The phone connected with a soft click.
Mansh held it to his ear, but didn't say anything.
For a heartbeat, there was only static — not the kind that crackled loud and sharp, but something quieter… subtler. Like breathing. Like wind brushing across an old microphone. Faint. Faint enough that it might have been nothing.
But to Mansh, it wasn't.
Every muscle in his body tensed, as if waiting for a voice that might not come.
His other hand curled into a fist at his side. His knuckles were white. He didn't realize he was holding his breath until his lungs started to ache.
Then — a sound.
A whisper.
He wasn't sure at first. Maybe it was just background noise. A glitch. An accidental call from a pocket somewhere.
But it came again.
Softer. Closer.
A whisper that sounded like a voice, but one too distorted to understand. Like it was submerged underwater. Or coming through a tunnel. Every syllable was smeared with static — language stripped of clarity, but still human.
Mansh swallowed. Hard.
"Who is this?" he managed, barely above a whisper.
No response.
But the whispering didn't stop.
If anything… it grew.
More deliberate. Rhythmic.
Like chanting.
Low. Repeating.
Not loud. Not frightening in the way screams were.
But infinitely worse.
Because it didn't make sense.
Because it wasn't supposed to be happening.
Because it felt intentional.
"…Ankhush?" Mansh's voice cracked.
His throat felt raw. His skin felt too tight around his bones. He turned slowly in the empty hallway, like he expected something to be behind him now — some form, some shadow, something watching from just out of sight.
Still nothing.
He pressed the phone harder to his ear. The whispering had changed. There was a pattern now, like breathing layered with words, too mangled to decipher.
But then — just barely — he caught a fragment.
A single syllable that slipped through the garble.
"…Mansh…"
His name.
His blood ran cold.
He stood there, frozen in place, surrounded by the hum of fluorescent lights and the faint echoes of distant footsteps somewhere behind him — the hospital still in motion, still searching.
But here, in this sliver of space, it was just him and the voice.
"Where are you?" he whispered. "Tell me where you are. Please…"
Silence.
The line went dead.
Just like that.
No beep. No click. No warning.
Just… gone.
The phone screen dimmed, returning to black.
Mansh stared at it, chest rising and falling like he'd been running again.
He didn't know how long he stood like that.
Maybe seconds. Maybe minutes.
Time had melted into something meaningless.
Slowly, he lowered the phone from his ear. His hand trembled.
The whisper hadn't just said his name. It had known him. There was recognition in it. Not just a random sound that mimicked a syllable — it was said like someone who knew him. As if reaching across something invisible.
And he had no idea if that made it better or worse.
He leaned back against the cold wall, head tipping upward, eyes staring at the ceiling tiles above.
They blurred.
Everything did.
He wanted to scream. Or cry. Or punch something. But he couldn't. He didn't even move.
There was only one thought looping in his head now, louder than the rest:
'Ankhush didn't leave on his own.'
'And someone — or something — had him.'
Mansh eventually returned to the front desk, though he couldn't remember walking back. His steps had become automatic, robotic.
The receptionist saw him coming and straightened, her face pale with concern. She looked older now, like the weight of the situation had aged her in minutes.
"We're still searching every floor," she said quietly, voice tight with worry. "Security's reviewing footage. No one saw him leave. Not through the main exits. Not the stairs. Not even the service elevators."
Mansh nodded, but his eyes were unfocused.
He wasn't listening anymore.
Because if the cameras didn't catch anything — if the doors never opened — if no one saw him go…
Then maybe…
He didn't leave at all.
Maybe…
He was taken somewhere else.
Somewhere the cameras couldn't see.
Somewhere that existed between the ordinary moments. Between logic and story. Between the pages of the novel and the hospital walls.
A place that wasn't supposed to be real.
But was.
Mansh's breathing slowed as that realization pressed in — heavy, certain.
And cold.
***
A/N: who was that?
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