Demon's Physco obsession

The Art of Distraction

Ankita quickened her pace, sandals clicking sharply against the tiled corridor. The college felt unnervingly still — most students were tucked away in their classrooms — and the low, constant whir of ceiling fans only made the silence heavier.

For what felt like the hundredth time, she called out, irritation sharpening her voice.
"Malti Didi, will you just tell me where we're going? We're in the middle of class, for God's sake!"

But Malti kept walking, a few steps ahead, spine straight, gaze fixed forward. Not even a sideways glance.

Ankita clutched the strap of her bag tighter.
"You're seriously creeping me out now," she snapped, though her voice trembled. "If you don't answer me right this second, I'll—I'll call Saheb!"

Her threat quivered. Something about Malti's strange mood all morning had lodged unease in her chest, growing with every step they took deeper into the old wing of the college.

Then Malti stopped.

She turned, exhaling a long, weary sigh.
"Kittu," she said, her tone firm but not unkind, "you need to trust me. Whatever nonsense your mind is cooking up—it's not that. And believe me, I'm not about to walk into Saheb's firing line."

There was something in her eyes though... a tightness, a flicker of fear wrapped in determination, that made Ankita's breath hitch.

Malti pushed open the door to an abandoned classroom.

A cloud of dust burst out, making Ankita cough as she waved her hand in front of her face. When the haze settled, she froze.

A small figure was curled up in the corner of the dim room.

For a moment her mind refused to register it. Then—

"P-Pallavi?"

Ankita ran, dropping to her knees beside the girl. She pulled her into a fierce hug, feeling just how cold, how limp, how wrong Pallavi felt.

When she pulled back, her heart clenched.

Bruises marred Pallavi's arms. Her lip was split. Her eyes — usually bright, nosy, annoyingly expressive — were sunken and hollow.

"Pallavi..." Ankita whispered, voice cracking. "What—what happened to you?"

Pallavi's face crumpled. A broken sob tore through her.

"He deceived me," she choked out. "The man I trusted... he lied about everything."

Ankita's stomach twisted painfully.

Pallavi continued in gasps, each word like a blow.
"He sold me... he sold me to a brothel the day after we ran away. He was married, Ankita. Married — with kids. And I didn't know. I didn't know anything."

Ankita felt the blood drain from her face.

Malti quietly shut the classroom door behind them, her expression grim.

Ankita cupped Pallavi's face gently.
"No, no, it's okay. You're safe now. We're here, okay? We're right here."

Pallavi shook her head violently, tears streaming down her bruised cheeks.
"No, Kittu... you don't understand. They're looking for me. They want me back."

Ankita felt her heart stop.

Ankita's pulse pounded in her ears as she looked from Pallavi to Malti, silently pleading for some explanation — or a plan.

But Malti backed away at once, raising both hands as if Ankita were a flame she dared not touch.

"No," she said firmly. "Kittu, listen to me. You cannot get involved in this. Not this time. If Saheb even hears a whisper of this—" Her voice faltered. "I'll be torn to pieces before I can take my next breath. Don't make me pay for something I didn't start."