Chapter 3: Through the Hidden Eyes

As soon as they’d gone up, I switched on my spy camera feeds from under the counter. The old computer’s fan whirred, the screens flickering—bed, bathroom, hallway. I swallowed, heart thumping with anticipation.

The man carried the girl in, tossed her onto the bed, and locked the door behind him.

She landed with a dull thud, hair spilling across the sheet. The man didn’t even glance around, just dropped her like dead weight. His movements were precise, rehearsed. I hovered over the mouse, ready to record.

Watching the live feed is always a rush.

There’s a twisted thrill in peering into secrets no one knows you’re seeing. Sometimes I feel like a king with a thousand eyes, ruling a kingdom of shadows.

Every detail, every moment—nothing staged, nothing fake. Just raw, unguarded reality.

That’s why my videos are so popular.

Regular buyers always say, ‘Your footage is the most real, bhai. Full paisa vasool!’ That’s why my business survives, even as others are shut down.

As I watched the man start undressing the girl, her limbs pale and still, even I felt a flicker of excitement.

Even after years, the heart still races. I’m not proud, but I’m not stone either.

But something felt off. A strange chill crept over me, as if the freezer door had been left open in May.

The girl was too still. I’ve seen blackout drunks, but never anyone so unresponsive.

Even passed out, people shift, mumble, or pull at their clothes. This girl did nothing. No flinch, no groan, not even a sigh. Silence, heavy as a curse.

The man had carried her in like a princess, thrown her like a sack, and she hadn’t reacted at all.

Her arm dangled, palm open, fingers lifeless. The light made her skin look too pale, too stiff, almost waxy. My scalp prickled.

Even when he undressed her, not a single reflex. Normally, even the dead drunk twitch or shift.

I remembered last winter—a drunk girl fought her boyfriend off in her sleep. Even the worst off have some instinct left. But this—this was like watching a doll.

It took me back to my village days, seeing a body prepared for the ghat—limbs stiff, cold. The way this girl didn’t move brought all that rushing back. My mouth tasted of ash.

That thought jolted me.

My heart skipped. Filming a couple is one thing—witnessing death is another. My hands shook.

"Arrey yaar, it’s the middle of the night—don’t scare yourself."

I muttered, but my voice sounded weak in the empty lobby. I remembered my dadi’s warning—‘raat ko murda ki baat mat karo’. Instinctively, I muttered a quick prayer under my breath, glancing over my shoulder.

I cursed myself, took a hot gulp of chai, letting the burn chase away the shivers.

The chai scalded, but steadied me. Outside, a stray dog barked, the city distant and indifferent.

But things only got stranger.

A heaviness settled in my chest. The man moved—calm, efficient, not lustful, not hurried. The hair on my arms stood up.

When the girl was down to her underclothes, he paused, just staring. His cap shadowed his face. I leaned closer, searching for any emotion.

Another strange thing: he hadn’t removed a single item of his own clothing—not even his cap or mask.

He looked more like a surgeon than a lover. His eyes flicked to the bathroom, then back to the girl. No desire, just cold calculation.

I’ve seen all types—impatient, romantic, even creeps. But eventually, they lose themselves in the moment. This one was all business. The thought chilled me.

The word ‘corpse’ echoed in my mind, louder with each second. I wiped my face with my gamcha, trying to clear the fog.

Hai Ram, why can’t I stop thinking of corpses?

My dadi’s superstition echoed: ‘Don’t speak of the dead at night, or their spirits will find you.’ My mouth dried up.

My chai nearly spilled, cup rattling against the counter. I squeezed it, knuckles white.

After a long pause, the man finally began to undress.

I breathed out, lighting a Gold Flake. The tobacco calmed my nerves, for a moment.

Maybe he’d slipped her something, I reasoned. Not my problem. I needed them to finish so I could cash in. In this business, you learn not to ask questions. Focus on the money, not the dread.

But what the man did next made me freeze.

He stripped to his underwear but kept the mask on. His body was wiry, scarred. Even now, he kept his face hidden—ritualistic, almost demonic. I couldn’t look away.

He took two things from his bag: a disposable raincoat and a shower cap.

Who brings a raincoat to a hotel room? My mind spun. Was he planning an escape? It didn’t add up.

Seeing him pull those on, my heart leapt into my throat.

It was a scene from a crime show—killers covering themselves to avoid evidence. The air in the lobby turned heavy, suffocating.

No way—was he really going to do it?

I wanted to shout, to run, but I was rooted to the spot. The computer screen glowed, each pixel a warning.

Images from CID and crime stories flashed in my mind. My hand shook so hard, ashes scattered over the counter, but I couldn’t look away.

The man pulled more tools from his bag: a knife, a saw... He laid them out, the sound in my ears like thunder.

Each clang echoed in my chest. This was no seduction—this was butchery.

He unrolled a huge plastic sheet and disappeared into the bathroom. The cigarette burned down to my fingers, jolting me back.

He moved with practiced ease, like he’d done it a hundred times. Sweat ran down my back, cold and sticky.

I switched cameras, zooming in on the girl.

Now I could see it clearly: her skin was ghostly pale, a faint blue tint.

Her lips had lost all colour, cheeks hollow. The blue of her veins stood out. And there—a faint scar on her neck, dusted with powder.

A thin line above her collarbone. Not fresh, not old. Someone had tried to cover it, but the makeup was streaky. My blood ran cold.

My scalp tingled, numb.

All the little hairs stood up. I pressed my hand to my head, desperate to hold my thoughts together.

Shit, I’m screwed!

I muttered aloud, not caring if anyone heard. This was bigger than blackmail or bribes—this was the kind of thing that gets people killed, or worse.

Someone had killed a woman and brought her here—and by the look of things, he planned to cut her up right in my hotel!

In that moment, my world shrank to the size of that flickering screen. One wrong move and I’d lose everything. My tongue was heavy as stone.