Whisper in the Night|18+

Chapter 5 :Betrayal

_____________________________________

vote target: 50

please enjoy the chapter.........

___________________________________________

Authors pov:-

The sterile blue light of the television bled into the suffocating gloom of the room, painting the contours of unseen furniture in a faint, sickly glow. The anchor's voice, usually a practiced cadence of calm, fractured at the edges, a thin veneer over primal terror.

"Once again," she began, her eyes wide, unblinking, "the city bleeds. Another family, extinguished. Last night, on their return from a society gala, the affluent businessman, Victor Thorne, his wife, and their young child were ambushed. His wife and child were found... unconscious, barely clinging to the precipice of life. Victor Thorne was not so lucky."

A shudder ran through the broadcast, a ripple of unspoken horror. The screen flickered, showing a grainy, yet horrifyingly clear, image. Not of Thorne's face, but of his chest. Flayed. Carved.

"The modus operandi, sickeningly familiar," the anchor continued, her voice dropping to a near-whisper, "the mark of ultimate desecration. The calling card of what the terrified public has dubbed... 'The Whispering Seven Swords'."

On the screen, the image zoomed in. Seven deep, precise incisions, radiating from a central point over Thorne's sternum. Not merely etched, but gouged, as if a master craftsman had taken a scalpel to living marble, declaring ownership. Each cut a silent scream, a promise of unspeakable agony.

"But this time," the anchor's voice descended into a chilling, barely audible rasp, "this time, the signature was... completed. This time, Victor Thorne's heart was missing."

The studio plunged into an abyss of silence, a vacuum where the news should have been. The camera held on the anchor's face, pale and drawn, her breath misting the microphone. The air itself seemed to congeal, thick with the unsaid, the unthinkable. A cold sweat prickled the skin, a phantom touch of steel.

"Police are... actively searching," she managed, finally, her eyes now distant, haunted, "for these... predators. Until then, citizens, we implore you. Bar your doors. Seal your windows. Do not venture out after dark. Stay inside... and pray you are safe."

The words, a desperate, futile plea, hung in the stagnant air. Outside, the city pulsed with a new, insidious fear. Every shadow stretched longer, every creak of the floorboards echoed like a death knell. The whispers had begun. And somewhere, in the impenetrable darkness between the city's frantic beats, a heart was being kept. And perhaps, listened to.

As the city outside succumbed to a creeping terror, its streets echoing with a palpable, nameless dread, Kaira lay lost in an exhausted slumber. She had fled home the moment the news broke, seeking refuge not just from the public's burgeoning panic, but from the brutal wreckage of her own world.

She hadn't seen Ritu, or anyone else, since. The previous night had been a relentless deluge of tears – a storm that had left her throat raw, her eyes swollen almost beyond recognition, and her soul utterly hollowed out. But unlike all the countless heartbreaks and disappointments before, the familiar, grounding comfort of Ritu's presence was conspicuously absent. How could it be otherwise? This time, Ritu wasn't there to mend Kaira's broken heart; this time, Ritu was the one who had shattered it.

The air in the room was a thick, oppressive thing, woven with shadows that clung to the walls like a shroud. A faint, restless stir of curtains hinted at an unseen crack, as if the apartment itself groaned under the weight of the turmoil held within. Kaira rolled onto her side, the pillow beneath her head already cold and stiff with dried tears, her body drawn into a fetal curl, a fist refusing to unclench.