Manav Kashyap
Chapter 1:
The streets of Delhi were alive with the usual nighttime chaos—autos honking in frustration, chai stalls glowing under dim bulbs, and the muffled thrum of bike engines weaving between traffic. Rohan Batra leaned against a cracked wall outside a crowded momo stall in Lajpat Nagar, filming his closing shot for the day’s vlog. His channel, Hidden Heat, had once been his pride, a place where he exposed forgotten street food legends and secret recipes, but lately, the views had plateaued. The city’s food scene was becoming more curated, more polished, and he knew that unless he found something truly unique, he’d fade into the noise. It was while packing up his camera that he overheard two delivery riders at the next table speaking in low, hurried tones. One of them—a wiry man in a red delivery jacket—kept glancing over his shoulder, his voice barely audible over the hum of a nearby exhaust fan. “Bhai, after midnight, don’t take the Karol Bagh–Paharganj route,” he warned. “Two guys went last month. No call, no GPS ping after.” The other man nodded grimly, muttering about “no-go zones” and a route list shared quietly between riders who trusted each other. Rohan pretended to be scrolling on his phone, but his mind was already racing—danger mixed with secrecy was the perfect recipe for clicks.
Later that night, at a quiet tea joint tucked behind a petrol pump, Rohan sat across from Tara Kapoor, a courier he’d met months ago during a story about street-side biryani vendors. Her hair was now cut shorter, streaked with electric blue, and her expression carried a tired sharpness that made her seem older than twenty-three. She didn’t waste time on pleasantries. “You’re looking for a story, not charity,” she said, stirring her tea without looking at him. “But you’re not the first. People have tried to talk about this before, and most of them just… stop.” Rohan asked what she meant, and for a moment she just watched the steam curl from her cup. Then she leaned closer, lowering her voice. “My brother, Arjun, was a rider. He disappeared two months ago. Last call I got from him, he was on a midnight run—near one of those ‘no-go’ streets. After that? Nothing. Police filed it under ‘missing,’ but they don’t dig deep for delivery boys.” She hesitated, then mentioned something else—a rumor among couriers about an encrypted app, a “midnight menu” that wasn’t visible to normal customers. No photos, no descriptions, only strange poetic dish names. “If you order from it,” she said, her gaze fixed on him, “you don’t get food. You get an address. And if you’re smart, you never go.”
The way she said it made the hairs on Rohan’s neck prickle, but it also pulled at that part of him that thrived on the forbidden. Midnight menu, no-go zones, disappearances—this wasn’t just food blogging anymore; this was a mystery with teeth. Tara, however, seemed wary of involving him further. She slid her phone across the table, showing him a blurred screenshot of a chat thread—riders warning each other about certain “black routes” after 2 a.m., and a link to what looked like a custom delivery app interface. The text under it read: Ask for tonight’s special. Don’t be on the list. Before Rohan could ask more, she stood, dropped a crumpled hundred-rupee note on the table, and walked off into the dark, her reflective vest catching the faint orange glow of a passing streetlight. He sat there for a moment, the night around him thick with the smell of diesel and frying oil, the city’s usual noise suddenly seeming more distant. His fingers itched to follow the thread, to see the menu, to order something no sane person would. And as he packed away his camera again, he realized he’d already made up his mind—he wasn’t just going to taste Delhi’s hidden flavors. He was going to bite into its darkest secret.
Chapter 2:
Finding Sadiq Khan wasn’t as simple as looking up a name in Delhi’s labyrinth of markets and side streets; it required following half-truths through smoky hookah cafés, whispered introductions, and a few uncomfortably long waits in the backs of dimly lit rooms. Rohan eventually found him in a cluttered repair shop tucked away in the bylanes of Chandni Chowk, the kind of place that smelled of soldering fumes, stale tea, and secrets. Sadiq was a wiry man in his early thirties, with a permanent hood shadowing his face and fingers that never stopped moving—tapping on a phone, flicking a pen, twisting a USB drive. His eyes darted like a cornered animal’s, scanning everyone who walked past the half-open shutter. “I don’t do interviews,” he said flatly when Rohan introduced himself, not even looking up. But when Rohan mentioned the phrase “midnight menu,” the man’s movements slowed, his gaze fixing on him for the first time. “Where did you hear that?” he asked, his voice low and sharp. Rohan explained just enough to seem credible without giving away Tara’s involvement. Sadiq let the silence stretch before chuckling without humor. “People disappear because they can’t tell the difference between curiosity and suicide. You want the app? It’s not on Play Store, not on iOS. It’s buried. And once you use it, you’re in their records—forever.”
