The hinges creaked.

  They stepped inside.

  And every smile vanished.

  The room was exactly the same—and completely wrong.

  On the wall, still taped crookedly in the same place, was the chart paper they’d made weeks ago—their exam preparation plan, scribbled with dates, subjects, careless jokes in the margins.

  But the plan was totally covered.

  Written over it, in large, uneven letters, was a message.

  The handwriting was shaky. Hurried.

  As if the hand that wrote it had been trembling—either from pain, or from knowing there was no time left.

  "Thank you for everything—

  Tarun"

  The handwriting wasn't steady.

  The strokes pressed too hard in some places, and too light in others.

  As if the hand had been shaking.

  As if stopping wasn't an option.

  None of the three reacted.

  Yug stood the closest to it, the rubber tip of his borrowed crutch pressing on the floor harder. His grip around the handle suddenly tightened, as if the weight of his body suddenly doubled.

  He read the words again and again, hoping that he might be reading it wrong. His face had turned stoic by then— it was like he had expected this but wasn't ready for this either.

  Rishabh stood behind Yug, his bandage slightly shifted when he frowned upon looking at the words. His body didn't move, but his mind was already in motion— measuring, calculating.

  He was trying to find the logic that remained hidden under the emotions of the situation, but all that he ended up at was confusion.

  Kritika had stopped at the door itself. Her plastered hand hung loosely as she didn't believe what she saw. It didn't make sense to her— especially not Tarun.

  To her, Tarun was someone who always protected her when he had a chance. And at that moment, the guilt of not being with Tarun before he went missing disturbed her thoughts.

  The room felt smaller than it had a minute ago.

  There were thousands of questions swirling in each brain, but none of them spoke.

  They waited.

  Not for answers— but for someone else to start speaking. Still, they knew that no one would have any answers with them.

  The silence thickened, stretching through the room, until footsteps echoed— they approached towards the room.

  And finally, the door swung open.

  "Guys—!"

  Vivek burst in with unusual energy, a wide grin already on his face. Even when his shoulders had been stitched recently, his hands raised in the air in a quick motion.

  "I got it back," he said, almost laughing, about to announce a miracle. "Every single note. All my money is back! I swear—"

  When there was no response, his voice began to trail off.

  His grin faltered halfway, his eyes drifted around, and eventually landed on the wall.

  On the chart paper.

  On the message.

  On the name.

  "What's this?" He blinked, now quieter.

  No one answered.

  Vivek took a step forward, reading it more properly than before. The excitement drained out from his posture, his shoulders dropping slightly.

  "Where's he?" He asked.

  Still no response.

  "What do you mean— where is Tarun?" His eyes narrowed, his face more serious than ever.

  Yug looked away.

  Rishabh clenched his jaw.

  Kritika swallowed, then looked down.

  And just like that, Vivek understood it all.

  Not because they told him— but because their lips didn't even part to speak.

  The room began to suffocate the four of them.

  The walls pressed in, the ceiling seemed lower and the air heavy with unspoken tension.

  The room that was once full of arguments, laughter, plans and friendship, now held only one thing clearly.

  Tarun Singh was gone.

  And no one knew why.

  ——————————————

  Just as the four entered Principal Mehra's cabin, the polished wood and faint smell of ink and paper pressed down on them.

  The room was very quiet, the kind of quiet that made every small sound— scrape of the chair, shuffle of paper— feel louder than it should.

  No one spoke— and silence just did its job.

  No one really knew how to break the ice.

  The room turned awkward, until Rishabh spoke first, his voice formal.

  "We want to know if Tarun Singh submitted a leave application. Or a note. Any record at all."

  The principal's gaze lifted slowly, calm and professional, as he began to check through a neat stack of forms.

  Minutes stretched like hours.

  "Nothing," he said finally.

  "Nothing at all," he added, as if repeating it would make it even more clear.

  Rishabh pressed, his tone careful but insistent.

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  "Could you check again, please? Perhaps it may be misplaced."

  This time, principal Mehra's eyes moved towards his laptop as he checked for a digital note.

