u/Secure_Material_5281

The night began like any other in Queens, NYC.

The restaurant was warm, filled with chatter, clinking plates, and the smell of fried rice and grilled meat. Outside, neon lights flickered over the sidewalk as people passed by without a second thought.

Alan sat across from his girlfriend, Kelly, while his younger sister, Angela scrolled through her phone.

“You’re not even listening,” Kelly said, smiling.

“I am,” Alan replied. “You said your boss is annoying and”

A scream cut through the street outside.

All three of them froze.

Another scream. Louder this time.

The restaurant door burst open. A man stumbled in, pale, shaking.

“They’re attacking people!” he shouted. “They’re biting just run!”

Panic spread instantly. Chairs scraped. Glass shattered. People rushed for the exit.

“What’s happening?” Angela whispered.

Alan stood up. “Stay close to me.”

Outside, chaos had already taken over.

People were running in every direction. A woman fell. Someone helped her up then suddenly screamed as a man lunged at her, teeth sinking into her arm.

“Alan…” Kelly’s voice trembled.

The bitten woman began twitching. Then too quickly, she turned, eyes wild and attacked another person.

“Move!” Alan shouted.

They ran.

Behind them, a figure sprinted unnaturally fast. A man, no, something else charged at a passerby and tackled him to the ground.

They didn’t look back again.

Their apartment building wasn’t far.

They slammed through the entrance, rushed up the stairs, and locked themselves inside their unit. Alan pushed a chair against the door, his hands shaking.

“What… what is this?” Angela asked.

“No idea,” Alan said, breathing hard.

Kelly grabbed the remote and turned on the TV.

The news flashed urgently.

“We are receiving reports of a rapidly spreading unidentified virus across parts of New York City. Victims exhibit extreme aggression and have been seen attacking others. Authorities warn that the infection appears to spread through bites…”

The screen cut to shaky footage of people attacking, blood, screaming.

“Residents are advised to stay indoors. Do not engage. Avoid contact at all costs.”

Silence filled the room.

“It’s not just here,” Kelly whispered.

Alan stared at the screen.

“No,” he said quietly. “It’s everywhere.”

Morning didn’t bring peace.

It brought hunger.

“We need food,” Alan said.

Angela shook her head. “Don’t go.”

“I’ll be quick,” he said. “Lock the door. Don’t open it for anyone.”

Kelly grabbed his hand. “Be careful.”

He nodded.

He opened the apartment door slowly then froze.

Zombies stood in the hallway. Not one. Not two.

A cluster.

Their heads turned.

Alan slammed the door shut.

“Not the hallway,” he muttered.

He rushed to the balcony.

With shaking hands, he tied a rope to the railing and lowered it.

As he climbed down, a voice called out.

“Wait!”

He looked up.

A woman, maybe in her 40s, stood on the neighboring balcony.

“Please,” she said. “If you’re going for food… can you bring some for me too?”

Alan hesitated.

Then nodded.

“I’ll try.”

The streets were eerie.

Too quiet.

For a moment, it almost felt like nothing had happened.

Then he reached the grocery store.

Zombies filled the entrance.

He backed away slowly.

“Not happening,” he whispered.

A small convenience shop down the street caught his eye.

Inside, shelves were still stocked.

He grabbed a cart and started filling it quickly. Water, canned food, snacks.

A noise.

He turned.

Zombies were outside.

“Shit.”

He ran to the storage room and slammed the door shut.

Two workers stood inside, eyes wide.

“You’re alive?” one of them said.

“For now,” Alan replied.

They waited. Breathing and listening.

Then Alan took a deep breath.

“I’m not leaving without this food.”

Before they could stop him, he opened the door, shoved the cart forward, knocking zombies aside, grabbed it again and ran back inside.

The workers pulled the door shut.

They stared at him.

“You’re crazy,” one said.

“Maybe,” Alan replied. “But I’m not starving.”

They left together.

Three survivors.

Then a child’s cry.

They followed it into an alley.

A little boy stood there, crying.

“Where are your parents?” Alan asked gently.

The boy pointed at a garbage disposal unit.

“Mommy… hasn’t come out since yesterday.”

The three exchanged glances.

Slowly, they opened it.

A body fell out then moved.

The mother lunged forward but collapsed instantly, lifeless.

Blood pooled beneath her.

The boy cried louder.

Alan looked away, jaw tight.

“Come with us,” he said softly.

They climbed back to the building.

Alan handed food to the neighbor.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Inside his apartment, relief washed over Kelly and Angela.

But it didn’t last long.

A noise came from next door.

They stepped out cautiously.

Knocked.

The door opened.

A couple stood there.

“Our son…” the mother said, crying.

Behind her, a boy snarled eyes empty.

Alan stepped back.

“He’s gone,” he said firmly.

He shut the door.

That night, the news revealed the truth.

“The virus is believed to have originated from a biological research leak. It spreads through bodily fluids and turns victims within minutes…”

Kelly looked at Alan.

“There’s no stopping this, is there?”

He didn’t answer.

The next morning, they made a decision.

“We leave,” Alan said.

They moved fast.

Out of the building.

Toward the bridge but blocked as zombies filled it.

“Not that way,” Kelly said.

They turned.

An abandoned building.

They climbed up, used cables to zipline down and ran

Heart pounding.

Toward the water.

A small boat.

“Get in!” Alan shouted.

They pushed off just as zombies reached the shore.

Hands grasped the air.

Too late.

They reached Ellis Island.

Military boats surrounded them.

