VAISHALI DISTRICT
Ahmed knelt on the hardwood floor, surrounded by junk he'd scavenged from the doctor's garage. Fishing line. Tin cans. Nails. Broken glass from the shattered window downstairs. Duct tape. Kitchen knives.
He tried to keep his hands steady.
They wouldn't.
"Tension here," he muttered, pulling it taut. "Anchor there. Yeah. That'll work."
He wiped his palms on his jeans and threaded the line through the cans by the back door.
Pulled.
Too loose.
Pulled again. Harder.
The cans rattled, loud enough that he flinched.
"Shut up," he whispered, though the house was empty.
He crouched there for a moment, listening. Nothing. Just the soft creak of the building settling. His breathing sounded too loud in his own ears.
He tested the resistance. Too loose, nothing happens. Too tight, a breeze sets it off. He adjusted it twice before nodding.
The cans sat near the back door now, arranged in a line. Anyone tried to come through, they'd trip the wire. The cans would clatter. He'd hear them coming.
Simple. Effective.
He moved to the front entrance next.
The floorboard trap was already in place. Two paint cans. A rope tied up to a shelf. Heavy books stacked unevenly on top—medical stuff, thick and unforgiving. He stared at it longer than necessary.
Would it actually fall?
Would it matter?
He nudged the board with his foot. The shelf trembled. A book slid halfway off before stopping.
Ahmed stepped back.
"Yeah," he muttered. "Sure."
The bell came from the doctor's study. Small. Brass. Dented on one side. He carried it outside and nailed it to a post with slow, careful swings of the hammer. Missed twice. Swore under his breath.
He tore a page from a book and wrote on it with a marker that was running dry:
RING BELL IF ALIVE
TRAPS INSIDE
That was all he had space for.
He taped it under the bell and stood there, staring at it. The street was quiet. Too quiet. Somewhere far away, something groaned, then went silent again.
He pulled the string he'd run through the door.
The bell rang.
Clear. Bright.
He nodded once, like someone agreeing to terms he didn't like.
Inside, he moved through the house again.
The wire in the hallway was still tight. The jar of nails swung slightly when he brushed past it. He stopped and waited for it to settle.
In the kitchen, the cabinet trap hung where it should. Upstairs, the bathroom door looked the same as it always had.
The bucket sat balanced above it.
He stared at it.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "I know."
He left it.
Back downstairs, Ahmed sank against the wall by the window and pulled out his phone. His thumb hovered over the screen for a second before he hit record.
"Traps are set. Bell's up." He said. His voice sounded thin.
He swallowed.
"This is supposed to help. Supposed to keep the wrong things out." A pause. "If there's still a difference."
He stopped recording.
Outside, something shuffled past the house. Slow. Heavy. It scraped against the fence and kept going.
Ahmed reached for the revolver on the nightstand. Checked the chamber.
One bullet.
He set it back down.
"Not yet."
He leaned his head against the wall and watched the door.
Waiting.
For the bell to ring.
Afraid of the sound.
More afraid of the silence.