  The time passed slowly, testing the patience of the four standing restlessly.

  And after a while, Mehra's eyes met Rishabh's, seemingly flat and unwavering. "I checked it twice. There is nothing," he paused, looking at their tense faces. "But why do you want to know?"

  Just then, Vivek opened his mouth, about to speak about the note Tarun left and his sudden absence. But before the words left his mouth, Yug interrupted him.

  "Tarun has been absent for a few days, sir," he said. "We all are just… slightly worried."

  The principal nodded, neglecting the weight of their concern like it didn't even exist.

  "I understand…" he said firmly.

  Four of them began to step out, hopeless.

  But just when they left, the principal's voice called them, slow and final.

  "The store room that you have been using… it has to be cleared. It will be converted into a new staff room for the teachers."

  The room seemed to gasp.

  The group froze as the floor beneath them felt harder, colder than before.

  Kritika turned instantly with a small voice of desperation.

  "Sir, can we… keep it for a few more days, please?"

  Mehra just shook his head unwillingly.

  "It has to be cleared as soon as possible. I'm sorry but there's no other chance."

  Yug's anger was already boiling, and it just reached its pinnacle. He opened his mouth, ready to argue for the room.

  But Rishabh's hand on his shoulder acknowledged it, and conveyed only one thing— 'don't do it.'

  Kritika tried again, her tone as soft as a whisper.

  "Even if it's just a little… please. We need that really urgently—"

  The principal interrupted with softened eyes for a fraction of a second, almost guilty.

  "I really wish I could, but I can't. The decision is final. I'm sorry, kids."

  None of them argued anymore, silence swallowing them as they began to leave.

  The door clicked behind them, and for a moment, it felt as though a piece of their hearts had been wrenched away with it.

  Now that Tarun was gone, the only thing that made them feel like home was the store room.

  It was more than just four walls— it was a refuge.

  A battlefield to track scammers.

  A hideout to prepare for exams.

  A place of laughter, bonds, and whispered arguements.

  And now, it was gone, just like that.

  No one asked for their permission.

  No one even noticed its presence.

  The corridor stretched ahead of them, empty and silent, except for the faint echo of their footsteps.

  Rishabh walked a few places behind, shoulders stiff, distant gaze. His mind was somewhere else entirely, running through possibilities that he didn't want to admit.

  Kritika fell in steps beside Vivek, walking side by side. Her questions didn't end, nor did the answers began to come.

  "What do we do now?" she asked, voice quiet but tense. "Why would… Tarun do this?"

  Yug, walking ahead everyone else, didn't answer. His phone was pressed to his ear again as he dialed, waited and listened.

  But at the end, a robotic voice said, merciless.

  "The number you have dialed does not exist."

  Again. And again. And another time.

  Each time, his thumb hovered over the screen, trembling slightly. Each time, he stared at the words with blank and hesitant eyes.

  Tarun didn't pick his call up— not even once.

  Kritika's voice broke through again, soft and delicate.

  "Why don't we find anything. No clues, no records… nothing."

  Vivek's eyes fell to the floor. He shifted uncomfortably, the grin from before long disappeared.

  Finally, he answered in a tone that he wished no one heard.

  "Maybe… maybe he doesn't want to be found. Ever again—"

  ——————————————

  The hospital seemed too perfect— not anywhere in Uttar Pradesh.

  Even the air felt muted, filtered through layers of medicines and machinery.

  No nurses whispered. No stretchers rattled. No cries leaked through the walls.

  Beyond the corridors and a set of reinforced doors, the operation theatre waited— already awake.

  Lights hovered above the table, suspended like cold suns that were perfectly aligned.

  The equipment surrounding around the bed was far beyond anything found in a public hospital.

  Screens pulsed with streams of data— neurological patterns, pulse graphs, chemical levels— each monitored with precision.

  The doctors stood there without urgency.

  They wore long, pale robes instead of coats, the fabric straight and unwrinkled, like emotions had never brushed against it.

  Their faces were concealed with masks, their eyes were unreadable beyond clear shields.

  On the operation table lay a patient.

