her jump.

It wasn’t just paranoia. She felt it—the presence.

And then, it happened.

At 2:00 AM, her phone buzzed. It was an unknown number. Against her better judgment, she answered.

“Hello?”

Silence.

“Who is this?”

A voice finally spoke. It was distorted, mechanical.

“You’ve wasted enough time.”

“I don’t know what you want!” Asha cried, her voice breaking.

“You do,” the voice replied coldly. “Finish it, or we’ll destroy you too.”

The line went dead.

The USB drive burned a hole in her consciousness. For days, she debated turning it over to the authorities, but fear held her back. She couldn’t risk exposing herself.

Until the final package arrived.

It was a larger box this time, delivered to her desk at work. Her colleagues watched as she hesitantly opened it, their curiosity palpable.

Inside was a laptop, preloaded with a single file titled: “Release Me.”

Her blood ran cold as she clicked on it. The file was a video.

It showed Rajiv’s murder, captured from the perspective of the masked intruder. The camera lingered on his lifeless body before turning toward the shattered window—and then toward her.

The video ended with one last message: “The truth belongs to everyone. Share it.”

Asha’s hands shook as she closed the laptop. Her coworkers were still watching, their expressions a mixture of confusion and concern. She forced a smile, excused herself, and locked herself in the bathroom.

That night, Asha made her decision.

She sat at her apartment desk, staring at the laptop. The video, the files on the USB drive, the mounting pressure—it all pointed to one inevitable conclusion.

The world had to know.

With a deep breath, she uploaded everything. The video, the documents, the damning evidence. She sent it to journalists, law enforcement, even anonymous forums. And then, she waited.

The fallout was immediate. News channels exploded with reports of Rajiv’s crimes. His image was splashed across every screen, his pristine reputation dismantled in hours. Whistleblowers came forward. The police reopened old cases. The empire he had built crumbled.

But Asha’s relief was short-lived.

Three days later, she returned to her apartment to find the door ajar. Her stomach dropped.

Inside, the lights were off, but she could feel the presence again—heavy, oppressive.

“Who’s there?” she called, her voice shaking.

The silence was deafening.

Then, the voice came, soft and mocking. “You did well, Asha.”

Her breath hitched as the figure stepped into view. It was the masked intruder, but this time, they removed their mask.

Asha gasped.

It was her.

Her own face stared back at her, cold and unfeeling.

“What—what is this?” Asha stammered, backing away.

The doppelgänger smiled. “You don’t remember, do you?”

“Remember what?”

“That you killed him.”

The memories came rushing back—Rajiv’s hand on her shoulder, his smirk, her rage. The feel of the knife in her hand. The warm spray of blood.

“No,” Asha whispered, collapsing to her knees.

“You’ve been erasing yourself, piece by piece,” the figure said. “But the truth always finds a way back.”

Asha stared at her reflection in the mirror, her face pale and drenched in sweat. The doppelgänger’s words echoed in her mind:

“You killed him.”

~

But how could that be true? She couldn’t have done it—she had no memory of holding the knife, no memory of plunging it into Rajiv’s chest. Yet fragments began to surface, flashing in her mind like a broken film reel. Rajiv’s smirk. His hand on her shoulder. The overwhelming fury that had surged through her that night.

The figure before her—her exact likeness—spoke again, voice calm, almost kind.

“You had to. He was going to destroy you. You were just faster.”

“No,” Asha whispered, shaking her head. “This isn’t real. You’re not real.”

The doppelgänger stepped closer, their presence suffocating. “But I am. I’m the part of you that’s been hiding, waiting for the moment you needed me most. And now that you’ve set the truth free, I can finally rest.”

Before Asha could respond, the doppelgänger’s form began to dissolve, fading into the dim light of her apartment. The oppressive weight in the room lifted, leaving only silence.

The next morning, Asha woke to find the city ablaze with the fallout of her actions. News channels broadcast nonstop coverage of Rajiv’s crimes. His name, once synonymous with power and influence, was now a symbol of corruption and depravity.

But the revelations didn’t end with Rajiv.

The USB drive’s files contained evidence implicating a web of high-profile individuals—business magnates, politicians, even law enforcement. A systemic rot was exposed, one that had thrived under the protection of men like Rajiv.

The police arrived at Asha’s door shortly after noon. She expected their visit, but not their tone.

“Ms. Mehra, we’re here to ensure your safety,” one officer said, his voice measured.

“My safety?” Asha asked, startled.

The officer nodded. “You’ve made powerful enemies. There’s a price on your head.”

Asha’s blood ran cold. She had anticipated backlash, but not this.

“You’ll be placed in protective custody until we’re certain the threat is neutralized,” the officer continued.

Asha didn’t argue. She packed a small bag and followed them to an unmarked car. As they drove through the city, she watched the familiar streets pass by, each one a reminder of the life she was leaving behind.

Months passed, and Asha’s life became one of secrecy and isolation. Her days were spent under the watchful eye of armed guards, her nights plagued by the memory of Rajiv’s death and the haunting smile of her reflection.

But she wasn’t forgotten.

The files she had released ignited a movement. Whistleblowers and journalists took up her cause, demanding justice for decades of corruption. Asha became an anonymous symbol of resistance, her story whispered in boardrooms and slums alike.

Then, one night, everything changed.

Asha woke to the sound of footsteps outside her safe house. Her heart raced as she crept to the window, peering through the curtain.

A single figure stood in the moonlight, their face obscured by a hood.

She backed away, her mind screaming warnings, but something compelled her to stay. To watch.

The figure raised a hand, and in it was an object—a USB drive, identical to the one she had used to destroy Rajiv’s empire.

Before she could react, they dropped it on the ground and vanished into the darkness.

Asha hesitated, then stepped outside. The drive gleamed under the faint light of the moon. She picked it up, her fingers trembling.

Back inside, she plugged it into her laptop.

One file.

Titled: “The Beginning.”

Her stomach twisted as she opened it.

The screen filled with images, documents, and videos—evidence of a deeper conspiracy, one that went beyond Rajiv. It named names, implicated powerful institutions, and hinted at secrets that could shatter the country.

At the bottom of the screen was a message:

“You thought it ended with him. But this is only the beginning. Finish what you started.”

Asha sat back, the weight of the world pressing down on her. She realized now that Rajiv was just one piece of a much larger puzzle.

She had a choice: walk away and live in obscurity, or take up the mantle that fate had handed her.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. And then, with a steady resolve, she began to type.

The war wasn’t over. It was just beginning.