The soft hum of the air conditioner filled the quiet room as Dr. Anaya Sharma glanced at the clock—3:58 p.m. Her next patient was due any minute. She straightened the cushions on the chair across from her, a ritual she’d developed over the years, more to settle her nerves than for comfort. This one was different. A special referral from the police, wrapped in confidentiality and whispers.
At exactly 4:00 p.m., a knock at the door echoed through the room.
“Come in,” she said, her voice calm and professional.
The door creaked open, revealing a tall man in his late twenties. He was sharply dressed, wearing a dark green button-down and jeans. His eyes flickered around the room before landing on her, unreadable and cautious.
“Mr. Aryan Mehra?” she asked.
He nodded once, stepping in with a measured grace. “Yes. You're Dr. Anaya?”
“Yes, please have a seat.”
He sat down slowly, his posture stiff but not uncomfortable. She noticed his fingers twitching slightly—nerves or something else?
“I’ve read through your initial evaluation. You reported experiencing memory lapses, disorientation, and... hearing voices?”
Aryan chuckled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “That sounds insane when you say it out loud.”
Anaya smiled gently. “It’s not insanity. It’s something we can work through, together. Think of this space as a mirror—not for judgment, but for reflection.”
He hesitated before nodding again.
“Tell me,” she continued, pen poised, “when did the blackouts begin?”
He looked away, eyes fixed on the bookshelf behind her. “A year ago, maybe longer. I’d wake up in places I didn’t remember going to. Or find things I don’t remember buying.”
“What kind of things?”
He shrugged. “A pocket knife. A woman’s bracelet. A bloodstained shirt once. I thought I was going crazy.”
Anaya’s pen paused mid-sentence. “You found a bloodstained shirt?”
He looked up, clearly disturbed. “Yeah. Burned it. I didn’t want to know.”
She leaned forward slightly. “And the voices? What do they say?”
Aryan’s expression shifted—eyes narrowing, lips tightening. He didn’t speak. For a moment, the silence in the room turned heavy.
“I don’t think I’m the only one in here,” he finally whispered, tapping his temple. “Sometimes... I feel like someone else is living my life.”
Anaya’s pulse quickened. This wasn’t her first encounter with dissociative symptoms, but something about him felt… fragmented. She scribbled something in her notes and looked up again.
“Have you ever had anyone else tell you that you acted... differently?”
He gave a slow nod. “My ex said I had a ‘dark side.’ That I’d stare at her like I didn’t know her.”
“Do you remember those moments?”
“No.” He swallowed hard. “But I get flashes. Of being somewhere else. Of being someone else.”
Anaya closed her notebook and sat back.
“Okay, Aryan. We’ll start with a few grounding techniques. Nothing invasive. Just ways to help you stay connected to your present self. Over time, we’ll explore more. Are you willing to do that?”
He looked at her—really looked at her—for the first time. “I want to get better. I’m just scared of what we’ll find.”
She nodded. “That’s okay. Healing takes courage. And you’ve already taken the first step.”
As Aryan stood to leave, Anaya noticed something strange—his entire posture shifted. Shoulders back, jaw clenched, eyes colder.
“I’ll see you next week,” she said, offering a warm smile.
The man who turned to look at her wasn’t the same one who walked in. “Sure, Doc,” he said, voice deeper, smirk unsettling.
When the door closed behind him, Anaya’s breath caught in her throat. She wasn’t sure who she had just spoken to.
But she knew one thing for certain:
This was going to be far more complicated than she had imagined.
The next session arrived with the same precision as the first—4:00 p.m. sharp.
Aryan walked in, calmer this time, his eyes a bit more open, more curious. Anaya offered him a gentle smile and gestured to the same chair. She watched him settle in, wondering which version of him had shown up today.
“Good to see you again,” she said, flipping open her notepad.
He gave her a small nod. “Yeah... I’ve been thinking about our last talk.”
“That’s a good start,” she said. “Tell me what you’ve been thinking.”
He hesitated, glancing around the room. “I don’t know. It’s just... odd. I keep waking up with drawings in my notebook. Childlike sketches. I don’t remember doing them.”
Anaya leaned in slightly. “May I see one of them?”
He reached into his backpack and handed her a crumpled piece of paper. It was a simple drawing of a tree, a swing hanging from one of its branches, and a small boy standing beside it. The name Ravi was scribbled in the corner, in loopy, innocent handwriting.
Anaya’s heart beat faster. She kept her face calm. “Do you know who Ravi is?”
He looked confused. “No. But the name feels... familiar.”
She placed the paper gently on the desk. “Aryan, I’d like to try something today. A simple exercise. Just some guided breathing and mirror work. It helps with self-awareness.”
He gave her a skeptical look but nodded. “Alright.”
She brought out a small hand mirror from her drawer and handed it to him.
“I want you to hold this, look into your own eyes, and tell me your name.”
Aryan took the mirror, glanced into it, then hesitated. “My name is—” He blinked. “My name is Ravi.”
Anaya froze.
“Hi, Ravi,” she said carefully. “How old are you?”
The man in front of her smiled softly. “Seven. I like swings. But Dev won’t let me play.”
“Dev?”
Ravi nodded and leaned forward, whispering as if someone might hear him. “He gets angry. He’s not nice. He hurts people.”
Anaya’s breath hitched. She took a moment, then asked gently, “Does Dev hurt you, Ravi?”
“No,” he whispered, looking down. “But he said he hurt someone who tried to touch me once. He said she screamed like a bird.”
A chill ran down Anaya’s spine.
“Ravi, do you know where Aryan is right now?”
He frowned. “Sleeping, I think. He gets scared when Dev comes. He hides.”
Anaya steadied herself. “Would you like to come back next week, Ravi?”
Ravi nodded eagerly, then tilted his head. “But sometimes Dev listens. You should be careful, Doctor.”
A moment later, Aryan blinked rapidly and looked around. “What just happened?”
Anaya offered a neutral smile. “You were doing the mirror exercise. You said your name was Ravi.”
He stared at her. “I said what?”
