The chairman's office was usually a place of mahogany and quiet corruption, but the basement of the GEC sports complex had been converted into a kitchen of horrors. Atul Yadav was stripped to his undershirt, his soft, pampered body molded around a massive industrial skewer, his limbs zip-tied in a way that made him look like a human rotisserie.
The Crimson Mask stood before him, the red surface of his face reflecting the flickering fluorescent light.
"The experiment with 'online learning' was a failure, Atul," the distorted, mechanical voice vibrated through the room. "The campus feels... empty. The fear doesn't circulate well over high-speed internet. Make the classes offline again."
"I... I can't!" Yadav blubbered, snot dripping onto the skewer. "Dhillon has the place crawling with CID! They've cordoned off the mess hall! They won't allow it!"
The masked man didn't argue. He picked up a high-pressure water hose, the kind used to blast grime off engines. He jammed the nozzle deep into Yadav's mouth.
"Five seconds, Atul. Send the mass email. Tell them the threat is 'neutralized' by the police. Tell them attendance is mandatory for the mid-terms."
"Mmph! Mmph!"
"Four. If you don't, I'll fill you up like a water balloon. Imagine the internal pressure, Atul. Your lungs collapsing, your stomach lining tearing..."
"I'll do it! I'll send it!"
Yadav's trembling thumbs flew across his screen. *Send.* He then typed a second message as instructed: *Taking an emergency leave for medical reasons. Out of the country. Do not contact.*
"There... I did it," Yadav wheezed. "Now, why... why do you need the students back so badly?"
The Crimson Mask tilted his head. "Because a stage is useless without an audience."
He flicked the industrial valve to maximum. The pressure was instantaneous. Yadav didn't even have time to scream as his torso began to swell at an impossible rate. His skin turned translucent, his veins purple against the stretching white. Then, with a wet, thunderous *thwack*, the Chairman of GEC imploded, a red mist coating the cornfield paintings on the walls.
# The State of the Union
By noon, the news was a wildfire. Every news channel from Delhi to Mumbai was flashing the same headline: GHAZIABAD GOTHIC: THE COLLEGE OF CORPSES.
Inside the local precinct, Inspector Dhillon looked like he had aged ten years. He was surrounded by CID officers in sharp suits who looked at his peanut-strewn desk with disgust.
"Inspector, you have zero leads, zero DNA, and a chairman who has 'fled' the country during a massacre," the CID lead barked. "What do you have?"
"I have a headache," Dhillon snapped, tossing a peanut shell at the man's loafers. "And a killer who knows our protocols better than we do. You think CID can find him? He's not a criminal; he's an artist who works in meat and metal. My only lead is a traumatized kid with nine fingers."
"The intern? He's a liability."
"He's the only one that freak hasn't managed to turn into a kebab yet," Dhillon growled. "Which makes him the smartest man in this room
# The Discord of the Damned
The 'Elite' group was on a secure group call. Their faces, usually filtered to perfection, were pale and oily.
**Syed:** "I heard the local Scooby-Doo—Raj—is out of the hospital. Dhillon gave him two guards. A literal nerd with a security detail. What a world."
**Pihoo:** "Who gives a shit about Mr. Vitiligo? For all we care, he can die in a ditch. He's probably the one giving the killer our addresses."
**Ria:** "We should care, you dumb bitch! Use your brain for once instead of just using it to hold up your hair extensions. Raj has the nerd skills we need."
**Pihoo:** "The fuck you say to me, Ria? You're just defending him because you like being watched by losers!"
**Rehan:** "SILENCE! All of you."
The call went quiet. Rehan's voice was like ice.
"Ria is right. Raj has made more progress than the CID. He's seen the 'Murder Room.' If we want to stay alive, we approach him. We offer him whatever he wants."
**Ali:** "Why would he help us? We treated him like a footstool for three years."
**Rehan:** "Because he's desperate. The killer turned his only friend into a side dish. He wants blood, and he knows we're the bait."
**Ria:** "Plus... I believe he has a thing for me. I can handle him."
# The Nerd's Command
Raj sat in his darkened apartment, his left hand a stump of white bandages. When the doorbell rang, he didn't look up. His police guards let the 'Elite' group in.
They entered his living room like they were walking into a temple—slow, cautious, and sweating.
"Speak," Raj said, his voice devoid of emotion.
"We want to help, Raj," Ria said, stepping forward, her voice soft and manipulative. "We have resources. Cars, money, access to the student records. We can help you find him."
Ali snorted. "Yeah, otherwise—"
"OTHERWISE WHAT?" Raj screamed, standing up so fast his chair flipped. His eyes were bloodshot, his face a mask of fury. "You think I need you? You're not help, Ali. You're targets. You're just a list of names waiting to be checked off."
Ali stepped forward, jaw clenched. "Watch your mouth, four-eyes, or guards or no guards, I'll....."
"Back off, you swine!" Ria barked at Ali. "If you don't want to live, get out. But I'm staying."
Ali muttered a curse but stepped back. Raj sat down, breathing heavily. He looked at them with pure contempt. "If you want to survive the week, you do exactly six things:
1. No one goes to the bathroom alone.
2. No one eats food they didn't see prepared.
3. You check your car for wires every single time you enter.
4. You keep your phones on a shared GPS tracker 24/7.
5. You stop bullying the 'nobodies'—the killer is likely one of them.
6. You do not leave your houses after 8:00 PM."
"And the killer's identity?" Rehan asked. "When do we discuss who it is?"
Raj looked at the ceiling, then at the shadow of the police guard outside his door. "Not here. This house is heavily monitored. Dhillon is listening to every breath I take because he blames himself for what happened to Subin. Meet me tomorrow at these coordinates."
He handed Rehan a scrap of paper with a string of coded numbers. "Come alone as a group. No police. No mistakes."
# The Last Ride
Ali didn't like rules. Especially rules made by a nerd. By 9:00 PM, his parents' nagging about his grades had pushed him to the edge.
"I'm going out!" he yelled, grabbing his jacket. He didn't check his car. He didn't call the group. He just booked a cab to a club in Noida.
A white sedan pulled up. The driver was wearing a medical mask and a hoodie pulled low.
"Hey, why are you wearing a mask?" Ali grumbled, sliding into the back seat. "The pandemic ended years ago, buddy."
The driver didn't move for a moment. Then, he looked into the rearview mirror. His eyes weren't human; they were twin pits of calculated malice.
"Because, sir," the driver whispered, his voice a cold, terrifying rasp, "I'd hate for you to see the man who's about to make you famous."
Before Ali could reach for the door handle, the "headrest" of the passenger seat flipped forward. Two razor-sharp vertical blades, powered by a hydraulic piston, shot backward with a mechanical *shring*.
They didn't hit Ali's chest. They were perfectly aligned with his eyes.
The blades punched through Ali's corneas and deep into his skull, pinning his head to the back seat. He didn't even have time to lift his hands. His body gave one violent twitch, his sneakers squeaking against the floor mat, and then he went still.
The driver flicked the "Occupied" sign to "Off" and drove calmly into the Ghaziabad traffic.