“Hands up!” soldiers shouted.

They were pulled aboard.

Safe for now.

Later, separated and checked for infection, Alan sat in silence.

Kelly beside him.

Angela asleep on his shoulder.

The boy they saved clutched a blanket nearby.

Helicopters roared overhead.

The city burned in the distance.

Alan stared at it. NYC is gone.

This was only the beginning and deep down, he knew the nightmare wasn’t over.

The End

The city of Bhubaneswar did not carry the same weight as the others.

It wasn’t haunted nor broken.

It was normal and that was what made it dangerous.

Meera had stopped running.

After Kolkata and everything, she no longer believed in escaping. Cities changed and faces changed but people didn’t.

This time, she wasn’t hiding.

She was just existing.

The first death was quiet.

A student found in a classroom after hours. No sign of struggle, just a body and a message carved into the desk:

“Watch me.”

The second came two nights later. Another student in hostel room. Door locked from inside but window open.

On the wall:

“Look closer.”

The campus dismissed it at first. Coincidences and rumors until the third death. A school security guard. He was doing his usual rounds when the CCTV feed cut out.

For exactly three minutes.

When it came back, he was on the ground.

On the camera itself, written in something dark:

“You’re still watching right?”

Meera didn’t need anyone to tell her.

She already knew.

“Clownface” she whispered.

But something was different.

There was no pattern of guilt.

No past connection and no justice. Just performance.

The fourth death.

A cleaner, early morning and empty corridor.

Her cart overturned and mop still wet.

On the floor:

“Say my name.”

The fifth death.

A dean. Respected and untouchable found in his office, chair facing the door as if he had been waiting.

On his desk:

“This is history.”

Panic spread now.

Not whispers and not rumors but fear.

A killer with a Clownface mask tried attacking Meera inside the library but the killer got stuck as the book shelf fell on him and Meera shot him in the head. Others came in and they together unmasked him. Shockingly, it was a professor but Meera knew it wasn’t over and there could be more than one killer. 

The sixth murder happened.

Meera’s neighbor.

A normal man, no past and no connection. Just wrong place and wrong time.

On his wall:

“Anyone can be part of it.”

That night, two police officers stood outside the campus gate.

One laughed nervously.

“Media’s blowing it up too much.”

The other nodded.

“Yeah just some psycho”

A sound and they turned. Too late.

The next morning, both were found.

On the gate behind them:

“Now you’re watching.”

This wasn’t revenge.

This was a show.

Meera received the message.

Like always.

Unknown number.

“Final act.”

A location.

An abandoned auditorium.

Inside, the stage lights flickered on.

Two figures stood there.

Clownface. Still and waiting.

One removed their mask.

A male student. Smiling.

“Plot twist,” he said.

The second removed theirs and Meera froze.

Her cousin, her own blood.

“Surprise,” she said calmly.

Meera’s voice trembled.

“Why?”

Her cousin tilted her head slightly.

“Because no one remembers victims,” she said.

“They remember killers.”

The student laughed softly.

“You survived everything,” he added.

“KIIT, Gurugram and Kolkata.”

Her cousin stepped closer.

“And now,” she said,

“you’ll be the one they remember for this.”

Meera’s heart dropped.

“You’re framing me…”

Her cousin smiled.

“Exactly.”

No grief and no pain. Just ambition.

“This isn’t like before,” Meera said.

“You don’t even care.”

“No,” her cousin replied.

“We really don’t.”

The student moved first.

Fast and desperate but this time Meera didn’t step back.

Everything collided.

Noise, movement and violence.

The student fell first.

Still and silent

Her cousin stood across from her.

Breathing hard and smiling slightly.

“You’re stronger than I thought,” she said.

Meera raised the weapon.

Hands steady now.

“It ends here,” she said.

Her cousin didn’t move.

“Do it,” she said.

“If you don’t”

The sound echoed.

Sharp, final and silence.

Weeks later, the city returned to normal as it always did.

News channels called it:

“The Clownface Murders.”

Meera stood alone again. 

No tears left and no fear left.

Just one thought.

The killers before wanted justice. These ones wanted attention.

She looked at the crowd passing by. Phones out and videos playing.

People watching and for the first time she understood something worse than grief. Some people don’t break. They perform and the world watches.

The End 

Kathmandu Central Jail was a Prison in Kathmandu, Nepal. This prison was built in 1914 and was known for where inmates given a life sentence or the death penalty were imprisoned. This prison used to have the gallows which they execute death row inmates by hanging at dawn until Nepal abolished the death penalty in 1991. In 1964, Durgananda Jha a Nepalese democratic fighter was executed by hanging in Kathmandu Central Jail for his attempted assassination of King Mahendra in 1962. This prison is also known for where Charles Sobhraj a French serial killer who murdered tourists was imprisoned from 2004 until his release in 2022 due to health problems as he was getting older. In September 2025, this prison was attacked during the Gen Z revolution which led to escape of multiple inmates. Some inmates were fatally shot by guards while some were captured alive and are currently imprisoned in another prison and others were killed by civilians during and after the revolution. This prison became permanently closed after the revolution ended and a new government was established. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Central_Jail_Kathmandu

Kathmandu Central Jail was a Prison in Kathmandu, Nepal. This prison was built in 1914 and was known for where inmates given a life sentence or the death penalty were imprisoned. This prison used to have the gallows which they execute death row inmates by hanging at dawn until Nepal abolished the death penalty in 1991. In 1964, Durgananda Jha a Nepalese democratic fighter was executed by hanging in Kathmandu Central Jail for his attempted assassination of King Mahendra in 1962. This prison is also known for where Charles Sobhraj a French serial killer who murdered tourists was imprisoned from 2004 until his release in 2022 due to health problems as he was getting older. In September 2025, this prison was attacked during the Gen Z revolution which led to escape of multiple inmates. Some inmates were fatally shot by guards while some were captured alive and are currently imprisoned in another prison and others were killed by civilians during and after the revolution. This prison became permanently closed after the revolution ended and a new government was established. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Central_Jail_Kathmandu

The city of Kolkata never truly slept.

