He had been following her for days.

Not just in person—no, that was too crude. He was patient. Precise. He had tapped her Wi-Fi, cloned her phone, studied her every pattern. He knew when she slept, when she showered, when she looked over her shoulder but saw nothing.

Nikita Rao.

Voice like fire. Eyes like broken glass.

The perfect contradiction.

She wasn’t like the others. She didn’t run from darkness—she chased it, recorded it, bled it onto pages no one dared print. That made her worthy.

His next offering.

From the abandoned clinic where he now squatted, he watched her through the scope of a rusted military rifle—not to kill her. Not yet. Just to feel the thrill of proximity. She was talking to someone now—moving fast.

His heart skipped.

Jagendra.

The detective was limping slightly. Blood on his collar. Alive. Impressive.

But no matter. Both would serve a purpose.

Nikita banged on Jagendra’s door with more desperation than she intended. The apartment was tucked above a shuttered bookstore, reeking of old paper and faint cigarette smoke. When the door opened, she nearly fell into him.

He caught her by the shoulders, eyes immediately scanning her. “You followed?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“Think again.”

He pulled her inside, bolting the door behind them.

Nikita dumped her laptop bag on the table and pulled up the photo. “Padma Mandir. The symbol. It matches this. The graffiti. And I traced it to something called Bhakta Padma Sangha—”

Jagendra froze. “You know about the Sangha?”

“Barely. But this isn't just a killer, Jagendra. It’s a cult. A dying one trying to breathe again.”

He paced, absorbing her words, then pulled the copper bangle from his pocket. “I found this where the last girl died. Still warm. I think there’s someone inside the cult who’s trying to get out.”

“Or trying to lure you in,” she said, quiet.

They locked eyes. Something unspoken passed between them—respect, fear, maybe the beginning of trust.

But across the street, in a nearby rooftop shack, the killer watched through binoculars, whispering to no one and everyone:

“She walks willingly into the fire.”

He reached into his bag and pulled out the next lotus.

This one had her name already written beneath it.