LOADING 1.1

INTERROGATION ROOM

A violent splash of ice-cold water snapped Ayan awake.

He gasped, his lungs seizing as he flinched against the harsh overhead light. His wrists were wrenched behind a metal chair, the restraints biting into his skin. The air was thick with sweat and damp concrete, the walls pressing in like a tomb.

A figure loomed over him. A cop. Not just any cop—the kind that didn't play by the rules.

A manila file slapped onto the table, the impact cutting through the silence like a gunshot. The officer's stare was ice-cold, his expression carved from stone.

"Ayan Sharma." His voice was steady, almost bored. "Journalist by day. Ghost by night. Also known as '9'—the man who sells government intel on the dark web."

Ayan's heartbeat slammed against his ribs. He forced his breath to slow, but the cop's words drilled into his skull.

"One of these lives has a future." The officer flipped the file shut with a snap. "The other does not."

He leaned in, his voice lowering to something razor-thin and dangerous.

"Where are you getting your intel? We know you're connected to people outside the system. You're smart, Sharma. Smarter than the fools who came before you. Play your cards right, and you walk out of here with clean records, no tail, and two working hands."

The words dripped like poison, designed to corrode willpower.

Ayan smirked, his voice hoarse but laced with defiance. "Hmm. Sounds like a tempting deal. But what if I say—GO TO HELL?"

Silence. A moment stretched taut.

Then, the cop chuckled. Low. Amused.

"Wrong answer."

Ayan extended his hand, palm up. "My phone. Now. I'll call my lawyer. This ends here."

The cop smiled—a slow, cruel curve. "What good is a phone... if you don't have hands?"

The room shifted. The air thinned.

A second officer seized Ayan's arms, pinning them to the table. The cop reached under the table, the metallic scrape of something heavy echoing like a death sentence.

A gleaming cleaver.

Ayan's blood ran cold. "You're insane! You'll lose your job for this!"

The cop leaned close, his breath warm, his voice a whisper of death. "Who said we're regular police?"

The blade flashed.

THWACK.

Agony detonated. A sickening crunch of bone. Blood sprayed across the table, splattering over the officer's pristine uniform.

Ayan's scream ripped through the room. "AAAAAAAAH!"

The cop sighed, sliding on a pair of black sunglasses. "You will help us, Mr. Sharma." He gestured to the gushing wound. "One way or another."

THE GARAGE

The garage pulsed with the low hum of machinery. Monitors blinked, cables coiled like serpents.

Ayan collapsed onto a steel table, clutching the ragged stump where his hand had been. His body convulsed, his breath jagged and raw.

"My hand! They—" His voice cracked. "They cut off my hand!"

His screams bounced off cold metal walls, swallowed by the drone of whirring tech.

And in the dim light, the true horror settled in.