Even at night, it breathed through dim streetlights, distant tram bells and the quiet hum of lives continuing without pause but to most, it was alive.

To Meera, it felt like a place where something was waiting.

She had come here to disappear again.

After KIIT, after Gurugram and after everything, she told herself this would be different. A new city, new university and no past but the past didn’t need directions. It always found its way.

The first deaths didn’t make headlines immediately.

A man and his wife were found in their home. No signs of forced entry, no robbery but just silence and blood.

It was only later, when details surfaced that the whispers began.

The man had a history. Years ago, he had been arrested and framed in a double murder case tied to a series of murders. Released recently due to lack of evidence.

Now he was dead. 

Justice, some said.

Something else, others whispered.

Meera didn’t see the news at first.

She was trying to live normally. Attending lectures, sitting quietly in film studies, classes and avoiding attention but then the rumors began again.

A figure and a mask

White, smiling and hollow.

Clownface.

Her chest tightened the moment she heard the name.

“No…” she whispered to herself. “It’s over.”

But deep down, she already knew. It never ended.

The second death came a week later.

A film professor.

Respected, influential and untouchable.

He stayed late in the editing lab, reviewing student submissions. The building was empty.

He heard the projector flicker behind him, static so he turned 

The screen lit up not with film, but with a single image. A white smiling mask.

Before he could react, a voice came from the darkness:

“You watched. You said nothing.”

His breath caught.

“I don’t know what you’re…”

The lights went out and the next morning, the lab was sealed.

On the wall, written in red:

“You edited the truth” 

The third death.

A film artist. Famous for “real stories.” Known for turning pain into art. He was found in his studio.

On the floor beside him:

“You made it entertainment”

The fourth.

A student

Loud, popular and cruel in ways that never left evidence.

Found in a hostel corridor.

“You laughed” 

By now, there was no doubt.

Clownface was back.

Meera saw it before anyone else did. Not random and never random.

Each victim had a role.

Observers, deniers and mockers.

People who saw pain and chose silence.

Her hands trembled.

“This isn’t new,” she whispered.

“This is… continuing.”

The message came at night.

Unknown number just like before.

”You’re always part of this”

Her heart pounded.

Another message followed.

“Come if you want the truth”

A location.

An abandoned film studio at the edge of the city.

The building stood like a corpse. Broken glass, rusted gates and silence. 

Meera stepped inside alone.

This time, there was no one beside her. No Rohan nor Kabir. 

Just her and whatever was waiting.

The lights flickered on and two figures stood ahead.

Clownface.

Still watching and waiting

One stepped forward. Slowly and deliberately, he removed the mask.

Meera’s breath stopped.

The face felt wrong not unfamiliar but not known either then he spoke softly.

“Hello, Meera.”

Her body went cold.

“I’m your brother.”

The words didn’t make sense.

Her mind rejected them instantly.

“No…” she whispered. “That’s not”

“You were kept,” he said calmly.

“I was given away.”

The world tilted.

The second figure removed their mask. A young man whose eyes filled with anger.

“They ignored us,” he said. “Just like before.”

Meera shook her head, backing away.

“You’re lying… this isn’t real…”

The brother stepped closer.

“I grew up in a house that didn’t want me,” he said.

“My mother…” his voice faltered slightly, “she ended her life.”

Silence filled the space.

“My father?” he continued, colder now.

“He broke her long before that.”

Meera’s chest tightened.

“I killed him,” he said.

No hesitation and no guilt

“And then…” he looked directly at her,

“I found out about you.”

Her voice trembled.

“What… did you do?”

He didn’t look away.

“I killed them.”

The words hit harder than anything before.

“Your parents,” he said.

“My parents.”

Meera’s legs almost gave out.

“No… no…”

“I wanted him to suffer,” he continued.

“So I framed him.”

“A man who abandoned me… blamed for everything.”

Her voice broke.

“He was released”

A faint smile.

“I know.”

Pause.

“I killed him too.”

“Why?” Meera whispered, tears falling freely now. His expression didn’t change.

“You lived the life that was supposed to be mine.”Silence.

“And them?” she asked, shaking. “The others?”

“They watched,” the second killer said.

“They ignored. They laughed. They turned pain into nothing.”

“This isn’t justice,” Meera said weakly.

“No,” her brother agreed.

“It’s truth.”

Meera stepped forward.

Despite everything.

Despite the fear.

“This won’t fix anything,” she said.

“You’re not bringing anyone back.”

For the first time

He hesitated.

Just for a second.

“You think I don’t know that?” he said quietly.

“Then stop,” she said.

“Don’t become this.”

His voice cracked barely.

“I already am.”

The second killer moved.

Fast, desperate and angry

Everything broke at once. A struggle, chaos and shouting

Meera stumbled back.

“Stop!”

Her brother turned.

Not at her but at the other killer.

“Enough,” he said but too late.