Despite the warning, Rohan’s insistence wore him down. Sadiq retrieved an old, cracked Android phone from a drawer and slid it across the counter. The device was stripped of everything but one encrypted app icon—a black square with no name, no logo. “You don’t log in. You don’t sign up. It already knows you,” Sadiq muttered, as if talking about a living thing. He demonstrated with quick, practiced taps: the screen turned white, then slowly faded into a minimalist menu list. There were no photos, no prices, just strange, poetic dish titles: The Last Supper, Bone Broth Special, Ashes & Honey, The Widow’s Curry. Each was accompanied by a small, almost imperceptible timer that reset every twenty-four hours. “You choose one, and at midnight they send you coordinates,” Sadiq explained. “Pick-up time is always 2:13 a.m. No matter the dish, no matter the day.” He looked up then, his voice quieter. “Don’t try to track the location before. It’ll be different every night. That’s the point.” Rohan scrolled through the menu, his mind buzzing with possibilities. It was eerie how something so bare, so stripped of information, could feel more sinister than any dark web site he’d ever seen. He asked Sadiq if anyone knew who ran it. The man gave a dry laugh. “You think I’d still be breathing if I did?”
Back in his apartment, the dim glow of the streetlamps barely cutting through his window blinds, Rohan sat with the phone in front of him like it was a loaded weapon. The city’s noise outside—distant sirens, a barking dog, the occasional rumble of a passing truck—felt muted, as though the app had created a bubble of quiet around him. He hesitated for a long time, scrolling up and down the list, his thumb hovering over Bone Broth Special. The name triggered an odd discomfort in him, as though it was meant to suggest something more than food. Finally, heart thudding, he tapped it. The screen went black for a moment, then a single line of text appeared: Location will be shared at 00:00. That was it. No receipt, no confirmation, no address yet. Just a silent promise that something—or someone—would be waiting for him in the early hours. He set the phone down, pacing his small living room, half-regretting and half-relishing the decision. Sadiq’s warning rang in his head—once you use it, you’re in their records forever—but that thought didn’t scare him as much as the idea that he might finally have the story that would set his channel apart. When midnight came, the phone vibrated once, lighting up with a map pin that marked a nondescript corner in Old Delhi. The pickup time: 2:13 a.m. exactly. Rohan grabbed his camera bag, took a deep breath, and stepped out into the night, unaware of just how far from food blogging this new path would take him.
Chapter 3:
The streets felt different after midnight—emptier, yet somehow more watchful. Rohan zipped through the narrow lanes of Old Delhi on his bike, the camera mounted to his helmet streaming every moment to his Hidden Heat followers. The live chat was already buzzing with comments: some cheering him on, others calling him insane for taking a midnight menu order. “Let’s see what Delhi’s darkest dish looks like,” he said into the mic, his voice light, masking the tight coil of nerves in his stomach. The map on the phone pointed him deeper into an area he’d never filmed before, where old havelis stood like silent sentinels and the sodium streetlights flickered as if struggling to stay alive. He turned into a dead-end lane, the air growing colder, the faint aroma of spices drifting toward him—warm, rich, almost inviting. The pin stopped at a two-storey building with peeling turquoise paint, its windows boarded, its wooden door slightly ajar. He dismounted, narrating in a low voice for the stream, and pushed the door open. The hinges let out a slow, complaining creak that seemed far too loud in the stillness.
Inside, the smell hit him stronger—cumin, charred meat, faint notes of smoke—as though the kitchen had been in use only hours ago. His camera beam swept across the room, revealing rusted counters, dented steel utensils, and an old clay tandoor in the corner, its mouth blackened but still warm to the touch. The live chat scrolled rapidly, some viewers claiming they saw shadows move in the background, others begging him to leave. The kitchen was oddly clean for a place that looked abandoned from the outside; the surfaces were wiped, knives hung neatly on a rack, and a single stainless steel bowl sat on the counter as if waiting for something. Rohan moved deeper, heart pounding, narrating every step, the sound of his own breathing filling the headset. On a wooden prep table lay a folded piece of thick, cream-colored paper. His name—Rohan Batra—was written on it in sharp, deliberate strokes. He froze, a prickling sensation crawling up his neck. This wasn’t some random location from an app. Someone knew exactly who he was and that he was coming. He glanced toward the door, suddenly hyperaware of the silence pressing in on him.