  If not for the rise and fall of the person's chest, someone must have mistaken him for someone dead long back.

  His body was a map of damage, stitches crossing his skin in jagged lines— some newly done, while others swollen.

  Plasters wrapped around limbs at unnatural angles. Bandages layered over bandages, covering wounds that refused to stay buried.

  One of the doctors leaned forward, gloved fingers steady. He worked with calmness, unblinking, as he opened an untouched wound.

  Slowly, he reached inside, and when his hand came out the very next moment, something caught the light.

  A shard of glass.

  Long. Thin. Still dark with blood.

  It glistened before being placed into a metal tray beside the table, the tray already crowded and full.

  Dozens of fragments lay scattered across it— some small enough to be overlooked, the others large enough to cause damage.

  They were all arranged without care, like the count mattered more than the pain.

  The pulse of the patient crawled across the screen. It was nothing like it should have been.

  Weak. Fading. Almost flat and gone.

  The doctor reached in again. But just then—

  A finger twitched.

  Just once.

  But that was enough.

  The monitor reacted instantly. The lines, once flat, jumped into sharp spikes in the pulse.

  The beeping quickened, like a warning that reached too late.

  The doctors stopped. Hands froze mid-air.

  For a brief second, the body on the bed began to remember how to live again.

  Then, the head doctor stepped forward, unbothered by all that happened.

  "Administer another dose of anaesthesia." he announced, emotionless.

  The dosage was prepared the very next second.

  And as the needle slid into the patient's veins, the beeping slowed, and the finger relaxed back.

  The machines kept him alive— just enough to make sure that he wouldn't leave.

  ——————————————

  "What the hell was that!" Kritika snapped suddenly, her voice breaking. " 'He doesn't want to be found'? Are you serious, Vivek?"

  Yug stopped walking and turned, gripping his crutch even tighter than before.

  "Don't say things like that," he said with an edge underneath. "Not about him, at least."

  But before Vivek could defend himself—

  "Look who are roaming without their bodyguard."

  A hand shoved Yug from behind— just hard enough to make him stumble.

  Three boys stepped into their path. Then two more— loose stances, uniforms tucked out, relaxed shoulders.

  The Eternal Order.

  Kritika moved in front instinctively.

  "Back off," she said. "Now."

  "Why? Because Tarun got tired of babysitting?"

  The boy laughed, holding Kritika's plastered arm.

  She hissed in pain, staggering back, but Yug stepped forward.

  But before he could do something, another boy kicked his crutch, making him fall.

  "Careful. Wouldn't want you falling now."

  Vivek rushed to give him a support.

  But as he started to take his steps, a boy stretched his leg, making Vivek trip on it.

  Rishabh spoke, "That's enough. Please."

  But as another boy pressed the bandage on his head, his confidence faltered.

  "Guess you can't act tough without him," the boy's tone stung their ears as he taunted them. "Your hero got tired of you too early."

  The boys circled them, and just when they lunged on their prey for the day—

  "Enough." A voice came from the far end of the corridor, on the other side.

  Everyone just froze.

  It was Manav, who stood there unhurried, his posture loose, almost bored. His eyes swept the scene properly— the crutch, the bandages, the plaster, the stitches.

  "That's enough," he repeated with a sigh. "They're already in enough pain. Let them enjoy this pain for a while."

  The boys instantly backed off, slightly reluctant, as they threw final smirks and glances.

  As they left, Manav turned his attention fully towards Rishabh— and their eyes finally met.

  Manav's gaze lingered on the bandage wrapped carefully around Rishabh's head, his smirk stretching even more— slow, deliberate, careful.

  Rishabh didn't blink.

  His jaws tightened.

  It was not fear. It was restraint.

  Because he, and the other three, knew that without Tarun, they are nothing but weaklings.

  Rishabh's rage quietly fueled, his eyes didn't move away from Manav.

  ——————————————

  The same eyes now stared at the surroundings, completely caught off guard at what he saw.

  The alley was wide enough for only two people to walk side by side. Damp walls closed in on them, painted with years of neglect.