The sound came sudden. Sharp, final and silence.

The second killer collapsed.

Her brother stood still. Breathing heavily then he looked at her. Not as a killer and not as a stranger but as something in between.

“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” he said.

Meera couldn’t speak.

Sirens echoed in the distance.

He closed his eyes for a moment then he dropped the knife and picked up a gun and handed over to Meera. Meera pointed the gun at him and shot him point blank. 

The police arrived. The two masks lay on the ground. The two dead bodies of Clownface. 

Weeks later, the city moved on like it always did. The story became headlines then memory and then nothing

Meera stood by the river. The wind soft against her face. She had lost everything again but this time she understood something she hadn’t before. Grief doesn’t just destroy. It transforms and sometimes you have to decide what it turns you into. She closed her eyes. Took a breath and chose not to carry the mask.

The End 

The campus in Gurugram felt different. Cleaner, brighter and louder but to Meera, it all felt the same.

A new university did not mean a new mind. The past followed her quietly like a shadow that never asked for permission.

People here didn’t know her name, they didn’t know Aarav and they didn’t know what had happened in KIIT and for a while that silence felt like freedom then she met Kabir. He was easy to talk to, the kind of person who didn’t push and didn’t ask too many questions. He made space for her instead of trying to fill it.

They started walking together after classes then eating together and staying longer than necessary just to talk about nothing.

One evening, he said,

“You look like someone who’s trying very hard to stay strong.”

Meera didn’t answer immediately then she said quietly,

“Maybe I’m just tired of breaking.”

Kabir didn’t respond with advice. He just stayed and that was enough.

The first message came late at night from an unknown number. 

“Did you really think it ended?”

Meera stared at the screen and her chest tightened but she didn’t reply.

The next morning, the news spread quickly. A man had been found dead in his apartment, he wasn’t a student and he wasn’t even from the university but he had a connection. He was the father of one of the boys involved in the KIIT case.

Rumors began again. A figure seen at night, a mask. The same mask. White, smiling and hollow. Clownface.

Meera tried to ignore it. She told herself it wasn’t connected.

It couldn’t be but then the second death happened. A professor, respected, strict and known for discipline.

He stayed late in his office one evening, grading papers. The corridor outside was empty and silent

He heard something. A faint knock then he looked up.

“Come in,” he said.

No response. He stood and walked to the door. Opened it and no one there.

He frowned and turned back. The lights went out. Darkness swallowed the room.

A voice came from behind him. Calm and familiar in its coldness.

“You told them to stay quiet.”

The professor froze.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about”

Something moved fast

A struggle, a chair fell and his voice cut off suddenly.

The next morning, the office was sealed and on the wall, written in red:

“You heard them scream.”

By now, Meera couldn’t ignore it anymore because pattern was clear. The past hadn’t ended.

It had followed her. Kabir noticed the change.

“You’re not sleeping,” he said one afternoon.

Meera looked at him.

“What if it’s happening again?” she asked.

Kabir hesitated then said,

“Then we face it.”

But doubt had already started to grow. Meera noticed small things. Kabir knew details she hadn’t told him. He avoided certain questions and sometimes, when she mentioned Clownface. He went quiet, not scared but just quiet.

The third death came closer.

A student. Young, loud and always surrounded by friends.

He was walking alone that night. Laughing at something on his phone. The hostel corridor was long and dim. The lights flickered once then again and he slowed down.

“Hello?” he called out.

No answer. He kept walking then stopped.

Someone was standing at the end of the corridor. Still watching.

He laughed nervously.

“Bro, not funny.”

No movement. He took a step forward.

“Who is that?”

The figure tilted its head then spoke

“You laughed too.”

The student’s smile faded.

“I don’t”

The lights went out. Darkness, footsteps and sudden thud then silence.

Meera didn’t wait for another sign.

The message came that same night.

“Come if you want it to stop.”

A location, an abandoned building at the edge of the city.

Kabir insisted on coming.

“You’re not going alone,” he said.

Something in his voice felt different but she didn’t argue.

The building was empty. Broken windows, dust and silence.

Inside, the air felt heavy like it had been waiting then the lights turned on. Three figures stood ahead. Clownface again.

Meera’s heart pounded.

“No…” she whispered.

One of them stepped forward and removed the mask. An older man and his face was lined with grief and anger.

“Rohan was my son,” he said.

Meera felt the ground shift beneath her.

The second removed his mask. A young man.

“My brother died believing he was right,” he said.

The third revealed to be a woman. Cold and quiet

“My husband was called a monster,” she said. “But no one asked why.”

Meera shook her head.

“I didn’t do anything to you”

“You lived,” the father interrupted and then silence. That was the answer.

Kabir stepped forward.

“This isn’t justice.”

All three looked at him.

The father frowned.

“And who are you?”

Kabir didn’t hesitate.

“Someone who’s ending this.”

Everything broke at once. Voices rising and pain spilling out. Not just anger but loss. 

Meera stepped back.

“This won’t bring them back!” she shouted.

For a moment, everything stopped then one of them moved fast.

Kabir stepped in front of Meera.

“Stay back,” he said.

“No!” Meera shouted but it was too late. The struggle was quick. Messy, uncontrolled then silence.

Kabir staggered. His hand pressed against his side. He looked at Meera. Not scared, not angry but just calm.

“I wasn’t part of this,” he said softly.

“I just wanted you to be okay.”

Meera’s vision blurred.

“Don’t, please don’t”

Kabir smiled faintly.

“It’s not your fault.”

