The Hunt Begins 1
1049 Words
Tuesday, Evening, Mall.
Evening wrapped the city in a dull orange haze.
The rain had stopped hours ago, but the air still smelled of wet concrete and exhaust.
Arnab walked through the mall’s wide corridor, a paper coffee cup in hand, pretending to be just another tired face among the crowd.
His eyes, however, kept drifting to the reflections in the glass. Every corner, every moving shape, he noted without turning his head.
He wasn’t nervous, just careful.
The message from Gaurav had been simple: “Second floor, west wing. Washroom. 6 p.m. He’ll know you.”
Arnab climbed the escalator, passed the food court, and slipped into the men’s washroom near the closed end of the floor. The cleaner had just left. Only one stall door was shut.
The faucet dripped.
A man stepped out from that stall, drying his hands with a paper towel.
Mid-thirties, stocky, ordinary face — but the way he moved was too measured, too quiet.
He glanced once at Arnab in the mirror. “You came alone?”
Arnab answered without looking at him. “Was told to.”
The man nodded, reached into his jacket, and pulled out a plain brown paper bag, folded neatly at the top.
“Straight from the dock. Clean.”
Arnab took it. “Anything else?”
The man paused, eyes on the mirror. “Same words, different city. Keep it dry.”
“Got it.”
The man gave a single nod, tossed the towel, and walked out without another word.
Silence returned, just the soft hum of the air vent and the steady drip of water.
Arnab stood still for a moment, feeling the weight of the bag in his hand.
It wasn’t heavy, but it carried the kind of promise that could end lives.
He walked out, blended into the moving crowd again. As he moved past the corridor lights, he tugged the paper bag slightly, sliding it behind his belt, the shape hidden beneath his hoodie. The cold press of metal against his back felt both foreign and familiar, a secret no one around him would ever notice.
Outside, the mall’s lights blinked against the damp glass walls.
Arnab moved toward the parking area, planning to leave, and then he froze.
Through the tinted glass of the upper level, he saw two familiar faces stepping out from the movie hall:
Shanchayita and Ashmit.
They were laughing.
Ashmit carried a bucket of popcorn, and Shanchayita’s hair caught the light as she brushed it back, smiling at something he said.
Arnab’s hand tightened slightly around the paper bag.
He said nothing. Just followed their path with his eyes.
They turned toward the street outside, and after a moment of stillness, Arnab began to walk too, keeping distance.
The evening crowd had thinned; most shops were closing.
He followed them across the street to a small coffee shop, its yellow sign flickering at the edge of the lane.
They went in, found a corner seat near the glass window.
Arnab didn’t enter.
He crossed to the narrow alley, where the shadows from the buildings met. From there, he could see their reflections in the glass.
He waited. Watched.
Minutes passed. He didn’t know what he was waiting for, only that something felt off.
The air around him carried the same unease as the city itself, quiet, but restless.
He leaned against the wall, eyes fixed, the paper bag now tucked safely inside his jacket.
Rainwater dripped from a broken pipe nearby, steady and slow.
Then, through the blur of lights, movement caught his eye.
Shanchayita.
She burst out of the café, almost knocking the door open.
Her face was pale, terrified.
Ashmit wasn’t behind her.
Arnab pushed off the wall, his instincts already in motion.
She looked over her shoulder once, then ran straight toward the alley.
"Shanchayita?" he called her.
When she saw Arnab, she stumbled and fell right into his arms.
He caught her, steadying her by the shoulders.
Her breath came in sharp, panicked gasps.
“Arnab…” she whispered, voice trembling. “I… he..Ashmit...he tried to…”
“It’s okay. Slow down. What happened?”
She clutched her kurta, her fingers tight around the fabric. “He… he tried to kiss me. I said no. He got… angry. I ran…” Her eyes darted to every shadow, every reflective puddle as if expecting him to appear behind her.
Arnab’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. Inside, a surge of fury coiled like a tightly wound spring. Ashmit! That fucker! Thinking his father’s influence and a brash smile could override decency. Arnab’s fingers flexed; his body remained perfectly still, calm, unshakable, but beneath that exterior, the storm brewed. Every instinct screamed to chase, to strike, to tear that arrogance apart.
But he didn’t. Not yet.
“I’ve got you,” he said quietly, a measured calm that belied the storm inside. “Nothing’s going to happen now.”
Her eyes widened at the certainty in his voice, confusion mixing with relief.......
Present,
Arnab's Flat, 9:30 P.M.
Arnab unlocked the door to his apartment. The lights stayed dim, he didn’t bother turning them on. The streetlights outside were enough.
He shut the door, leaned his head back for a moment, exhaled slowly.
Then he reached into the back of his hoodie, pulled out the paper bag, and placed it on the table.
The paper was slightly damp at the edges. He unfolded it carefully.
Inside lay a .45 Colt revolver, matte black, heavy, gleaming faintly under the half-light.
No serial number. No scratches. No past. But with two extra magazines worth of bullets.
Arnab lifted it, feeling the cold weight against his palm.
He turned it once, thumb brushing over the cylinder, the trigger guard, the grip.
The smell of oiled metal filled the room.
Click.
The dry sound echoed softly.
He glanced at the clock on the wall. It was late. He set the gun and the bullets aside in the drawer, locked it, and sat on the edge of the bed.
The city outside murmured faintly, sirens in the distance, a dog barking, a train passing somewhere far away.
Arnab leaned back, eyes half-open, thoughts fading.
For the first time that day, his heartbeat slowed.
The room smelled faintly of gunpowder.
He closed his eyes.
- Writer
