The folder was still with him. Tucked beneath his jacket, pressed against his side like a second heartbeat.
"Restricted Section"
Meher sat in the auxiliary monitoring room, away from the central surveillance hub. A deliberate choice. He didn't want others around. The last thing he needed was to be watched while trying to piece together what the hell was happening.
The room smelled like ozone and soldered circuits. A single overhead bulb buzzed with a nauseating flicker. The desk was cluttered with old monitors, wires curling like vines, and the static hum of too many plugged-in systems.
He hadn't opened the folder again.
Not since that moment on Floor 49 when his body had moved on its own, when Vedant had found him standing in front of the Restricted Section's silver door—unlocked, humming like it was waiting.
He sat now, arms stiff, hands clasped in his lap, as though any movement would trigger something.
He had to look.
He had to.
With a deep breath, Meher slowly opened the folder.
The top page was a blueprint. Of a floorplan—but it wasn't labeled. The design didn't match anything he'd seen in the company archives. It didn't look like a modern building. The structure was circular. Concentric rings, like a ritual site or a temple.
The central room was marked with a single word: "Mouth."
His stomach churned.
He flipped the page.
A photograph. Black and white. A humanoid figure curled in a fetal position in a windowless room, limbs disturbingly long. Its face was covered in mirrors. Small, broken ones, jaggedly glued over every inch of its head.
No caption. No explanation.
Page after page. Photos, sketches. A hallway with no doors. A pond inside a sterile room. A child, no older than five, kneeling in front of a chair covered in hair.
His pulse spiked. He couldn't breathe.
He turned one more page.
And saw his own face.
Younger. Eyes glazed. Standing in front of a sealed room. Wearing a uniform he'd never seen before. Behind him, a man stood in the shadows.
Vedant.
Meher slammed the folder shut and doubled over, gagging.
His stomach rebelled. He barely made it to the trash bin before vomiting. Bitter acid, chai, and something darker.
He coughed violently. For a moment, he thought he saw hair in the vomit. Thin, black strands clinging to his fingers as he wiped his mouth.
The room swam.
He collapsed sideways onto the cold floor, breathing in short gasps. The light above him spun like a dying sun.
Sometime Later
Someone was shaking him gently.
"Meher? Hey. Meher. Are you okay?"
He blinked, vision blurred. A face. Familiar.
Ekagrah.
Pink eyes, long lashes, light brown hair falling across his jawline. Concern etched into every angle of his dancer-like form.
Meher sat up abruptly, backing away against the wall.
"How did you get in here?"
Ekagrah hesitated. "You left the door ajar. I saw you collapse on the monitor. I was… passing by."
Meher gritted his teeth. His stomach still rolled with nausea.
"You dropped the file. You knew I'd find it."
Ekagrah smiled faintly. It wasn't smug. It was almost sad.
"You were going to find it either way. Better it be me than someone else."
Meher narrowed his eyes. "Are you one of them? The... ones in the videos?"
Ekagrah walked slowly across the room, his footsteps soundless.
He crouched beside Meher, sitting on his heels like a child beside a broken toy.
"You think the Restricted Section is a room."
He leaned in.
"It's not."
Their foreheads almost touched.
"It's a person."
Meher shoved him back violently. Ekagrah stumbled, landed in a graceful kneel. He didn't retaliate. Just stood and smoothed his long black coat.
"Just take the rest of the day off," he said calmly. "You're not going to be any use like this."
Meher was about to curse him out when the door opened.
Vedant.
Again.
His grey eyes took in the scene in one sweep. Meher on the floor. Ekagrah standing too close.
"Report."
Ekagrah bowed slightly. "Meher collapsed. I found him like this."
Vedant walked over and helped Meher up with effortless strength. His hands were steady. Warm.
He looked into Meher's eyes for a long moment.
Then he turned to Ekagrah.
"Leave."
Ekagrah nodded and walked out.
Vedant remained silent as he helped Meher to the nearest infirmary room inside the surveillance wing. Only once the door was shut did he speak.
"You opened it."
Meher didn't deny it.
Vedant sighed, slow and controlled.
"It was meant to find you. That section… it calls to those who don't belong."
Meher clenched his fists. "What do you mean, 'don't belong'?"
Vedant looked at him. And for once, his cold expression cracked just slightly.
"You're not the first to ask that question."
Meher shook his head. "I'm done with riddles. I want answers."
Vedant stepped forward, hands behind his back.
"There are three things you need to understand. One: the Restricted Section existed before this company. Two: the files you saw are real, but out of order. Three: not all people are people."
Meher felt like the floor was tilting.
Vedant continued. "You're not going back there without supervision. If you feel the pull again, report to me. Not to Ekagrah. Not to Caustav. Not even to Agrasen."
Meher stared. "Ekagrah said the Restricted Section is a person."
Vedant's jaw tensed. "He's wrong. It was. But it isn't anymore."
Meher's head spun. "Was? What happened?"
Vedant's eyes flicked to the wall clock.
"Go home. We'll talk when it's safer."
"Safer? From who?"
Vedant didn't answer.
That night, Meher lay in his apartment bed, bathed in the faint blue light of the cityscape outside his window. Iravan had left a plate of food on the table, but he hadn't touched it.
His phone buzzed.
No Caller ID.
Just a message: "You should have listened to the boy at the pond."
He dropped the phone.
It rang again. And again. A different number each time.
He picked it up finally, furious.
"Who the fuck are you?"
Static.
Then: "Restricted section... isn't a place. It's where all the versions of you go to die."
The call cut.
Meher didn't sleep.
He couldn't.
Somewhere in the walls of the company— Behind silver doors and forgotten blueprints— In a room called The Mouth— Something was waiting.
And it already knew his name.
Later the same Night
Meher couldn't sleep so he went to the washroom to pass his time but fell asleep there.
He was crouched on the washroom floor, heart pounding, cheeks wet with tears he didn't remember crying.
The faucet was dry. The air was cold again. The stall door was open now.
He got up shakily.
Washed his face.
This time the reflection followed him perfectly.
He looked into his own eyes—and saw someone else looking back.
"Who the hell am I becoming?" he muttered.
As he stepped out into the corridor, his phone buzzed.
A new message. No sender. Just a video file.
Filename:
"Ekagrah – Elevator_AltFeed49.mp4"
He didn't even get the chance to hit play.
A scream.
From Iravan's room.
Meher's blood went cold.
He rushed down the hallway, nearly knocking over a glass vase.
He slammed the door open.
Iravan was on the floor, face contorted in terror, eyes rolled back in his head. Foam trickled from his mouth. The room smelled like burnt plastic and blood.
"Dad!" Meher dropped to his knees. He checked his pulse. Still there. Weak. Thready.
Then he looked around.
The walls—were wet. Not with water.
They glistened, like they were sweating oil.
Long strands of black hair hung from the ceiling fan, tied into shapes—Sanskrit sigils.
Meher grabbed Iravan, pulled him onto the bed. His hand touched something cold.
A doll.
No—a sculpture. A small clay model of a boy with no face.
He stared at it. Its head twitched.
He threw it across the room.
Iravan groaned. He was waking up.
Meher wiped his face, trembling.
And on the mirror above Iravan's dresser, someone had written:
"Don't open the video. It already saw you."