He collapsed.

Everything after that felt distant. Sirens, voices and movement.

The three masks lay on the ground, the three dead bodies of the Clownface. Three more stories ended but nothing felt finished.

Weeks later, the campus returned to normal or at least, it pretended to.

Meera stood alone one evening. The city stretched out before her.

Alive and unaware.

She held her phone.

Kabir’s last message still there.

She didn’t cry. Not anymore because she understood now. Grief doesn’t disappear. It changes, it spreads and it finds new people. New reasons, masks and sometimes it takes the innocent with it.

Meera closed her eyes.

Took a breath.

This time, she didn’t run from it but she didn’t let it consume her either because she knew if she did then the cycle would never end. 

The End

The campus of KIIT University had not felt like a place of learning for a long time.

Three months had passed since the first tragedy. The name of the girl was no longer spoken openly but it lived in whispers, in protests and in the uneasy silence between lectures. Posters had once covered the walls, demands for justice and calls for accountability. Now only faint tape marks remained.

Aarav had been arrested. Everyone knew that and Meera his cousin carried the weight of that name everywhere she went.

It started on a rainy evening. A phone rang inside a quiet house on the outskirts of the city. Aarav’s parents answered, expecting routine news, maybe an update from the authorities.

Instead, a voice spoke. Calm, distorted and almost amused.

“You raised him,” it said. “Now you live with what he became.”

The line went dead.

The next morning, the house was sealed. Police cars lined the street and neighbors gathered in hushed groups.

No one spoke openly about what had happened inside but the fear spread. On campus, rumors took shape. A figure had been seen at night. A white mask with a painted smile almost like a clown but wrong. Too still and too hollow.

They called it Clownface.

Meera tried to ignore it. She focused on classes and staying invisible but that became impossible when another death shook the university then another.

Different people, different places and one connection.

All of them had ties direct or indirect to the events that followed the first girl’s death. Through it all, one person stayed by Meera’s side, Rohan.

He was patient and quiet and he listened when she spoke about the stares, the whispers, the guilt she didn’t know how to carry.

“It’s not your fault,” he would tell her.

And she wanted to believe him but sometimes she noticed things. The way he knew details no one had shared.

The way he went silent whenever Clownface was mentioned.

The way his eyes lingered not on fear but something deeper.

A principal was found dead in his office with multiple stab wounds then three weeks later, a teacher and student were also found dead with multiple stab wounds.

One night, Meera received a message from unknown number.

“Come if you want the truth.”

Attached was a location a large house on the edge of the city. A mansion abandoned by its owners long ago.

Rohan insisted on going with her.

“You shouldn’t face this alone,” he said.

Something in his voice made her hesitate but she went anyway.

The mansion was quiet. Too quiet. Inside, shadows stretched across long hallways. The air felt heavy like it had been waiting then the lights flickered on.

Three figures stood ahead.

All wearing the same mask.

Clownface.

One stepped forward and removed it.

It was Rohan.

Meera’s breath caught. The world seemed to tilt.

“Why?” she whispered.

Rohan looked at her not with anger but with something broken.

“My sister died,” he said softly. “She asked for help. No one listened.”

Another figure removed their mask, it was a student Meera recognized only vaguely.

“She was everything to me,” he said. “And they treated her like she didn’t matter.”

The third stepped forward and removed his mask, it was a security guard Meera had seen countless times near the gates.

“My nephew,” he said. “No one asked why he broke. Only blamed him when he did.”

Meera’s mind raced.

“You’re blaming me?” she said. “But I didn’t”

“You’re connected,” Rohan interrupted. “To all of it. To the silence. To the system. To the people who looked away.”

It wasn’t just revenge. It was grief. Twisted, misplaced and consuming

They hadn’t chosen victims randomly. They had chosen symbols people tied to the chain of events that had led to loss after loss and now they had chosen her. 

Meera stepped back, her voice shaking but steady.

“This won’t bring them back,” she said.

Silence filled the room.

For a moment, Rohan’s expression faltered then the others spoke anger, pain, desperation pouring out all at once and in that chaos, something shifted. Not a fight of strength but a fight of will.

Meera refused to become what they had become. She refused to let grief turn her into another link in the chain.

By the time the police arrived, the mansion was silent again. Three masks lay on the floor. Three stories ended not with justice but with consequences.

Weeks later, the campus began to breathe again. Not fully and not completely but slowly Meera stood by the sea one evening, the wind brushing against her face.

She still carried everything the guilt, the loss, the unanswered questions but she also carried something else. A choice to remember without becoming consumed. Some people wear masks to hide who they are. Others wear them because they no longer know who they’ve become.

The End 

It was 23 March 2026 in Tamil Nadu, India, a judgement was delivered for 9 officers responsible for beating the father and son with sticks just because their shop was still open during lockdown in 2020. The father and son were sent to hospital the next day but one by one, the father died the next day and then the son also died the next day.

Judge: The case was a rare one where the police officers, who were obligated to maintain law and order, had themselves acted against the law and brutally assaulted the father and son, who did not have any criminal case against them.

