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# System prepended metadata

title: The Echo of Her

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# The Echo of Her

**2:57am at midnight. March 14, 2022**

Rumi suddenly wakes up from sleep. It wasn't a bad dream but just not usual. He goes to the dining room to get a glass of water. Suddenly his phone rings up. Unknown number. "Who could be at this ungodly hour?" Rumi picks up the phone. "Am I talking to Rumi Bin Imran?" It's a police officer on the other end. "Yes" Rumi is now even more surprised. "We are calling you from Shyamoli Square, there's been a car accident." "And ?" Rumi is now a bit worried. The police officer in a toned down voice, "We found a dead body, and we suppose it's of your Wife."

**3:23am at midnight. March 14, 2022**

Supposedly rushing to the spot wasn't enough as Jannat, wife of Rumi, died on spot. The last time Rumi gets to see his beloved wife is at the morgue of Lab Aid Hospital. He can not see anything because his eyes are full of tears. Standing numb. Waiting to see her life partner leave her once and for all. Rumi goes closer to the bed where Jannat's body kept, Hold her hand and at this moment he couldn't resist his tears. All the memories of them together starts flashing in the eyes Rumi. The Police officers tries to calm him down but they that is of no work. After some time, Rumi looses his sense, became unconscious.

**8:40am in the morning. March 14, 2022**

After Rumi wakes up, he is on his father's house. His father is sitting beside him. Rushing to his father, he asked, "Where is Jannat? " But there is no answer from his father. And that silence makes everything clear to him again that his beloved wife left him without saying goodbye to him. Rumi feels destroyed, started crying again but this time no one was able to stop that crying of Rumi. The girl he was in love with for the past 7 years, the girl who was by his side at his ups and downs is not longer with him at his worst. Everything falling apart around Rumi. And he's waiting for the last echo of his wife.

## 3 Years Later - 2025

**6:40 in the evening. April 3, 2025**

Rumi returned from work at 5:10pm, but sat on the sofa for over an hour. His face tells that he still haven't forgot anything. This is the house where Rumi and Jannat lived from the very fast day of their marriage. The house never felt this much empty. The furniture, the wall paints, the utensils, everything was bought by them to make a perfect home. Everything is there, except Jannat. Rumi wishes it was easy to forget Jannat. But the memories echo from everything. Rumi's father tried to get Rumi married again. But the denial grew stronger each time. Now Rumi's father's only wish is to see his son normal. He stopped talking about the marriage.

**6:51 in the evening. April 3, 2025**

Rumi gets up from the the Sofa and goes to his room to freshen up. After a shower, Rumi goes to the kitchen and makes himself tea. He brings the ketley and two cups to the drawing room and puts them in the tea table and sits on the sofa. He starts pouring tea on a cup. He puts the ketley on the table and stands up realizing he forgot to bring the biscuits. He goes back to the kitchen and returns with a box full of biscuits. But in the drawing room he saw that the ketley was on the ground, tea spilled everywhere and suddenly notices something on the window, like a shadow of someone.

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# BRANCH 1 - Rumi proceeds to go closer to the Window

## Option 1: Rumi says in shock, "How did that happen?"

**7:40 in the evening. April 3, 2025**

Rumi goes close to the window, realizes that the windows was wide open and the curtains were weaving because of the wind, while trying to close the windows, a cat jumps out and ran away. He thought that it must have been that cat who messed up the whole thing. After closing the window, Rumi goes to the tea table and carefully picks up the ketley. He realized, even though the keytley was made of plastic, it's not broken, which it supposed to be. "Huh, didn't realize it's that strong, specially using for more than 5 years." Rumi goes to another room and returns with a mop and cleans the floor. After this, the mood for tea is already gone. So Rumi cleans everything and prepares for Dinner.

**8:30 in the evening. April 3, 2025**

Rumi cleans the room and heads over to the dining table to have dinner. The dinner is simple. Rice with vegetable curry. He eats the food and goes back to kitchen to to clean the utensils. The maid will be back in the morning to clean everything but he always chose to clean the utensils at night, can't do in the morning because there's not a lot of time to actually clean and then head over to workplace. After cleaning, he goes back to the drawing room to watch TV. While watching for a while, re realizes that there's something wrong with the monitor. It's been flickering. It does occasionally because of satellite connections and weather issue. But today it was worse. He goes to the window and checks outside that it was pouring heavy. But he didn't realize anything, not even the sound. He closes the window and goes back to sleeping.

**10:10 in the evening. April 3, 2025**

Rumi in his bedroom to sleep. It's raining cats and dogs and it feels quite cold in the room as well. Rumi turns off the lights and goes to sleep. Suddenly he hears a rumbling of something sound. That wakes him up. Rumi turns on the lights and tries to figure out what happened. He realizes that there's some sound coming from the drawing room. He proceeds to go there. Going there, he sees the a ketley is on the floor and there's tea everywhere in the floor and the windows are open. He is stunned by everything because this all happened earlier this evening. He slowly goes near the sofas and picks up the ketley. It's the same ketley, that he used in the evening earlier that night. He goes closer to the window. There's heavy wind coming from outside and the curtains are weaving more and more. He tries to close the windows but suddenly someone from open behind says, "Keep them open, the weather feels nice and cozy." Rumi with shock realizes that the voice is known to him and he hadn't heard that voice for 5 years. He turns around and it's Jannat, sitting on the sofa, Blood covering her entire right side of the face and there's blood stains on her cloths. Jannat says,"You know I like rain, don't you?"