With trembling fingers, he unfolded the note. The handwriting was precise, almost artistic, and the message inside was short: We’re glad you finally joined us. Your taste will be unforgettable. A chill ran through him, the kind that no camera could fully capture. He stepped back, scanning the shadows, half-expecting someone to emerge from the darkness. His live viewers were flooding the chat with alarmed messages, some claiming this was staged, others urging him to run. Then, faintly, from somewhere deeper in the building, he heard a metallic clink—like a ladle tapping the side of a pot. The sound was slow, deliberate, and it came again. He swung the camera toward the noise, his beam cutting through the hallway that led to the back, but it revealed nothing but more darkness. Deciding he had enough, he stuffed the note into his jacket pocket, backing toward the front door without turning his back fully on the hallway. The moment he stepped outside, the air felt warmer, freer, as if the building had been holding something inside that he didn’t want to understand. He ended the stream abruptly, his hands gripping the bike handles too tightly. The spices still lingered in his nose, the note heavy in his pocket, and for the first time since starting Hidden Heat, he wondered if some menus were never meant to be ordered from.
Chapter 4:
They met again in the same tea joint behind the petrol pump, but this time Tara didn’t waste any time with guarded pleasantries. She slid into the seat opposite Rohan, her leather jacket smelling faintly of rain and motor oil, eyes flicking toward the street as if expecting someone to follow her in. “You’re an idiot for going there alone,” she said flatly, not asking but knowing what he’d done the previous night. Rohan pushed the folded note across the table, and her face tightened as she read it. “They know your name now,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. The clink of tea glasses and the hiss of boiling milk filled the space between them before she finally said, “Fine. I’ll take you through the routes. But once we’re in, you don’t ask questions that will get us killed.” As they sipped their tea, Tara began tracing invisible lines on the table with her fingertip, mapping the city’s delivery network the way riders understood it—not the GPS routes customers saw, but a mental web of shortcuts, dead zones, and streets where phones lost signal without warning. The “no-go” routes weren’t just random; they formed a crude ring around certain old neighborhoods in the city, places where people whispered about backdoor kitchens and vanished riders.
Her voice was steady, but when she spoke about her brother Arjun, it caught at the edges. “He was doing a midnight run,” she said, staring into her cup. “The order came through the regular app, but it redirected him. He sent me a message—just one—saying he was near Lal Kuan, stuck in some narrow gali with no lights. He sounded…off, like he knew something wasn’t right. I called back, but he didn’t answer. By morning, his phone was dead. I went there myself. Found his bike, no helmet, no bag.” She pulled out her phone, scrolling to an old chat where the last unread message glowed like a wound: 2:03 a.m. – “Feels wrong. Will call after.” Tara’s jaw clenched as she pocketed the phone. “The other riders don’t want to talk. Not because they don’t know anything, but because they’re scared of one name.” She leaned in, her voice dropping low enough that Rohan had to strain to hear. “They call him ‘The Chef.’ No one says more than that. Just…The Chef decides who gets served.” The words sent a shiver through Rohan—not just for their meaning, but for the way she said them, as if she believed the title was more than human.
Over the next two nights, Tara led Rohan through the delivery underworld, riding pillion as they wove through back alleys, stopping at chai stands where riders gathered in small clusters. Most went silent when they saw the camera bag on his shoulder. A few muttered half-warnings—don’t take midnight orders, don’t follow reroutes, don’t ask for the specials. One older rider, his face lined and weathered, finally offered something: “If the Chef wants you, the app will find you. No matter what you order, you’ll end up where he wants you to be.” It was said with the certainty of someone speaking about a force of nature, not a man. The deeper they went, the more it became clear that this was more than just crime; it was a system, one that fed on silence and fear. By the time they returned to the petrol pump tea joint, the city felt different to Rohan—its neon lights a little harsher, its shadows a little heavier. Tara parked her bike and looked at him hard. “If we keep going, there’s no turning back. You understand?” Rohan nodded, but inside, the journalist in him was already leaning forward, hungry. He wanted the truth. And now, he knew exactly whose kitchen it was cooking in.