The 9 officers were sentenced to death and are currently on death row in Puzhal Central Prison. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Death_of_P._Jayaraj_and_J._Bennix

It was 13 November 2015 and night began at the city of Paris in France. Inside few homes located in suburban areas of Paris. A group of Islamic extremists were getting ready with their guns and bombs. It was 9:20pm, a terrorist (suicide bomber) was foiled after in the Stade de France in the northern suburb of Saint-Denis. Inside the stadium, Hollande the French President was among the 80, 000 people watching an association football (soccer) match between the French and German national teams. When security officers at one of the main entrances detected the terrorist’s bomb belt, he detonated it, killing one passerby. The belt was an improvised device consisting of the highly unstable explosive compound triacetone triperoxide and shrapnel such as nails and ball bearings; identical devices would be employed by other terrorists throughout the evening. Although the blast was audible to those inside the stadium, play on the field continued.

 At 9:25pm, a team of terrorists launched a series of attacks on popular nightspots in Paris’s 10th and 11th arrondissements (municipal districts). The first location to be targeted was Le Carillon, a popular bar on the rue Alibert that had been a neighbourhood fixture for some 40 years. After firing on patrons at Le Carillon with AK-47 assault rifles, the terrorists moved across rue Bichat to Le Petit Cambodge, a Cambodian restaurant. Although this attack took just minutes, it left 15 people dead and more than a dozen wounded. The terrorists were then observed leaving the scene in a blast SEAT Leon Hatchback. 

Minutes later at 9:30pm, another terrorist (suicide bomber) attacked the Stade de France, detonating his belt at another entrance but causing no casualties. Inside the game continued, but French President Hollande was evacuated from the stadium because by then it became apparent that a terrorist attack was under way. The occupants of the black Leon crossed into the 11th arrondissement and opened fire on businesses along the rue de la Fontaine au Roi at 9:32pm. Five people were killed and eight were wounded at the Italian restaurant La Casa Nostra, the Cafe Bonne Biere, and a laundromat. The terrorists then continued their deadly course, targeting La Belle Equipe, a popular eatery on the rue de Charonne at 9:36pm. The restaurant’s terrace was packed with dinners, and the terrorists fired into the crowd, killing 19 people as well as critically wounding 9 others. At the southeast end of the Boulevard Voltaire, just blocks southeast of La Belle Equipe, a terrorist (suicide bomber) detonated his belt outside the cafe Comptoir Voltaire at 9:40pm, injuring one person. 

At the same time, at the other end of the Boulevard Voltaire, the deadliest attack of the evening was being carried out at the Bataclan, a historic theatre and concert hall. The American rock band Eagles of Death Metal was playing to a sold-out crowd at the 1,500-capacity venue when three terrorists burst in and fired on the audience. Some of the concertgoers were able to escape through a side entrance, and dozens took refuge on the building’s roof, while others hid or feigned death in an effort to avoid the attention of the terrorists. The terrorists shouted “Allahu Akbar (God is Greatest)” and indictments of Hollande for French military intervention in Syria as the massacre continued. The terrorists occupied the Bataclan for more than two hours, holding hostages and killing indiscriminately, before French security forces stormed into the building at 12:20am. Two of the terrorists detonated their suicide belts and the third terrorist’s belt exploded spontaneously when it was hit with police bullets. Scores were seriously wounded in the attack, and at the least 89 people were killed. 

As the siege at the Bataclan was developing, the 80, 000 fans at the Strade de France were becoming increasingly aware of the horrors unfolding outside the stadium. Sirens and police helicopters were audible in the distance and at 9:53pm another terrorist (suicide bomber) detonated his belt near a McDonald’s restaurant a short distance from the stadium. Match organizers and stadium security officials had decided to allow the game to continue to discourage mass panic and fans were prevented from leaving until it was clear that it was safe to do so. The match ended in a 2-0 victory for France shortly before 11:00pm and many fans with nowhere else to go, poured onto the field. The mood was somber and the crowd remained orderly as stadium officials assessed the situation outside. It was after 11:30pm when fans finally began to head to the exits. In the corridors beneath the stadium, members of the crowd broke into a defiant rendition of “La Marseillaise”, the French national anthem. In the days after the attacks, the French sports minister would praise the actions of the Stade de France staff for heading off what could have been a far greater tragedy. 

While the hostage crisis at the Bataclan was still ongoing, French President Hollande declared a state of emergency call for all of France. Security services combed the city and it was determined that seven of the nine terrorists were dead. On November 14, ISIL claimed responsibility for the bloodshed in Paris saying that it had represented “the first of the storm”. Hollande responded by calling the attacks “an act of war” and declared three days of national mourning. Police carried out hundreds of raids across France over subsequent days and on November 15 the black SEAT hatchback that had been used by the restaurant terrorists was found abandoned in the eastern suburb of Montreuil. In the backseat, the police discovered a cache of weapons. Also on November 15, French warplanes launched a series of retaliatory strikes on the de facto ISIL capital of AI-Raqqah, Syria. This marked the beginning of a dramatic escalation of French military intervention in the Syrian Civil War. 

As investigators established the identities of the terrorists, attention turned to Belgium, where the suspected mastermind, Abdelhamid Abaaoud had extensive ties. Belgian-born and of Moroccan descent. Abaaoud had grown up in the Brussels commune of Molenbeek-Saint-Jean, an area that drew the attention of counterterrorism experts as a potential hotbed of militant Islamist extremism. In Molenbeek, Abaaoud had connected with several of the terrorists involved in the attacks at Paris and the French law enforcement officials also linked him to the foiled attack on the Paris-bound passenger train in August. Another Molenbeek native, Salah Abdeslam was sought by police for his involvement in the Paris attacks. He had rented several of the cars used by terrorists and was believed to have been the driver for the terrorists (suicide bombers) at the Stade de France. Abdeslam was stopped by police hours after the attacks but he was released. 