She nodded, her voice soft. “Aryan, I think there’s a part of you—another self—that’s trying to communicate. A child named Ravi.”
He looked pale, shaken. “What the hell is happening to me?”
“You’re not alone,” she said, placing the drawing back in his hand. “And you’re not broken. We just need to listen to the parts of you that have gone unheard for a long time.”
As he left, Anaya scribbled in her notes, her fingers trembling:
“Second alter confirmed: Ravi, age 7. References to ‘Dev’—potential third personality. Violent tendencies.”
She stared at the door for a long while after it closed.
The mirror exercise had worked—too well.
And now, the reflection staring back wasn’t just Aryan’s.
The next session began in silence.
Aryan sat across from Anaya, arms folded, eyes unfocused. The usual nervous tapping of his fingers was gone. He hadn’t spoken since he walked in.
Anaya noticed everything. His breathing was slower. His jaw, clenched. The subtle shift in posture—like someone trying to take up more space. This wasn’t Aryan. And it wasn’t Ravi.
“Good evening,” she began, keeping her tone calm. “Would you like to tell me how you’re feeling today?”
A smirk curled on his lips. “You already know I’m not here to talk about feelings, Doc.”
The voice was deeper. More assured.
Anaya’s heart skipped. “Am I speaking with Dev?”
He leaned back in the chair, spreading his arms across the armrests like a throne. “Finally, someone who’s paying attention.”
She kept her notepad aside. No point writing just yet. “I’d like to understand you, Dev. Will you tell me why you're here?”
He chuckled. “Because I have to be. Aryan can’t handle the real world. Ravi’s stuck in the past. So someone has to clean up the messes.”
“What kind of messes?”
He tilted his head, amused. “You already suspect it, don’t you?”
Anaya’s pulse raced. “Tell me anyway.”
Dev leaned forward, voice low and deliberate. “People who hurt us. I deal with them.”
“By hurting them back?”
He smiled. “By removing them.”
Her stomach twisted. “Do you mean… killing them?”
“Let’s not ruin the moment with harsh words, Doctor.” He paused, eyes darkening. “Sometimes people don’t deserve to keep breathing.”
She tried to keep her voice steady. “Do Aryan or Ravi know what you do?”
He scoffed. “Ravi? He’s too busy drawing trees. Aryan? He begs me not to. But when he gets scared, when he’s cornered... he gives me the wheel.”
Anaya took a breath. “So you’re protecting them?”
His smile faded. “No, Doctor. I’m protecting us. You want to fix us, but we’re not broken. We’re evolved.”
She stood slowly, trying not to show fear. “Dev, I need to know—did you hurt someone recently?”
He tapped his fingers on the armrest. “Maybe. Maybe not. But you’re curious, aren’t you?” He leaned in. “Check your windshield tonight. Left you a message.”
Anaya's blood turned cold.
Then, just as quickly, his expression softened. Confused. Aryan was back.
“Why are you standing?” he asked. “Did something happen?”
Anaya sat down slowly. “You... you mentioned a message.”
He blinked. “What? No, I—” He clutched his head. “I feel dizzy. Was I... talking just now?”
Anaya shook her head slightly. “Let’s end the session here for today.”
He nodded, visibly shaken. As Aryan left the room, she watched him walk down the hall, then rushed to the window overlooking the parking lot.
There, on the windshield of her car, a single red rose.
And beneath it—a note that read:
“You’re digging too deep. Be careful, Doc.”
Anaya closed the blinds, heart hammering.
She had just met Dev.
And he was watching her.
Anaya didn’t sleep that night.
The rose and the note haunted her. She kept replaying Dev’s voice in her head—calm, confident, unapologetic. She had dealt with aggressive personalities before, even survivors of violence, but never someone who hinted so strongly at committing murder.
By morning, her instincts kicked in. She called an old friend at the police department—Inspector Vikram Rawat.
“I just need to ask something… unofficial,” she said on the phone, pacing her kitchen.
“About your patient?” he guessed.
“Yes. Aryan Mehra. I can't share details, but... are there any recent crimes connected to that name?”
Vikram hesitated. “Actually, yeah. Why?”
Anaya stopped walking. “What happened?”
“There’s a case from a few months ago. A woman—Dr. Smita Rao—was found dead in her apartment. Blunt trauma. The odd part? Aryan used to be her patient. No charges were filed, though. No solid evidence.”
Anaya’s fingers tightened around the phone. “Do you have a copy of the report?”
“I can email it, but Anaya, be careful. If you think he’s dangerous—”
“I know he is.”
That evening, as Aryan entered her office for the fourth session, Anaya felt her pulse spike. He seemed normal again. Quiet, anxious, confused.
But now she knew something he didn’t know she knew.
“Hi,” he said with a weary smile. “I’m sorry if I seemed... strange last time.”
Anaya nodded, keeping her voice neutral. “You were different. It’s okay. We’re learning more each time. Do you remember anything from our last session?”
He shook his head. “No. Just a pounding headache afterward. And this…”
He lifted his hand.
His knuckles were bruised, healing, but still raw. Her gaze sharpened.
“What happened to your hand?” she asked, keeping her tone casual.
He blinked down at it. “I… I don’t know. I noticed it when I woke up two days ago.”
Her breath caught. “Did you see any blood?”
He paled. “There was something. On my sink. Red... sticky. I thought maybe I cut myself shaving. I threw the towel away.”
She wrote a quick note in the corner of her page: Check garbage. Timeline matches crime scene.
Then, carefully, she asked, “Do you remember anyone named Dr. Smita Rao?”
He looked up sharply. “Why would you say that?”
“She was mentioned in your referral documents. Former therapist.”
“I haven’t seen her in a long time. Why?”
Anaya studied him. “She passed away recently.”
Aryan’s face went blank. Then the shaking started. His fingers trembled, his knee bounced.
“I didn’t know,” he whispered. “I didn’t… I didn’t do anything.”
Anaya leaned in. “Aryan. I believe you. But I need you to be honest with me. If something happened—if Dev was in control—you need to tell me.”
“I don’t control him!” he snapped, then immediately looked guilty. “I didn’t mean to yell. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” She paused. “But we have to understand him. Otherwise, he’ll keep hurting people. Do you want that?”
