The apartment was eerily quiet. Ishan flipped on the lights, letting the familiar, dim glow chase away the unsettling feeling that had clung to him since he received the message.

He tossed his bag onto the couch and pulled out his phone again. The text was still there, staring at him from the screen. “Stop looking for answers. It won’t end well for you.”

His fingers hovered over the keyboard, debating whether to reply.

Who are you? he typed.

Before he could hit send, his phone buzzed again.

Unknown Number: “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.”

Ishan’s breath hitched. His thumb moved to block the number, but something held him back.

He didn’t know what was happening, but he had the sinking feeling that ignoring it wouldn’t make it go away.

With a deep breath, he locked his phone and set it aside. It’s probably just a prank, he told himself. Some stupid joke.

Still, unease crawled over his skin as he moved through his nightly routine. He turned on the shower, hoping the warm water would clear his head. Steam filled the small bathroom, fogging up the mirror.

As he reached for his towel, something caught his eye.

A shadow.

Faint but unmistakable, behind him in the mirror.

Ishan whirled around, heart hammering.

Nothing.

Just the empty bathroom.

He exhaled shakily, running a hand through his damp hair. You’re being paranoid, he told himself. But the feeling wouldn’t leave him.

After drying off, he changed into a loose t-shirt and sweatpants and climbed into bed. He was exhausted, but sleep didn’t come easily.

When he finally drifted off, the nightmares came.

Flashes of blurred images. Faces he didn’t recognize. A hand reaching for him in the dark. A voice calling his name—deep, urgent, familiar.

“Ishan… come back.”

Ishan gasped awake, his chest heaving. His room was dark, silent except for his ragged breathing.

He wiped a hand over his face. His skin was clammy with sweat.

It was just a dream.

But why did it feel like a memory?

And why did the voice sound so much like the man from the café?

----

Morning sunlight streamed through the thin curtains, casting warm streaks across the small apartment. But the warmth did nothing to ease the cold dread sitting in Ishan’s chest.

He had barely slept after the nightmare. The lingering echo of that voice—Ishan… come back—still sent a shiver through him. Who had been calling him? And why did it feel so… real?

Pushing himself out of bed, he forced his tired body through his morning routine. Coffee. Toast. A quick check of his phone.

His stomach twisted when he saw the news notification.

Breaking News: Fraud Suspect on the Run—Man Accused of Identity Theft in Ongoing Investigation

Ishan’s brows furrowed. He tapped the article without thinking, his breath catching in his throat as his own face stared back at him from the screen.

Ishan Gill, 25, has been accused of fraud and identity theft, authorities say. Sources claim he has been living under a stolen name for years. The case took a shocking turn when businessman Shubman Giil, 29, publicly identified him as his missing husband.

Ishan’s blood ran cold.

Husband?

What the hell was going on?

A loud knock on the door made him jolt.

His heart pounded in his chest. He stood frozen for a moment, gripping the phone in his shaking hands.

Then another knock—louder, more urgent.

“Ishan, open up! It’s me!”

Abhishek.

He scrambled to the door, unlocking it in a rush. His best friend stormed in, holding up his own phone.

“Tell me this is some kind of sick joke.”

Ishan shook his head, his voice barely a whisper. “I don’t… I don’t understand.”

Abhishek ran a hand through his hair, pacing the small living room. “I saw the news an hour ago. The police are looking for you. Some guy named Shubman is claiming you’ve been lying about who you are?”

Ishan felt like the ground beneath him was cracking open. “That’s insane! I don’t know a Shubman. I’ve never—”

Abhishek held up his phone, showing him a video. “Then explain this.”

The video was grainy, likely taken from a press conference. A man stood behind a podium, dressed in a sharp navy suit. His voice was steady, firm.

“My name is Shubman Singh, and I am here today because my husband, Ishan, has been missing for five years. Yesterday, I saw him in the city, living under a different name. I just want him to come home.”

Ishan felt the world tilt.

The man in the video…

It was the same man from the café.

---

The room spun. Ishan’s grip on his phone tightened as he watched the video of the man—Shubman—speaking so calmly, so confidently.

“My husband is not a criminal,” Shubman’s voice continued. “He is confused, or perhaps… someone has manipulated him. But I will do everything in my power to bring him home.”

Home.

The word sent a shiver down Ishan’s spine. His apartment was the only home he had ever known.

And yet, the way Shubman spoke—so sure, so possessive—made Ishan feel like his own life didn’t belong to him anymore.

“This is insane,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I’ve never met this guy.”

Abhishek was still pacing, his face tight with worry. “Well, he seems to think otherwise. And the police are taking it seriously. Your face is all over the news, Ishan. They’re calling you a fugitive.”

The word hit like a punch.

Fugitive.

Him?

“But I haven’t done anything wrong!” His voice cracked. “This is some kind of mistake.”

Abhishek stopped pacing and looked at him. “Then we need to prove it. Because right now, it looks bad, Ishan. Really bad.”

Before Ishan could respond, another knock at the door made them both freeze.

Not loud. Not frantic. But firm.

Measured.

The kind of knock that told you the person on the other side wasn’t leaving without answers.

Abhishek’s eyes widened. “Shit. What if it’s the police?”

Ishan’s breath came in short gasps. His body felt paralyzed, but his mind screamed at him to move.

Run.

His fingers clenched into fists. No. I haven’t done anything. Running will make me look guilty.

Abhishek seemed to read his thoughts. He grabbed Ishan’s wrist and yanked him toward the kitchen. “We are not answering that door.”

The knocking came again.

Then a voice.

“Ishan.”

Deep. Steady. Familiar.

A voice from his nightmare.

A voice that sent ice down his spine.

Shubman.

---

Ishan’s entire body went rigid.

That voice.

It wasn’t just from his nightmare—it was the same voice from the video. The man who called himself his husband.

From the other side of the door, Shubman spoke again.

“Ishan, I know you’re in there.”

Ishan clutched the edge of the kitchen counter, his breathing uneven. His pulse roared in his ears. He turned to Abhishek, who looked just as tense.

“We have to go,” Abhishek whispered.

Ishan shook his head furiously. “I—I don’t understand what’s happening. This is crazy.”

Abhishek grabbed his wrist. “We don’t have time to understand it right now. If we stay, we lose control of this situation. He’s powerful, Ishan. And right now, the world believes him—not you.”

A third knock. This time, more forceful.

“I won’t hurt you,” Shubman’s voice came again, calm but insistent. “I just want to talk.”

Ishan felt his stomach drop. He didn’t know why, but something deep inside told him not to open that door.

Abhishek pulled him toward the fire escape. “Come on.”

For a second, Ishan hesitated.

Then—

The doorknob twisted.

Someone was trying to open it.

Panic surged through Ishan’s veins. He didn’t think. He just moved.

Abhishek shoved the window open, and the two of them scrambled onto the rusty metal stairs. The moment Ishan’s feet hit the grating, he heard the unmistakable sound of a key turning in the lock.

He has a key?

The realization made his blood run cold.

“Ishan!” Shubman’s voice was sharper now. Closer.

Abhishek grabbed his hand and pulled. “Move!”

They climbed down the fire escape as fast as they could. Below them, the narrow alley was empty, save for a few trash bins and a stray cat that bolted at the sudden noise.

As soon as they hit the ground, Abhishek pulled him toward the street.

Ishan barely had time to process anything before he heard the door to his apartment slam open above them.

And then—

“Ishan!”

Shubman’s voice echoed through the alley, but Ishan didn’t turn back. He ran.

He didn’t know where he was going.

All he knew was that he had to get away.

---

(To be continued…)