Demon's Physco obsession

The Demon's Faith

Adhiraaj didn't move for a long moment.

The silence that followed Malti's words was so absolute it seemed to warp the air itself. Even the faint hum of the air conditioner dimmed beneath the sudden rush of blood in his ears.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, eerily calm.
"Say that again."

"Saheb..." Malti's voice quavered. "The doctor says—it's dengue. Her platelets are dropping. It's already at one lakh twenty thousand. They need to monitor her every few hours, and—"

The line went dead.

He had ended the call without another word.

For several seconds, he sat there, the phone hanging limply in his hand. His eyes moved to Ankita—still, pale, lost beneath the white sheets—and something in his expression hardened into a terrifying stillness.

Dengue.

The word pulsed in his mind like a curse. This wasn't a coincidence. Not here. Not in his house.

He rose slowly, mechanically, as though each movement was carved into his bones. He crossed to the window, drew the curtains wider, and stared out at the manicured gardens below—the glittering pond, the careful hedges—a kingdom of order. And yet, something had rotted within it.

When he turned back, his voice was ice.
"Raghav."

"Saheb."

"Expand the search. Not just the kitchen. Every domestic, every supplier, every driver. Anyone who's entered this house in the past month. Start with the gardener."

"The gardener, Saheb?"

"The water," he said quietly. "If the infection came from mosquitoes, then someone was careless—or someone made it happen."

There was a pause on the line. "Understood, Saheb."

He ended the call and went back to her. Her breathing was shallow but steady. The IV line gleamed faintly in the filtered light. Each drop that slid down the tube felt like a countdown.

He brushed his thumb across her knuckles. Her fingers were cold. "You're going to be fine," he murmured. "I'll make sure of it."

Footsteps echoed down the hall, urgent and uneven. The door opened. Malti entered first, followed by the doctor clutching a folder, her face drawn with exhaustion and fear.

"Saheb," she began, bowing slightly.

Adhiraaj didn't invite her to sit. "Explain."

She swallowed hard. "The reports confirm dengue, Saheb. Her temperature remains high, and her platelet count is declining. The IV fluids will help for now, but—"

"But what?" His tone was sharp enough to cut glass.

"The estate infirmary isn't equipped for this level of care," she said quickly, words tumbling out. "We need constant monitoring, platelet-ready transfusion support, and a fully sterile environment. None of which are available here."

"You'll bring whatever equipment is required," he replied, the edge in his voice unwavering. "Now."

The doctor hesitated, twisting her fingers nervously around the folder. "Saheb, that's not possible. The estate isn't registered for inpatient care, and she's not eligible for hospital-grade treatment here. It would be illegal for me to continue without transferring her to a medical facility."

His eyes snapped to hers, cold and lethal. "You're telling me my wife cannot be treated in her own home?"

"Not safely, Saheb," she whispered. "Her platelet count could drop rapidly. If it falls below fifty thousand, we'll need an immediate transfusion. Without the proper setup—without sterile platelet bags, infusion pumps, and a team on standby—it could be fatal."