Chapter 5:
Inspector Nandita Rawat’s sudden arrival at Rohan’s apartment was anything but casual. She stepped in with the quiet authority of someone who had been holding back far too long, her eyes scanning the walls, the desk, the faint traces of notes and photographs Rohan had been assembling. Without asking, she closed the door behind her and in a low, firm voice, told him to drop whatever he thought he was chasing. “You have no idea how deep this goes,” she said, sliding a worn brown case file across his table. The edges were frayed, the paper smelling faintly of old coffee and damp, as though it had followed her through countless late nights. Rohan hesitated, torn between curiosity and the instinct to protect himself, but the weight of the file drew him in. Nandita, leaning against the desk, explained that she had been working in silence for over a year, tracing a string of disappearances across the city—different neighborhoods, different victims, but always the same strange undercurrent, one the police had never been able to pin down. Every name in that file was a person who had vanished without leaving a body behind, only the faintest, most grotesque hints of their last moments.
As Rohan flipped through the case file, his stomach tightened. Grainy surveillance stills, candid street shots, and in several instances, photographs of kitchens—ordinary at first glance, but each image holding something that chilled him. Blood-stained chopping boards, knives left to dry with reddish streaks, countertops cluttered with fresh produce beside a plate conspicuously empty. Nandita explained that all these scenes were tied, directly or indirectly, to one man—Raghav Sharma. Once celebrated in high-end culinary circles, Raghav had been a star: a chef whose fusion menus had been praised in every major food magazine. But three years ago, his career imploded when whispers of “unethical sourcing” began circulating. The scandal had been hushed up, buried under non-disclosure agreements and media distractions, but Nandita had learned that the real story was far darker. After the scandal, Raghav vanished from public view, selling his restaurant and retreating into the shadows. Not long after, the disappearances began—first a drifter, then a college student working part-time as a waiter, then a food blogger last seen heading to a private tasting. The timeline was tight, too precise to be coincidence.
Nandita’s voice hardened as she laid out her theory—Raghav was no longer cooking for critics or celebrities. He had moved into something… else. She suspected that the victims were lured under the pretense of exclusive dining experiences, possibly through private invitations or underground supper clubs that left no trace in public records. Rohan could see the frustration etched on her face, the fatigue of someone chasing shadows in a city too large to corner a ghost. The evidence she had was circumstantial—photos, missing persons reports, vague witness statements—but the pattern was undeniable to her. She told him she had come to him not because she wanted his help, but because his digging risked drawing attention, the wrong kind, the kind that ended with your face becoming the next photograph in that file. Still, as she picked up the folder to leave, she hesitated, her gaze lingering on him as if weighing the possibility that he might ignore her warning anyway. “If you keep going, you won’t just be chasing a name, Rohan,” she said quietly. “You’ll be stepping into his kitchen.” Then, without another word, she slipped out into the corridor, leaving behind the lingering scent of strong perfume and the cold imprint of the truths she had just set on his table.
Chapter 6:
The glowing tablet on the counter let out a soft ping at 12:03 a.m., its light unnaturally bright in the dim kitchen. Rohan, half-asleep and wiping down the counter, glanced over without much interest—until he saw his own name in the order details. One midnight special. Deliver to Rohan Mukherjee. No street address, no customer name—just coordinates. For a moment, he thought it was a prank.
Sadiq’s face drained of color when he peeked at the screen. “You can’t take that one.” His voice was hoarse, almost a whisper. “When the Chef calls you directly, you’re already on the prep table. That’s the last ticket anyone gets.” Rohan half-laughed, thinking Sadiq was still riding on old ghost stories the staff passed around, but Sadiq’s trembling hands and darting eyes made it hard to shake off the unease. “I’ve seen it before,” Sadiq added. “A driver gets one of these… they go out… they don’t come back.”
Against the prickling at the back of his neck, Rohan grabbed his jacket. “If this Chef exists,” he said, “I want to see his kitchen.” He followed the coordinates through deserted streets, the city’s neon signs bleeding into puddles from an earlier rain. The GPS led him to an empty, narrow lane. A lone scooter stood at the curb, its kickstand askew, helmet hanging from one handlebar. The food bag sat in the footwell, still zipped, still warm to the touch. The night air felt unnaturally still, as though the street itself was holding its breath.