He shook his head violently. “No. I hate him.”
At that moment, his voice shifted. His eyes locked with hers.
“No, he hates you.”
Anaya stiffened.
Dev.
“You shouldn’t have mentioned Smita,” he said, calm and cold. “She wanted to shut us down. She made Ravi cry.”
Anaya’s mouth went dry. “Did you kill her?”
Dev’s eyes sparkled. “You’re smarter than she was.”
Then, in an instant, he blinked—and Aryan was back. Pale, sweating, disoriented.
“I think… I think I need help,” he whispered.
Anaya nodded slowly. “Yes. And I’m going to help you.”
But as Aryan left the session, her hands trembled.
She checked her phone. The crime scene photos Vikram had sent earlier showed blood smears in the shape of fingers—slender, bruised, right-handed.
Exactly like Aryan’s.
Red hands.
And they weren’t done.
The sky was overcast, heavy with the weight of a storm that hadn’t yet broken. Anaya sat in her study, Vikram’s voice still ringing in her ears.
"The blood matched her DNA. No signs of forced entry. No prints—clean, professional. Except..."
"Except what?" she’d asked.
"A black notebook was found in her drawer. It had Aryan’s name in the front. Half the pages were torn out."
Now, Anaya stared at the copy of the police report. A patient’s notebook in a dead therapist’s drawer—pages missing. She had to know what was inside.
When Aryan arrived for their next session, he looked exhausted. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his frame seemed smaller—like someone being slowly hollowed out from the inside.
“I barely slept,” he murmured. “There’s... too much noise in my head lately.”
Anaya gave him a warm, reassuring smile. “I want to try something today. Something that might help you ground yourself better.”
He nodded weakly.
She handed him a brand-new journal. “This is yours. Every day, I want you to write anything you remember—feelings, dreams, words that come into your mind. Even if it seems silly or doesn’t make sense. Deal?”
Aryan flipped through the empty pages. “What if... someone else writes in it?”
“That’s exactly what I’m hoping for,” she said gently.
He stared at her, surprised. “You want them to come out?”
“I want them to feel safe enough to speak.”
He tucked the notebook into his backpack. “Okay. I’ll try.”
Three days later, Anaya received a text from Aryan.
Doc, I think you should see this. I didn’t write any of it.
It was just there when I woke up.
She asked him to bring the journal in.
When he arrived, he looked shaken. No greeting. Just handed her the notebook with trembling fingers.
She opened it.
The handwriting was erratic. Some pages were neat, almost childlike. Others were scrawled with fury, black ink pressed so hard the letters tore through the page.
Entry 1 – Ravi
I don’t like when Dev gets mad. He locks Aryan in the dark. I try to draw so we don’t cry.
Entry 2 – Unknown
Dr. Rao deserved it. She made Ravi bleed. She pushed Aryan too far. I told her I’d come back. She didn’t listen.
Entry 3 – Samrat?
She’s next. The new one. The doctor who thinks she’s in control. Cute, but naive. Should we warn her? Or let her feel it?
Anaya’s hands trembled.
She flipped forward.
Entry 4 – Dev (likely)
We don’t like secrets. We don’t like tests. If you lie, we’ll know. If you dig, we’ll bury.
Anaya looked up. “Do you know who Samrat is?”
Aryan shook his head. “No. I swear. I don’t recognize that name.”
Her pulse pounded. “These voices—these parts of you—do you ever feel like they’re watching you, even when you're not aware?”
He looked terrified now. “Yes. Sometimes I wake up, and it’s like... someone else is mid-conversation. Like I just dropped into a life that wasn’t mine.”
Anaya closed the journal and placed it beside her, mind racing.
There weren’t just two alters. Or even three.
There was a fourth.
A cold, calculated voice that didn’t sound like a fragment of trauma—but like something separate. Something... darker.
That night, as she reviewed the entries again, her eye caught something she’d missed.
On the inside of the back cover, written upside-down in red ink:
Not all of us are parts of him. Some of us were invited in.
Anaya sat frozen.
This wasn’t just a psychological fracture.
This was something else entirely.
Something that might not be human.
Rain pelted the windows as Anaya dimmed the lights in her office. The atmosphere was heavy—thick with anticipation. Tonight, she had arranged something she hadn’t dared to try before.
Hypnotherapy.
Aryan had reluctantly agreed. He was desperate now—haunted by missing time, cryptic journal entries, and voices that spoke of murder. After their last session, she had started locking her windows at night.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked.
Aryan sat slouched, eyes weary. “If it helps me understand what’s happening... I’m willing.”
Anaya nodded, keeping her voice calm. “Alright. Just listen to my voice.”
Within minutes, Aryan’s breathing slowed. His limbs relaxed. His eyes fluttered, then stilled.
“Aryan,” she said softly. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes,” he murmured.
“I want you to go back to the moment when you felt you were not alone. What do you see?”
A long pause.
“There’s a mirror,” he whispered. “I’m watching someone else smile through it. But... it’s my face.”
“Who is smiling, Aryan?”
Another pause. Then—
“Samrat.”
Anaya’s skin prickled. “Can Samrat speak to me?”
Silence.
Then, the voice that followed was deeper. More confident. And cruel.
“Well, well, Doctor. So eager to dig in the dark. What do you hope to find?”
“Samrat.” Her voice was firm, though her heart raced. “What are you?”
“I’m what he became when he stopped fighting. I’m the clarity between the chaos. I’m not like the others.”
“You’re not an alter?”
He chuckled. “No. I’m a guest.”
Anaya’s stomach twisted.
“Did you kill Dr. Smita Rao?”
The answer came without hesitation. “Yes. She got too close to locking me away. And you’re on the same path.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“I protect the system. Aryan is weak. Ravi is a child. Dev is chaos. I bring order. Necessary endings.”
“You’re orchestrating the violence,” she said quietly.
“I’m giving them peace.”
Suddenly, his body tensed. His head jerked slightly. The deep voice turned panicked.
“She’s waking me—he’s—no! I’m not done yet!”