  Layers of peeling missing posters, dried tobacco spit stains, and grime that no rain ever washed away, was all around.

  That was not poverty, but abandonment.

  Rishabh's eyes moved slowly, absorbing everything around— open drains, buzzing flies, people who didn't bother to look up at the arrival of strangers.

  Tarun had to move through this every single day.

  Yug's fist clenched. His own home— small, suffocating, stitched together with survival— had warmth in it.

  But that place was never meant to hold anyone for longer than a few days.

  They reached the staircase, if it could even be called that.

  Cracked concrete steps slanted unevenly upwards, chipped at the edges. The railing was rusted, the paint of the wall peeling off at the slightest tough.

  At the top was a door.

  The wood was swollen with moisture.

  Yug hesitated at the broken lock.

  For a second, he hoped to find Tarun sitting inside, munching on pineapple pizza and cracking jokes like he always did.

  But the door creaked open.

  The room greeted them with accusation.

  It was small— painfully small.

  The ceiling low enough that Tarun would have to walk with a crouched back.

  A single bulb flickered overhead, its light unstable, exposing everything without mercy.

  That should not have been called home.

  Clothes lay scattered across the floor— shirts thrown over a broken chair, socks kicked into corners, torn trousers folded halfway.

  Nothing was organised. It was chaos born in interruption, not preperation.

  Near the wash basin, dirty utensils were stacked in a careless pile. Some still had dried food on them, while some of it got washed off due to the water dripping from the tap.

  The strong smell lingered sharply.

  Yug's gaze moved next.

  A cracked phone plugged into the charger.

  The screen was black, but the small 'charging' icon glowed faintly.

  Near the bed— if the thin mattress on the floor could be called one— sat a half-packed bag.

  One side zipped up neatly. But the other was left open, fabrics sagging as if it had collapsed under indecision.

  Inside were folded clothes, placed without care. A small notebook rested on top, it's corners bent and pages crumpled.

  Rishabh crouched beside it, his cold fingers brushing against the strap.

  Then—

  Something near the mattress caught his eyes.

  Tucked awkwardly between the wall and mattress was a small stuffed toy.

  Its fur was slightly matted, one ear bent in an odd angle.

  He knew that toy.

  He'd won it at the carnival, where the group met Midnight Jam. Even when ignored without a second thought, it was Tarun who picked it up, referring it as a memory for the future.

  "He didn't prepare," Yug finally spoke.

  Not anger, not emotional, but certain.

  "He might not have the time to," Rishabh completed him, like he could read Yug's thoughts.

  They finally understood.

  Tarun couldn't say goodbye.

  He was taken away from them.

  ——————————————

  The store room was quieter than it ever was.

  No arguments. No laughter.

  No half-finished plans shouted across the room.

  Vivek stood near the wall, carefully placing their things into a box that felt too small for what it held.

  Old notebooks. Broken pens. A wire that never worked properly. Things that had no real value—except that they belonged there.

  Kritika moved slowly, her plastered hand limiting her, but she didn’t ask for help.

  The chair Tarun always sat on was pushed back into its original place, like it had never been touched.

  Kritika’s eyes drifted to the wall.

  The chart paper still hung there.

  Edges curled. Tape yellowed with age.

  The exam plan— with Tarun's message still on it.

  She stood in front of it for a long moment.

  Then—slowly—she reached up and peeled the tape away.

  The paper resisted at first, tearing slightly as it came loose from the wall.

  But Kritika didn’t stop.

  The sheet came down into her hands.

  She folded it once.

  Then once more.

  And then—she tore it.

  She placed the pieces inside the box without looking at them again.

  Vivek paused.

  But he didn’t dare to say anything.

  When everything was out, the room looked unfamiliar— smaller, colder— like it had never belonged to them at all.

  Kritika walked to the door with hesitation.

  Her hand rested on the handle—the same door she had opened the first time they claimed this space as theirs.

  She looked back once.

  Then stepped out.

  The door closed. The lock turned.

  The sharp click echoed down the empty corridor.

  And just like that—

  They didn’t just lose Tarun.

  They lost the only place that had ever felt like home.