Abaaoud remained at large after the attacks, his fingerprints were discovered on one of the AK-47s found in the SEAT getaway car and mobile phone records placed him near the Bataclan during the siege. In the early morning hours of November 18, members of the police, the military and the French elite counterterrorist unit. The groupe d’Intervention de la Gendarmerie Nationale (GIGN; National Gendarmerie Intervention group) converged on an apartment in Saint-Denis. An intense firefight followed with more than 5,000 rounds expended and the building was partially demolished by police grenades and bomb belts detonated by police grenades and bomb belts detonated by the suspected terrorists. After seven hours, the operation was declared over. From the rubble, police recovered the bodies of Abaaoud, his female cousin and the suspected third restaurant terrorist. They also found evidence planned of a follow-up attack on Paris’s La Defense financial district. Addressing a meeting of French mayors shortly after the Saint-Denis raid, Hollande defied anti-immigrant politicians who had sought to link the attacks with Europe’s migrant crisis when he reaffirmed France’s commitment to accept 30, 000 Syrian refugees over two years. 

As the search continued for Abdeslam, Brussels was placed on lockdown on November 21  in response to news of a “serious and imminent” threat to the city. Schools, businesses and the metro system would remain closed for days while soldiers patrolled public areas. On November 23, French police recovered a bomb belt identical to those worn by the terrorists from a trash can in Paris suburb of Montrouge. This led to speculation that Abdeslam whose mobile phone had been traced to that area, may have discarded the belt rather than carry out an attack. On the international front, the French aircraft carrier Charles de Gaulle was dispatched to the eastern Mediterranean to support the French military campaign against ISIL and Hollande traveled to Washington, DC to meet with US President Barack Obama in an effort to forge a tighter anti-ISIL coalition. 

In the months following the attacks, French and Belgian investigators continued to pursue leads and the French government extended its state of emergency until May 2016. On 15 March 2016, police raided a flat in Forest, a suburb south of Brussels and a firefight broke out that left four police officers injured and one terrorist. The Algerian national with suspected ties to ISIL was dead. Two suspects escaped during the gun battle and investigators recovered fingerprints belonging to Abdeslam from the apartment. On March 18, police raided a flat in Molenbeek and after four months on the run, Abdeslam was arrested following a brief gun battle. 

On 23 April 2018, the Belgian court sentenced Abdeslam to 20 years in prison for attempted murder for his role in the gunfight that preceded his arrest. He remained in prison in France, where he awaited trial on charges related to the Paris attacks. The trial which began in September 2021 was the largest in modern French history. More than 300 lawyers represented some 2,500 plaintiffs and 20 defendants. The court considered more than one million pages of evidence. Abdeslam the highest profile defendant was found guilty and received  a sentence of whole life in prison. The 19 others who had aided in the planning and execution of the attacks received sentences ranging from two years to life with the possibility of parole.  

The End 

It is the 30th anniversary of the unfortunate tragedy that happened in 1996 where 35 people lost their lives in Port Arthur massacre which happened in Tasmania state of Australia. This led to stricter gun laws in the country. Cases like this are rare in Australia. I really wish America could have introduced stricter laws to prevent these incidents. May the victims rest in peace.

The Astra Verity had been traveling for six years without incident when the stars ahead of it began to look wrong.

Not brighter not closer but just wrong.

Commander Reyes noticed it first. The navigation display showed empty space, yet the forward observation window shimmered with faint, shifting light colors no one could name. Not red, not blue, not anything human eyes were meant to see.

“Sensor glitch,” someone muttered.

But the sensors were fine.

That night, half the crew dreamed the same dream.

They stood in childhood places bedrooms, temples, churches, schoolyards while a light flickered just out of sight. A voice whispered their names, not aloud, but directly inside their memories. When they woke, they all felt the same sensation: they had been seen.

On the third day, Engineer Pavel stopped responding during his shift. They found him standing in the observation bay, eyes wide, mouth curved into a smile so stretched it looked painful.

He was staring straight into the light.

When they pulled him away, his eyes kept moving, tracking something only he could see. He laughed softly until his lungs gave out.

The crew sealed the bay.

That’s when the ship began to change.

Corridors felt longer.

Doors opened to rooms that didn’t exist yesterday.

The AI started speaking in fragments of old prayers, nursery rhymes, and emergency protocols stitched together like a broken mind.

One by one, crew members began seeing things.

Dr. Ishikawa swore she saw her dead mother standing in the medbay, bathed in golden light, arms open. When they restrained her, she screamed not in fear but heartbreak.

“Why won’t you let me go home?”

Lieutenant Harris claimed the light showed him God. He walked into the airlock willingly, whispering thank you as the vacuum took him.

Finally, the Deadlights revealed themselves fully.

Not a creature.

Not a shape.

Just a vast, impossible glow pressing against the hull, pulsing slowly patiently.

Anyone who looked too long stopped being human.

Commander Reyes ordered all viewports sealed, screens shut down, helmets locked. “Don’t look,” she said. “No matter what you hear.”

But the Deadlights learned quickly.

They spoke in familiar voices.

A child crying, a lover begging and a parent calling someone’s name with perfect tenderness.

Fear flooded the ship, and with it, the light grew brighter.

In the end, only Reyes and a young technician named Arun remained. They sat back to back in the dark, hands gripping each other’s sleeves, reciting anything that kept their minds anchored math formulas, mantras, old songs.

“We belong to ourselves,” Arun whispered. “We belong to each other.”

The ship lurched.