Anaya leaned forward. “Who’s waking?”
“He is!” the voice shrieked. “You shouldn’t have brought me here—”
Aryan jolted upright, gasping, sweat pouring down his face.
He looked at her like she was a stranger.
“What just happened?” he whispered.
“You were under hypnosis,” she said softly. “Samrat came forward. He confessed to Smita’s murder.”
Aryan went pale. “He’s real, isn’t he? Not... just in my head.”
Anaya hesitated. “He exists in your system. But whether he’s real or a construct of trauma... we don’t know yet.”
Aryan stood shakily. “I don’t feel safe anymore. Not even in my own body.”
“Come back tomorrow,” she said. “We’ll figure this out. Together.”
That night, as Anaya reviewed the session recording, something disturbed her even more than Samrat’s confession.
At one point, in the background of the audio, while Samrat was speaking—faintly, beneath the hiss of rain—another voice had whispered something she hadn’t noticed live.
She boosted the volume, adjusted the settings, and played the section again.
“He doesn’t belong to you anymore.”
Anaya’s hands went cold.
There was someone—or something—else inside Aryan.
And it was watching all of them.
The next morning, Anaya found herself outside the old Mehra family bungalow—Aryan’s childhood home.
She hadn’t told him she was coming. She needed answers he couldn’t give. The hypnosis session had shaken her deeply. Samrat wasn’t just another alter—he was organized, calculating, and far too self-aware. And the whispered voice in the recording?
That hadn’t sounded human.
A neighbor spotted her at the gate.
“You looking for Aryan’s mother?” the old woman called from across the street. “She passed a few years ago. House’s been locked ever since.”
“I’m Dr. Anaya Sharma. I’m treating Aryan. I’m just trying to understand more about his childhood.”
The woman hobbled over. “Sweet boy. But strange things happened in that house. I used to hear screaming. And once, they took a boy away in the middle of the night. After that, everything changed.”
Anaya froze. “A boy? Aryan’s brother?”
The woman frowned. “No, no. I don’t think they were related. Maybe a foster child. I don’t know. He just disappeared one day.”
Anaya’s mind whirled. Aryan had never mentioned a foster brother. Or any sibling. And there had been no such record in his files.
Later that day, she confronted Aryan during their session.
“Do you remember anyone else living with you when you were a child?”
Aryan looked puzzled. “No. Just me and my parents.”
“Maybe someone who stayed temporarily? A cousin? A foster child?”
He frowned, visibly straining. “There’s something. A name... Ishan?”
Anaya blinked. “Ishan?”
Aryan grabbed his head suddenly, like something had stabbed behind his eyes. “Wait—no—I don’t—I can’t—Dev says not to remember.”
“Dev says?”
Aryan’s breathing grew shallow. “He says remembering Ishan will break everything.”
Then, his eyes rolled back, and when they opened—Dev was there.
“Back off, Doc,” he growled. “You don’t want to open that box.”
Anaya stayed calm. “I think I already have. Who is Ishan?”
Dev’s face twitched. “He was the first. Before any of us. Before Aryan even knew how to survive.”
“And where is he now?”
Dev smirked. “Buried. Deep. Samrat made sure of it.”
Then something changed. Dev’s face went slack. His mouth opened slightly, and a new voice emerged—trembling, hollow.
“I... I’m still here.”
Anaya’s heart stopped.
This wasn’t Aryan. Or Ravi. Or Dev. Or Samrat.
This was someone else.
“Ishan?” she asked softly.
A tear rolled down his cheek. “They forgot me. They needed someone to blame... for what happened in the basement.”
Anaya’s voice caught. “What happened in the basement?”
“They made me watch. Locked me in. Screamed at me to stop. But I couldn’t.”
“What did you see?”
He looked at her, eyes wide and broken. “The first kill.”
Silence fell heavy between them.
And then, just as suddenly, he vanished—leaving Aryan sobbing in the chair, with no idea what had happened.
That night, Anaya sat in her apartment, piecing together the timeline. The mystery child, Ishan, had been buried within Aryan’s fractured psyche. But the others—Dev and Samrat—seemed built around him.
Not as protectors.
As suppressors.
Something had happened in that basement.
Something that created more than trauma.
Something that created them.
A soft chime echoed through the clinic as Anaya entered, coffee in one hand, files in the other. It was 7:45 a.m.—too early for clients, but she preferred it that way. Silence helped her think.
But this morning, the silence felt wrong.
Her office door was ajar.
She froze.
She never left it open. Never.
Slowly, she pushed it wider. Her eyes scanned the room. Nothing appeared out of place—until she looked at her desk.
The notebook.
Aryan’s black journal was missing.
Her breath hitched. She checked the drawers. The filing cabinet. The locked box she used for sensitive client documents.
Files had been tampered with.
Not taken—read. Left slightly crooked. Paper edges bent. Someone had been careful. But not careful enough.
She pulled out her phone, ready to call the police. But before she could dial, her screen lit up with a message from a private number:
“You’re looking in the wrong place. The answers aren’t in files, Doctor. They’re inside him.”
She stared at it, numb.
By noon, she sat across from Inspector Vikram Rawat at a corner café, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses.
“You said you’d installed CCTV,” he muttered, stirring his tea.
“I did. But whoever broke in disabled the cameras right before they entered. Professionally done.”
“You think Aryan did it?”
Anaya hesitated. “No... but I think someone inside Aryan did.”
Vikram leaned in. “This isn’t just a case anymore. This is a crime scene. If you think he’s a threat—”
“He’s more than a threat,” she said quietly. “He’s a battleground.”
That evening, Aryan returned for his session, unaware of the break-in. But Anaya noticed a faint scratch along his wrist.
“Rough day?” she asked.
He looked at it in surprise. “Oh… I guess. I don’t remember getting this.”
“How about last night? Do you remember where you were between 2 and 4 a.m.?”
He blinked. “I was asleep. Why?”
She didn’t answer.
Instead, she stood and walked over to the whiteboard in her office. “Aryan, I want to try something. Let’s list every alter we’ve met so far. It might help you feel more in control.”