Then Rohan noticed—there was no sound of traffic, no hum of streetlights, no distant barking of dogs. Just the faintest scent of something cooking, rich and metallic, drifting from deeper in the darkness ahead. And the coordinates on his phone? They hadn’t finished. The location dot kept shifting further down the lane, as if something was waiting for him to follow.
Chapter 7:
The night air was thick with the smell of rain-soaked asphalt as Rohan and Tara slipped into the narrow alley behind the old Mughal Durbar restaurant, its faded sign creaking faintly in the wind. The front door had been boarded up for years, or so the neighborhood gossip claimed, but the lock at the back yielded to Rohan’s careful pressure with a faint metallic snap. Inside, the place was silent, dust lying in lazy patterns across overturned chairs and cobwebbed chandeliers, as if time itself had abandoned it. Yet something about the air felt wrong—not stale enough for a place left to rot. The two moved like shadows past the empty dining hall, their footsteps echoing softly, until they found a trapdoor behind the kitchen’s main counter. It was heavy, reinforced with steel, and when Rohan pulled it open, a faint wave of warm, spiced air rose up from below—utterly impossible in a building that was supposed to be dead. They exchanged a look, part fear, part grim curiosity, before descending the narrow iron stairs into the belly of the place.
At the bottom, the world shifted. The underground kitchen was immaculate, gleaming under bright fluorescent lights as though the morning shift had just stepped out for a cigarette. Massive industrial tandoors pulsed with a quiet, steady glow, casting the room in flickering shades of orange. Knives of every size and shape hung in precise rows, their steel reflecting the light in cold flashes. Spices sat neatly in labeled jars, flour was stacked in sacks against one wall, and in the far corner, a row of stainless steel tables held cutting boards already dusted with breadcrumbs. But the details that made Tara’s skin crawl were the ones that didn’t belong to any ordinary kitchen—the faint red stains at the edge of a drain, the heavy-duty meat hooks swaying slightly though no breeze touched them, the strange metallic tang in the air that had nothing to do with food. On the largest table lay a ledger, its black leather cover worn but its pages pristine, written in a neat, almost calligraphic hand. Rohan flipped it open, scanning the columns, expecting invoices or orders. Instead, each “ingredient” was a human name, followed by dates and cryptic notes. His breath caught when Tara’s trembling finger stopped him from turning the page—because there, in the middle of the list, was her brother’s name.
For a moment, the hum of the refrigerator and the low crackle of the tandoor fire seemed deafening. Tara’s knees weakened, but Rohan’s steady grip kept her from collapsing. Her eyes stayed fixed on the page, reading and re-reading the line as though repetition might make it mean something else. The note beside her brother’s name read: “Special order—delivery complete.” A cold wave of nausea twisted her stomach. Rohan’s gaze darted to the rest of the ledger, and the truth settled in his mind with the sick weight of inevitability—this wasn’t a kitchen for serving customers; it was a place where people disappeared. Somewhere above, a faint sound echoed—footsteps, deliberate and slow, coming toward the trapdoor. Rohan snapped the ledger shut, stuffing it inside his jacket, while Tara wiped her tears and forced herself to move. They exchanged no words; there was no need. Both knew that whatever they had just uncovered was only the surface of something much darker, and staying here meant joining the list.
Chapter 8:
The heat from the massive clay tandoor in the center of the dimly lit kitchen was suffocating, the air thick with the mingling aromas of roasted spices, charred bread, and something far more sinister. Rohan’s eyes locked on the man who emerged from the shadows—a tall, lean figure in a pristine chef’s coat, his movements as measured as a maestro approaching his orchestra. The Chef’s smile was calm, almost disarmingly warm, as he began to speak in a low, melodic tone about the “symphony” of flavors, the harmony between textures, and how each ingredient carried its own “personality.” But there was something in his words, a disturbing intimacy, as if he were speaking of living beings, not food. Rohan felt a cold realization creep through him—this was no ordinary murder scene. The utensils glinted under the yellow kitchen lights, their clean metal edges betraying no trace of what horrors they had touched. On a nearby marble counter, marinated cuts lay arranged with obsessive precision, almost artful in presentation, and yet the scent was wrong, far too rich and metallic. The Chef’s eyes caught Rohan’s, and for a moment, it was as if he was inviting him to appreciate the craft rather than condemn it.