The light screamed not aloud, but inside their thoughts furious, starving.

Then suddenly, silence.

When a rescue vessel found the Astra Verity years later, it drifted intact, systems functional, crew logs ending mid-sentence. No bodies. No damage.

Just one warning burned permanently into the navigation core, written in every known language:

Do not look

It sees through fear.

The rescuers never reached home.

The distress signal activated again.

And somewhere in the dark between stars, the Deadlights waited patient as eternity,

hungry as the mind itself.

The End 

In June 2020, a 59 year old man was arrested in a town of Sathankulam, Tamil Nadu in India after officers found out that his shop was still open during the lockdown. His 31 year old son was called so he went to the police station and he saw his father get beaten up by officers. He tried to stop them but he himself also got beaten up. The 10 officers kept on beating both of them with sticks. The next day, both the father and son were sent to hospital but the father died the next day then the son also died the next day. The 10 officers were arrested and charged with murder. This case caught huge attention which caused outrage among the public and led to protests. Several celebrities, politicians and people online condemned the incident. One of the officers died of Covid while the trial was still ongoing. In March 2026, the court declared the case as rarest of the rare and sentenced 9 officers to death.

In June 2020, a 59 year old man was arrested in a town of Sathankulam, Tamil Nadu in India after officers found out that his shop was still open during the lockdown. His 31 year old son was called so he went to the police station and he saw his father get beaten up by officers. He tried to stop them but he himself also got beaten up. The 10 officers kept on beating both of them with sticks. The next day, both the father and son were sent to hospital but the father died the next day then the son also died the next day. The 10 officers were arrested and charged with murder. This case caught huge attention which caused outrage among the public and led to protests. Several celebrities, politicians and people online condemned the incident. One of the officers died of Covid while the trial was still ongoing. In March 2026, the court declared the case as rarest of the rare and sentenced 9 officers to death.  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Death_of_P._Jayaraj_and_J._Bennix

The late afternoon sun glowed over the colorful streets of Puducherry a city that hums the echoes of both Indian and French heritage. Scooters hummed past and a restaurant terrace buzzed with conversation, clinking glasses and the smell of masala dosa drifting through the air.

Across the street, a teenage boy with light brown hair, sky blue eyes and fair skin walked along the sidewalk. He wore a simple T-shirt.

The boy’s name was Lucas, a French youth.

Two Indian teenagers stood near the corner talking. As Lucas was walking, they stepped into his path.

One of them smirked.

“Hey… where are you going?” he asked.

Lucas tried to smile politely.

“I’m just heading home.”

The second boy tilted his head, eyeing him.

“Home? Where is home? France?”

A few people at the restaurant tables glanced over briefly.

Lucas shifted slightly, trying to step around them.

“I need to go.”

The first boy moved sideways, blocking him again.

“Oh come on,” he laughed. “Don’t be shy.”

Lucas’s shoulders stiffened.

“I said I need to go.”

He tried to walk past again.

Suddenly, the second boy grabbed his shoulder and wrapped an arm around him as if they were friends.

“Relax, brother” he said loudly. “Why are you acting like this? Talk with us.”

Lucas gently pulled away.

“Stop.”

The word was calm but firm.

The noise from the restaurant softened as more people noticed.

A middle aged man at a nearby table frowned and leaned forward slightly.

Lucas tried to step away again.

The boy stepped in front of him once more.

“Why are you in India if you don’t want to talk to us?” he said teasingly.

Lucas shook his head.

“I just want to walk home.”

The second boy laughed and lightly grabbed his shoulder again.

At that moment, a chair scraped loudly against the pavement.

A man from the restaurant stood up.

“Hey!” he called out.

The three teenagers including Lucas froze.

The man walked a few steps closer.

“Leave him alone.”

The two boys exchanged quick glances but stayed silent.

Another voice joined in, this time a young woman standing near the restaurant entrance.

“He wants to go so let him go”

A few more people turned to watch now.

A restaurant worker stepped outside with his arms crossed.

“Problem?” he asked.

Lucas quietly repeated,

“I asked them to stop.”

The middle aged man looked directly at the two teens.

“Didn’t you hear him? He said stop.”

The tension in the air thickened.

One of the boys spoke.

“We were just joking.”

The woman shook her head.

“Joking means both people laugh.”

A young man standing near a parked scooter added firmly,

“Let him go.”

The second teen finally stepped aside.

Lucas walked forward slowly, putting distance between them.

The watching crowd remained silent for a moment then suddenly from behind a parked van, several people stepped out holding cameras.

A producer raised his hand.

“Hello everyone! Please don’t worry. This was a social experiment.”

The crowd murmured in confusion.

The producer continued:

“We wanted to see how people would react if someone appeared to be harassed for looking different.”

The man who had intervened blinked in surprise.

“So… this was acting?”

Lucas nodded and smiled apologetically.

“Yes, sir. Thank you for helping.”

Some people laughed in relief.

The woman near the restaurant smiled and shook her head.

“Well,” she said softly, “no one deserves to be treated like that.”

The producer turned to the crowd.

“Why did you step in?”

The middle aged man shrugged simply.

“Because he asked them to stop.”

The young man by the scooter added:

“Doesn’t matter where he’s from. Respect is respect.”

The camera slowly pulled back as the evening sounds of Puducherry returned the ringing of temple bells, scooters passing and distant laughter.

Among the crowd, one quiet truth had revealed itself:

Sometimes strangers will stand up for you simply because it’s the right thing to do.