He nodded. “Okay.”
She wrote:
Ravi (7-year-old child, innocent)
Dev (violent, defensive, aggressive)
Samrat (calculating, controlling, confesses to murder)
Ishan (forgotten trauma, linked to ‘first kill’)
Aryan stared at the names, trembling. “It feels like there are more. I feel... crowded.”
“Have you heard any new voices?”
He shook his head. Then stopped.
“Wait. Maybe. There’s one I hear sometimes. But he doesn’t speak in words. Just... feelings. Cold. Silent. Watching.”
Anaya turned back to the board and wrote a single question mark.
? (Unknown, non-verbal, observer)
Aryan’s fingers twitched. He suddenly clutched his chest. “Something’s coming.”
“What do you mean?”
He fell to his knees. “I can’t breathe... I can’t—he’s inside.”
Then, for the first time, Aryan’s eyes rolled back without a word.
And when he looked at her again, he smiled—calmly. Coldly.
“You’ve been looking for the killer,” he whispered. “But what if I told you... you already invited him in?”
Anaya stepped back. “Who are you?”
He stood slowly. “I’m not a part of Aryan. I’m the absence of him.”
And with that, he collapsed.
When he woke up, he had no idea where he was.
That night, Anaya reviewed the clinic’s internal logs. The system recorded when the camera feed was cut.
2:39 a.m.
One minute later, the lights were turned off manually.
And one minute after that...
Her voice played through the intercom.
“You’re looking too deep, Doctor. Don’t forget what happens to those who dig.”
She never recorded that. Never said those words.
Someone—or something—was using her voice now.
The news broke early the next morning.
Anaya was barely out of bed when her phone buzzed with a call from Inspector Vikram.
“You need to come to the station,” he said, voice tense. “Now.”
Anaya didn’t ask questions. She threw on a coat and rushed out.
Inside the station, Vikram met her with a grim expression.
“Who?” she asked, pulse racing.
Vikram exhaled. “Her name was Meera Joshi.”
Anaya frowned. “I don’t know her.”
“You do,” Vikram said, leading her to his desk. He pulled out a case file and flipped it open.
Anaya’s stomach dropped.
It was an intake form.
From her clinic.
Meera Joshi had been one of her patients—four months ago. But she had dropped out after just two sessions. Anxiety disorder, nothing severe. Or so Anaya had thought.
“Where was she found?” she whispered.
Vikram slid a photo across the desk. A woman lay sprawled across the floor of a small apartment, her head twisted at an unnatural angle.
Neck snapped.
“Yesterday, a neighbor reported hearing screaming from her apartment,” Vikram continued. “When we arrived, she was already dead.”
Anaya swallowed hard. “Do you think it’s connected to Aryan?”
Vikram rubbed his temples. “Here’s the thing. The neighbor swore they heard a man’s voice before the screams. Said it was low. Cold. And then—get this—when we searched the room, we found this.”
He handed her another evidence bag.
Inside it was a piece of paper, torn from a journal.
Anaya’s hands shook as she read the words scrawled in ink:
“I didn’t like what she told the doctor. Loose ends should be tied.”
Her pulse pounded.
Meera had been her patient.
And now she was dead.
Back at her office, Anaya sat in stunned silence.
She pulled up Meera’s file, flipping through her session notes.
Session 1:
Background: Anxiety, paranoia. Claims of being watched.
Notable Quote: “He follows me. Not always. Just when I say too much.”
Recommended Treatment: Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT).
Session 2:
Heightened distress. Kept saying, ‘It’s not just in my head. He’s real.’
Notable Quote: “I saw his face, but I don’t think it was his.”
Follow-up scheduled. Patient never returned.
Anaya’s hands clenched.
What had Meera seen?
And why had she been killed now—right when Anaya was getting too close to the truth?
Aryan arrived for his session at 4:00 p.m. sharp. He looked more put-together than before. Less frazzled. It unnerved her.
“You seem... calm,” she observed.
He smirked slightly. “Do I?”
“You heard about the murder, didn’t you?”
His smirk vanished.
“I... I did,” he admitted. “It scared me. What if—” He swallowed. “What if I did it?”
Anaya studied him carefully. “Do you think you did?”
His jaw clenched. “I don’t know. But lately... I feel like I’m just borrowing this body. Like I’m losing ownership.”
Anaya took a breath. “Aryan, I need to ask you something. Do you remember a patient named Meera Joshi?”
He frowned. “No. Who is she?”
She hesitated. “She was my patient. A few months ago. She—” Anaya paused. “She’s dead.”
Aryan paled. “And you think I—”
“I don’t know what to think,” she admitted. “But I do know this. She believed something was following her. That something wasn’t human.”
Aryan’s fingers trembled.
“Do you think...” His voice was hoarse. “Do you think it was Samrat?”
Anaya wasn’t sure anymore.
Because Samrat felt calculated. Strategic.
But this?
This felt personal.
That night, Anaya sat in her car outside Aryan’s apartment building.
She wasn’t sure why she was there. Call it instinct. Call it fear.
Then, movement in the corner of her eye.
A figure, standing near the alley. Tall. Still. Watching.
Her breath caught.
It wasn’t Aryan.
And when she met its gaze, her stomach dropped.
Because she had seen those eyes before.
Not in this world.
But in her nightmares.
The figure tilted its head slightly. Smiled.
And then—vanished into the dark.
Anaya sat in her car long after the figure had disappeared. The cold sweat on her palms made it hard to grip the steering wheel. She wasn’t just afraid. She was certain now—this wasn’t just a case of multiple personalities.
Something else was at play. Something outside Aryan.
And she needed to know what.
The next day, she made a decision she would have never considered before.
She called Vikram.
“I need something,” she said, voice low. “A small dose of sodium thiopental.”
Vikram was silent for a long moment. “Truth serum?”
“Yes.”
“Are you out of your damn mind?”
Anaya rubbed her temples. “Vikram, listen to me. I need to talk to all of him at once. No switches. No defenses. Just raw, unfiltered truth. It’s the only way I’ll know what’s real and what isn’t.”