As Rohan listened, his stomach churned. The Chef wasn’t killing out of rage or greed—he was curating. Each victim was “prepared” for an exclusive dining experience, an intimate, hidden gathering for clients whose faces Rohan could only imagine. The process was ritualistic: the marination was not simply seasoning, it was a symbolic cleansing; the slow cooking not merely for tenderness, but for “releasing the essence of the person,” as The Chef described with unnerving reverence. Rohan’s mind raced with images—victims bound not just in rope but in a choreography of knives and fire, their final moments staged as part of a grotesque performance. The tandoor roared softly, like a beast breathing in anticipation. Each sizzling sound from within made Rohan’s skin crawl; he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone—or something—inside was still aware. The Chef moved between his stations with the grace of a dancer, sprinkling spices with a flourish, explaining how cinnamon “warms the soul” and chili “invites passion.” His tone made it sound as if he wasn’t describing flavors at all, but the personalities of those he had “worked” on. There was no shame in his voice, only pride, as though he was an artist unveiling his masterpiece to a rare, discerning audience.
The longer Rohan stayed, the more he felt pulled into the rhythm of the scene, as if the kitchen itself was part of the performance and he was just another invited guest. He could almost hear the imagined applause of unseen diners, savoring each bite with the same appreciation an art critic might give to a priceless painting. The Chef’s hands, precise and steady, moved to open the heavy iron lid of the tandoor, and a wave of blistering heat rolled out, bringing with it a scent that made Rohan’s pulse spike—there was no mistaking it now. The gleam in The Chef’s eyes was not the madness of a killer, but the satisfaction of someone who believed they had transcended morality in the name of art. Rohan knew then that to stop him wouldn’t just mean ending a murder spree—it would mean dismantling a cult of taste, where death was the main course and each kill was plated with elegance. The Chef’s voice dropped to a whisper, yet it carried clearly in the hot, heavy air: “Every dish tells a story, Inspector. The question is… will you taste yours?”
Chapter 9:
Under the dim glow of the streetlights, the air over Old Dock Road felt thick with anticipation and the faint metallic tang of the sea. Inspector Rawat’s sting operation was in motion, the team positioned at every known exit of the dilapidated warehouse that had long been suspected as one of the Chef’s hidden kitchens. Rohan stood in the shadows, clutching the innocuous-looking paper bag that contained the “midnight menu” lure—a decoy order Rawat hoped would flush the Chef out. The police van served as a makeshift command center, its interior humming with static from the radios, but the tension was in the silences between transmissions. Tara’s voice came soft but steady in Rohan’s earpiece, guiding him through the initial steps of the plan. The warehouse loomed ahead like a slumbering beast, its walls flaking with rust and salt, and Rohan’s footsteps echoed as he approached the side door, placing the bag in the designated spot. But as the seconds ticked by, the comms began to crackle, first with faint distortion and then with complete silence. A sudden rush of shadows swept past him, too fast to catch—by the time Rohan turned, Tara’s comm channel was filled with nothing but static, and her locator beacon went dead.
Inside the warehouse, the air was heavy with the mingled scents of spices, rotting produce, and something metallic—like blood and iron mingled with old cooking oil. Rohan slipped in through the service entrance, the world narrowing to the dim flicker of industrial bulbs overhead. The corridors twisted and turned, lined with strange markings in chalk, arrows pointing in different directions, perhaps meant to mislead intruders. Somewhere ahead, the sound of a cleaver striking wood echoed with slow, deliberate rhythm. Rohan followed it cautiously, his breath shallow, passing rooms where enormous pots bubbled with unidentifiable contents and shadowy figures in aprons moved like sleepwalkers. At one junction, he caught a glimpse of a white chef’s hat disappearing around a corner, and his pulse quickened. A faint voice—muffled, urgent—drifted from deeper inside, and Rohan recognized Tara’s strained tone. He moved faster, the maze closing in around him, the ceilings seeming lower, the walls sweating with condensation. With every wrong turn, the scent of raw meat grew sharper, the corridors darker, until he found a locked door marked with a painted symbol of a knife and fork crossed over a human skull. Beyond it, he could hear Tara’s voice more clearly now, alternating between calling his name and stifling a sob.