Vikram sighed heavily. “I can lose my job for this.”
“And I could lose my life if I don’t find answers.”
Another pause. Then—“I’ll see what I can do.”
That night, Aryan arrived for his session, looking unusually... at ease. His posture was relaxed. His hands weren’t trembling.
Anaya kept her expression neutral. “How are you feeling today?”
He shrugged. “Better. The voices have been quiet.”
That’s what worried her.
“Would you be open to trying something today?” she asked. “A mild sedative to help with your anxiety. It’s perfectly safe.”
Aryan frowned. “A sedative?”
“It’ll help your mind relax so we can get to the core of your memories. You won’t feel groggy, just... clear.”
He hesitated. Then, with a slow nod, “Okay.”
She injected the serum carefully. A low dose—just enough to loosen the barriers between his consciousness and his alters.
Within minutes, his body relaxed. His pupils dilated slightly.
Anaya leaned forward. “Aryan, are you still with me?”
A slow blink. “Yes.”
“I want you to go back to the first time you ever felt... different. When did they first appear?”
His lips parted, but the voice that came out wasn’t his.
“After the blood.”
Anaya’s breath hitched. “What blood?”
Silence. Then, barely a whisper—
“The basement.”
A chill ran down her spine. “Tell me what happened in the basement.”
Aryan’s head tilted, his expression blank. “They made me do it.”
“Who?”
“Them.”
“Who are they?”
He shuddered, his voice dropping to a rasp. “Not people. Not voices. Shadows. Watching. Waiting.”
Anaya gripped her chair. “What did they make you do?”
Aryan’s face twisted, as if he was fighting himself. “I—I killed him.”
The room felt too small.
“Who?” she forced out.
Aryan let out a broken sob.
“Ishan.”
Anaya’s heart slammed against her ribs.
The missing child. The buried alter. The one Dev and Samrat had been protecting Aryan from.
“Tell me how,” she whispered.
Aryan gasped. “They locked us in. They were laughing. Said it was a test. Said if I didn’t do it, they’d take me instead.”
Anaya felt nauseous.
“And you did it?”
His body shook violently. “I didn’t have a choice.”
A long, shuddering breath. Then—
“They never let me leave.”
Something inside Anaya cracked. “Who never let you leave?”
Aryan looked up—eyes dark. Not his own.
“The ones who came after.”
Then, the monitors in the room flickered.
The lights dimmed.
A whisper filled the space, but Aryan’s lips didn’t move.
“You’ve seen too much, Doctor.”
The hair on her arms stood on end.
The truth serum wasn’t just working on Aryan.
It was working on them.
And they knew she was listening.
Anaya sat in her car outside the clinic, hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles turned white. The session had left her shaken.
Not just because of what Aryan had said.
But because of what had spoken through him.
Her rational mind struggled for control. This was psychology. Trauma. Dissociative Identity Disorder. But deep down, another part of her whispered something terrifying—this was no longer a mental illness.
This was something else.
She needed answers. And she knew exactly who to ask.
The next morning, she stood outside a gated home in South Delhi. The brass nameplate read:
Dr. Kavita Sinha, M.D. – Clinical Psychiatry (Retired).
Her former professor. The one who had introduced her to trauma studies. The one who had warned her about cases like this.
Anaya knocked. The door opened a moment later, revealing an older woman in a beige shawl. Her sharp eyes softened in recognition.
“Anaya,” she said, stepping aside. “It’s been a long time.”
Anaya entered, the scent of sandalwood and old books wrapping around her.
“I need your help,” she said without preamble. “I have a patient—Aryan Mehra. Dissociative Identity Disorder. But it’s not just that. It’s... something more.”
Dr. Sinha’s face didn’t change. “Describe ‘more.’”
Anaya hesitated. Then, she told her everything. The missing memories. The voices that weren’t his. The presence in the room.
By the time she finished, Dr. Sinha was staring into her tea, stirring absently.
“This isn’t new to me,” she finally said.
Anaya’s breath hitched. “You’ve seen this before?”
Dr. Sinha nodded. “Not many cases. But enough.”
She stood and walked to a cabinet, pulling out an old leather-bound journal. She flipped through yellowed pages before stopping. Then, she handed it to Anaya.
A name was scrawled at the top of a case file.
Ishan Khanna.
Anaya’s pulse thundered. “This... this is the name of Aryan’s alter.”
Dr. Sinha nodded grimly. “Because before he was an alter, he was a real person.”
Anaya’s world tilted.
“What?”
“Ishan Khanna was a child placed in the same foster home as Aryan—years before the Mehras adopted him. The records were buried, but I found them when I worked with another case. A case that led me to a psychiatric ward filled with patients who described exactly what you did—voices, shadows, something watching.”
Anaya clutched the journal. “What happened to Ishan?”
Dr. Sinha’s expression darkened.
“He went missing. His body was never found.”
A chill crawled down Anaya’s spine.
She whispered, “What if he never left?”
Dr. Sinha met her eyes. “That’s the real question, isn’t it?”
Anaya didn’t know how long she sat there, staring at the journal.
Then her phone vibrated.
A message.
From Aryan.
“I remember now.”
“I know what’s inside me.”
And below that, a picture.
A single drawing—childish, crude.
A basement door.
And behind it...
A figure with no face.
Anaya’s breath caught in her throat as she stared at the message.
Her fingers trembled as she typed back.
“What do you mean, Aryan? What do you remember?”
The dots indicating he was typing flickered for a moment. Then disappeared.
Nothing.
Anaya grabbed her keys and rushed to her car.
She needed to see him. Now.
By the time she reached Aryan’s apartment, the rain had started. It poured in thick sheets, drenching her as she pounded on his door.
“Aryan! Open up!”
Silence.
A creeping dread settled in her stomach. She pulled out her phone and called him.
The ringing echoed from inside the apartment.
He was there.
She reached under the mat for the spare key he had once mentioned leaving for himself. Hands shaking, she slid it into the lock and turned.
The door swung open.
Her stomach dropped.
Aryan stood in the middle of the room, staring at the wall. His back was rigid, shoulders squared. The apartment was completely dark except for the dim glow of the kitchen light.