Rohan scanned the hallway, spotting an old metal cart stacked with trays. With a sharp kick, he broke one of the trays free, wedging it into the doorframe to pry the lock. The clang of metal echoed far too loudly, and somewhere close by, the cleaver’s rhythm stopped. The silence that followed was worse than the sound—thick, deliberate, as if the whole kitchen was listening. With one final push, the door gave way, and he slipped inside, finding Tara bound to a chair under the harsh beam of a single lightbulb. Her eyes widened with both relief and warning as she jerked her head toward the shadows behind him. Rohan spun just as a tall figure stepped into the light, the Chef himself, clad in a spotless white coat, a cleaver dangling loosely from his hand, his expression calm yet unreadable. “Ah,” the Chef said in a voice smooth as simmering broth, “my missing ingredient has arrived.” In that moment, Rohan realized the operation had been compromised from the start—the Chef had been waiting for him. Somewhere outside, Rawat’s team still thought they were running the plan, unaware that the heart of the trap had already closed. The underground kitchen wasn’t just a hideout—it was a labyrinth designed for one purpose: to keep the prey inside until the dish was ready to be served.
Chapter 10
The confrontation erupted in the dim, heat-fogged kitchen like a scene torn from a nightmare. Rohan’s breath was sharp in his throat as the Chef’s massive frame loomed, cleaver glinting in the wavering glow of the tandoor fires. The air was thick with the smell of roasting meat and scorched spices, a suffocating cloak that pressed against his senses. Knives clattered as they fought, the clang of steel against steel echoing against tiled walls now smeared with soot. In the chaos, Rohan’s eyes darted over the racks of utensils, the heavy pots, the hanging skewers glistening with grease. He seized the moment, wrenching free a long metal peel from a counter and using it to block a swing before slamming it into the Chef’s ribs. The man staggered but did not fall—his bellow was animal, his rage unyielding. Rohan darted to the row of underground tandoors, his mind calculating faster than his fear, and with one swift motion, he yanked open the vents, cranked the burners high, and tossed a rag soaked in oil inside. The flames leapt greedily, licking the domed ovens, smoke pouring upward in oily swirls that stung their eyes. The Chef roared again, but the fire had already begun to spread, igniting sacks of flour and dripping oils into a growing inferno.
Rawat burst into the room just as the heat became unbearable, his face streaked with ash, a pistol clenched in one hand. Behind him, Tara stumbled, coughing through the smoke, her wrists red from the rough bindings that still hung loose around them. “Move!” Rawat barked, grabbing her arm and pulling her toward the narrow corridor. Rohan hesitated—he could see the Chef through the swirling haze, still on his feet, still clutching that cleaver as the flames curled around him like a living predator. Their eyes met for one breathless second, and Rohan thought he saw not fear, but an unshakable promise. A sudden crash split the air as one of the ceiling beams gave way, showering sparks and debris, forcing Rohan to turn and sprint after Rawat and Tara. They stumbled into the night air just as the building behind them roared with the full fury of the fire, its orange crown lighting up the alley. Sirens wailed faintly in the distance, mingling with the crackle of burning wood and steel. They didn’t speak—there was nothing to say—only the shared, silent understanding that the Chef’s reign had ended in fire. But as they stood there, the absence of a body gnawed at Rohan’s thoughts, leaving the victory hollow, the danger unresolved.
Weeks later, life had settled into an uneasy rhythm, though the memory of the fire still clung to Rohan like smoke in his clothes. The police had found no remains in the ashes, only melted metal and blackened stone, and while Rawat insisted the heat would have erased every trace, Rohan’s mind refused that comfort. The city outside his window hummed with its usual midnight restlessness as he lay in bed, the glow of his phone briefly lighting the room when it buzzed on the nightstand. He reached for it absentmindedly, expecting another late delivery notification or a payment alert, but the sight of the message froze him in place. The app was one he’d deleted weeks ago—the Chef’s shadowy ordering platform—and yet here it was, glowing with a new order request. The words were brief, almost casual, but they hollowed him out in an instant: We still have your taste on file. His chest tightened, fingers gripping the phone until his knuckles whitened. Somewhere, beyond the walls of his apartment and the safety he thought he’d earned, someone still watched, still remembered, still waited. The taste of smoke returned to his mouth, and the silence of the room suddenly felt too loud.
End