“Aryan?” she said cautiously, stepping inside.
No response.
She inched closer, her eyes adjusting to the darkness. The wall in front of him was covered in drawings. Dozens of them.
Scrawled in thick, jagged pencil strokes were images of a basement door. A shadow standing behind it. A child curled up in the corner.
And at the center of them all—a man with no face.
Her pulse pounded.
“Aryan, talk to me,” she urged. “What do you see?”
Slowly, he turned.
It wasn’t Aryan.
She knew it before he even spoke.
His posture was too straight. His expression too... still. His eyes gleamed in the dim light, unreadable. Cold.
Samrat.
The voice that came out wasn’t hurried or confused. It was composed. Detached.
“You shouldn’t have come here.”
Anaya fought to stay calm. “Why?”
He tilted his head slightly. “Because now you know.”
“Know what, Samrat?”
He smiled. “That Aryan was never the monster.”
Her stomach twisted. “Then who is?”
His eyes flickered past her, toward something behind her.
Something in the shadows.
Anaya felt the hairs on her neck rise.
Slowly, she turned.
For a moment, there was nothing but darkness.
Then—
A figure.
Just barely visible, standing in the hallway outside Aryan’s bedroom.
No features. No form. Just a tall, black mass that seemed to breathe.
Watching.
Waiting.
Her chest tightened. She forced herself to look back at Samrat—Aryan—who was now smiling.
“You let it in,” he whispered.
The room seemed to shift, the walls pressing closer. The air thickened, charged with something unnatural.
Anaya’s mind screamed at her to move, to run—but she couldn’t.
Because deep down, she realized something horrifying.
It wasn’t just a hallucination.
It wasn’t just trauma.
It was real.
And it was awake.
Anaya couldn’t move.
The air inside Aryan’s apartment felt wrong. Heavy, charged with something she couldn’t explain. Her rational mind tried to grasp at logic—dissociation, hallucination, a deep psychotic break—but her instincts screamed something else.
Something real was here.
And it was watching.
Samrat—or whatever had taken control of Aryan—stared at her, his expression eerily calm.
“You see it now, don’t you?” he murmured.
Anaya’s throat was dry. “What is it?”
Samrat’s lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. “Not a ‘what.’ A who.”
She chanced another glance over her shoulder—just for a second.
The shadow had moved closer.
Her stomach lurched.
She wasn’t imagining this.
This thing, this presence, was inside Aryan.
No—it had always been here.
“What happened in the basement?” she whispered.
Samrat’s gaze darkened. His fingers twitched at his sides.
“You already know.”
“Tell me anyway.”
He exhaled slowly. “They put us down there. Me, Aryan, and Ishan.”
Anaya’s heart pounded.
“The foster parents?”
A slow nod.
“They wanted to see who would break first.”
She swallowed hard. “Break?”
Samrat’s smile faded. His voice dropped to a whisper.
“Aryan wouldn’t do it.”
She felt her blood go cold.
“Do what?”
Samrat’s eyes flickered. A war played out inside him—fragments of a memory clawing their way to the surface.
Then, softly—
“Ishan begged him not to.”
A sharp ringing filled her ears.
“Not to what?”
The figure in the shadows took another step forward.
Anaya’s heart hammered.
Then, in a voice that wasn’t quite Samrat’s, wasn’t quite Aryan’s—
“Not to kill him.”
The room spun.
She gripped the back of a chair, her legs weak.
“You’re lying,” she whispered.
Samrat shook his head slowly. “No. You just don’t want it to be true.”
A flood of memories surfaced in her mind—hypnosis sessions, journal entries, Ishan’s name scratched onto the walls.
The first kill.
The one thing Aryan had blocked from his memory.
Ishan had never disappeared.
He had died.
And Aryan—or something inside him—had done it.
The weight of the revelation slammed into her.
“Why?” she choked out.
Samrat’s expression was unreadable. “Because they told him if he didn’t, they’d do something worse.”
A wave of nausea rolled through her.
She wanted to run. To pretend this wasn’t happening.
But then—
The lights flickered.
Samrat winced—as if something inside him was stirring, angry at the truth being spoken aloud.
The shadow in the hallway twitched.
And then it moved.
Fast.
Straight toward her.
Anaya stumbled backward, gasping. The room darkened—not just from the failing lights, but as if the air itself was turning black.
Samrat’s body tensed. His mouth opened in a silent scream, his limbs jerking unnaturally.
“No—” His voice cracked. “I’m—losing—”
Anaya’s back hit the door.
She grabbed the handle, twisted—
And ran.
She didn’t stop until she was inside her car, doors locked, breath coming in ragged gasps.
Her hands shook as she tried to start the ignition.
She had seen it.
Not just in Aryan’s memories.
Not just in his mind.
In real life.
Something was inside him. And now it knew she knew.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from Vikram.
“We need to talk. Urgent. They’re investigating you for Smita Rao’s murder.”
Anaya’s vision blurred.
No. No, this wasn’t happening.
Her phone buzzed again.
Another message.
This time, from an unknown number.
“He doesn’t belong to you anymore.”
Anaya sat in her car, gripping the steering wheel so hard her fingers ached. The words on the screen burned into her mind.
“He doesn’t belong to you anymore.”
A chill crawled up her spine.
Who had sent it?
What had sent it?
Her mind raced. The police were now investigating her for Dr. Smita Rao’s murder. The evidence was stacking up in ways she couldn’t explain—tampered files, missing recordings, and now, her name tangled in a crime she didn’t commit.
And then there was Aryan.
Or rather—whatever was inside Aryan.
She had two choices:
Go to Vikram. Try to clear her name.
Go back to Aryan and finish what she started.
She knew the logical answer.
She chose the second one.
Aryan’s apartment was silent when she arrived.
No lights. No sounds.
The door was slightly open.
Anaya’s pulse pounded. She stepped inside cautiously.
The air inside was wrong—thick, charged, heavy like a storm about to break.
Then she saw him.
Aryan sat on the couch, motionless. His hands rested on his lap, palms up, as if he had been placed there. His face was pale, his breathing slow.
Too slow.
She stepped closer. “Aryan?”
No response.
She hesitated. Then—
A whisper.
Not from him.
From behind her.
She turned just in time to see something shift in the darkness.
She wasn’t alone.
A shadow detached itself from the corner of the room.
Anaya’s breath hitched.
It wasn’t just a presence. It was a person.
No—not a person.
Someone she had never seen before. And yet...
A face she knew.
A face from Aryan’s journal entries.
The figure stepped into the dim light.
He was tall, lean, dressed in a crisp black shirt. His features were sharp, unnaturally symmetrical. His eyes, though—voids of nothingness, deep as a well.
Anaya’s blood ran cold.
She had seen his name written over and over in Aryan’s notebook.
She just never thought she’d meet him.
Samrat.
But this wasn’t an alter.
She knew that the moment she looked into those empty, endless eyes.
He smiled. “Doctor.”
Her throat tightened. “You’re not real.”
His smile widened. “Neither is your sanity. But here we are.”
She forced herself to stand tall. “What do you want?”
He tilted his head slightly, studying her.
“You were so desperate to fix him.” He exhaled. “But you never asked if he wanted to be fixed.”
She swallowed. “Aryan wants to be free.”
His expression darkened. “No, Doctor. He belongs to us now.”
Her hands clenched into fists. “There is no ‘us.’ You’re just fragments of his trauma—projections of his mind.”
Samrat chuckled. “If only that were true.”
The lights flickered.
Anaya felt a sudden, crushing weight press on her chest.
Her breath hitched.
She tried to move—but she couldn’t.
Invisible hands gripped her arms, her legs, holding her in place.
Samrat stepped closer, leaning in.
“You’ve been asking the wrong questions, Doctor.”
Anaya struggled, gasping. “Let me go—”
He ignored her.
“You assumed we were just inside Aryan. That we came from him.”
His lips brushed against her ear.
“What if I told you... we were here first?”
Her mind snapped.
No.
No, that wasn’t possible.
DID alters were created from trauma. They weren’t pre-existing entities.
Unless...
Unless Aryan had never been alone.
Unless something else had always been inside him.
Something waiting.
The weight on her body intensified. Her vision blurred at the edges.
Samrat’s voice was a soft, lethal whisper.
“You were never meant to save him.”
Anaya’s knees buckled.
Samrat smiled.
“You were meant to take his place.”
The last thing she heard before darkness took her was Aryan’s voice—small, distant, trapped inside his own body.
“Run.”
Darkness.
Cold.
A heavy weight pressed against Anaya’s chest. Her body refused to move.
She wasn’t in Aryan’s apartment anymore.
Slowly, her senses returned. A dim light flickered overhead. The air was damp, stale, filled with the scent of dust and something metallic.
Blood.
Her pulse spiked.
Where was she?
The answer came before she could ask.
A voice—calm, smooth, and too close.
“Welcome, Doctor.”
Anaya’s breath hitched.
Samrat.
Her eyes adjusted to the dim glow of an overhead bulb, swinging slightly. The room was small. Cement walls. No windows.
And in the center—a single metal chair.
Anaya was tied to it.
She jerked against the restraints, panic clawing at her throat. “Where am I?”
A slow chuckle.
Samrat stepped into view. His silhouette was eerily composed, hands folded neatly behind his back.
“You wanted answers,” he said. “And now you’re in the place where it all began.”
Anaya’s stomach twisted.
She knew where she was.
The basement.
The one Aryan had drawn over and over.
The one where Ishan had died.
The one where they had been waiting.
She swallowed hard. “Where’s Aryan?”
Samrat tilted his head. “He’s resting. For now.”
“Let him go,” she demanded. “He didn’t choose this.”
Samrat smirked. “Didn’t he?”
The lights flickered.
The air shifted.
A second voice joined the room.
“I didn’t want to die.”
Anaya’s breath caught.
The voice was faint. Trembling.
She turned her head—
And saw him.
A boy. No older than ten. His dark hair was matted, his clothes torn and stained. His eyes—hollow, haunted, and accusing.
Ishan.
She knew, instantly.
Her throat closed. “Ishan?”
The boy’s lips barely moved. “He killed me.”
Anaya shook her head. “No. No, Aryan didn’t—”
“He did,” Samrat cut in. “Or rather—we did.”
Ishan’s gaze never left hers. “They made him choose.”
Her vision blurred. “Who?”
The lights dimmed.
The air grew heavy.
Samrat’s smile widened. “You still don’t get it, do you?”
He stepped closer, crouching before her. His voice was soft, deadly.
“This isn’t about Aryan.”
Anaya froze.
Samrat leaned in. “This is about you.”
The walls seemed to close in.
Her mind rebelled. “No—”
“You wanted to save him,” Samrat whispered. “But you’ve been part of this since the beginning.”
A memory—faint, buried—surfaced.
A house. A child crying. A woman screaming.
She knew this place.
But she had never been here before.
Had she?
Samrat tilted his head, watching her realization bloom. “You forgot, didn’t you?”
Anaya’s chest heaved.
“No.”
“Oh, but you did.”
His fingers ghosted over her forehead.
And suddenly—
She remembered.
A different house.
A different basement.
A different little girl.
Crying.
A voice whispering in the dark.
“It’s okay. They won’t hurt you anymore.”
And then—
The snap of a neck.
A body falling.
Anaya gasped, jerking violently against her restraints.
“No—no, that’s not—”
Samrat whispered, “Welcome home.”
The lights died.
Darkness swallowed the room whole.
And then—
A scream.
Six Months Later.
A new psychologist. A new office.
A new patient.
The file rested on the desk, crisp, clean.
Patient Name: Dr. Anaya Sharma.
The therapist, a middle-aged man with weary eyes, adjusted his glasses.
“Doctor, do you know why you’re here?”
Anaya tilted her head, smiling softly.
Her eyes gleamed.
The therapist frowned. “Dr. Sharma?”
She blinked once.
And then, in a voice that wasn’t quite hers—
“Anaya isn’t here anymore.”
The End.