### SUB-BRANCH 1.1: Rumi is the Killer

**11:30 in the evening. April 3, 2025**

Rumi still in shock, he just can't believe his eyes. The love of his who left him 3 years ago, now is in front of him. He walks close to her, sits beside her and says "Hi!" to her, his eyes full of tears. Jannat's appearance is horrifying—her skull caved in on the right side, brain matter visible through shattered bone, her once beautiful face now a grotesque ruin of pulverized flesh and exposed teeth.

"Look what you've done to me," she whispers, her voice like wind through dead leaves.

"No," Rumi shakes his head frantically. "Marzia did this. It was Marzia."

Jannat laughs, a hollow sound that echoes through the empty house. "Is that what you've told yourself for three years? Is that the lie you've been living?"

The television flickers on by itself, showing static. Through the white noise, images begin to form. Rumi sees himself, but younger, standing in their bedroom. Jannat is there, packing a suitcase.

"Watch," Jannat's spirit commands. "Watch what you did to me."

**Flashback: 06:40 on the Evening, March 13, 2022**

Rumi and Jannat are arguing violently. The audio crackles to life: "I can't do this anymore, Rumi. Your paranoia, your jealousy—it's destroying us. I need space."

"You're leaving me for him, aren't you?" Rumi's face contorts with rage. "For that doctor you work with?"

"There's nothing between me and Dr. Nabil ! This is exactly what I'm talking about—these delusions, these accusations!"

"LIAR!" Rumi grabs her by the shoulders, shaking her violently. "I saw the texts. I heard you on the phone!"

"Those were about our baby, you idiot!" Jannat screams back, tears streaming down her face. "I'm pregnant! He's my obstetrician! I was going to surprise you next week on your birthday!"

The revelation seems to stun Rumi into silence. Then his expression darkens further. "Whose baby is it? Is it his?"

"I can't do this anymore." Jannat turns away, continuing to pack. "I'm staying with my sister until you get help. I've already called Marzia. She's a psychiatrist. She can help you with these paranoid delusions."

Rumi leaves the room, returning moments later with something heavy in his hand — a hammer from his toolbox. Jannat doesn't see him approach from behind.

**Back to Present: 12:00 midnight. April 13, 2025**

Rumi watches in horror as his past self brings the hammer down on Jannat's skull with savage force. The crunch of bone is sickeningly loud. She crumples to the floor, but Screen-Rumi doesn't stop. He continues pounding, blow after blow, destroying her face, her skull, turning her head into an unrecognizable pulp of bone fragments, brain matter, and blood.

"No," Rumi whispers, backing away from the television. "That's not what happened. That can't be what happened."

"You beat me to death," Jannat's ghost says calmly. "You beat our unborn child to death. And then you called Marzia to help you cover it up."

**Flashback: 07:20 on the Evening, March 14, 2022**

Rumi, blood-spattered and wild-eyed, frantically dialing his phone. Marzia arrives, her face a mask of horror when she sees what he's done.
"What have you done, Rumi? My God, what have you done?"

"She was going to leave me," Screen-Rumi sobs. "She was carrying another man's child. Help me, Marzia. Please help me."


Rumi watches as Marzia, her medical training kicking in despite her shock, checks Jannat's ruined body for signs of life.

"She's dead, Rumi. You've killed her." Marzia's voice is clinical, detached—the voice of someone in shock. "And if this is her blood on your shirt... was she pregnant?"

"She said she was," Rumi whimpers.

"Then you've killed two people." Marzia stands, visibly shaking. "I need to call the police."

"NO!" Rumi grabs her arm. "Please, Marzia. We've been friends since childhood. Help me make this go away."

Marzia moving mechanically, her face blank with trauma. They wrap Jannat's body in plastic sheeting. They load it into Jannat's car. They drive to Shyamoli Square, where Marzia uses her medical knowledge to stage the scene as a car accident.

"I helped you," Marzia says in the footage, her voice dead. "But this is the end, Rumi. After tonight, I'm just your doctor. Nothing more. I'll prescribe medication to help with your... episodes. But I will never forgive you for making me part of this."

** Present Time: 1:00 am. April 4, 2025**

Rumi stares at the ghost of his wife, the horror of truth crushing down on him. "The medication... it wasn't for grief?"

"It was to control your violent episodes," Jannat's spirit explains. "To suppress the memories of what you did. Marzia has been keeping you stable, keeping you from hurting anyone else. She's been monitoring you, medicating you, because she feels responsible for helping cover up my murder."

"No," Rumi moans, clutching his head. "No, no, no."

"Yes," the spirit insists. "The paranoia, the jealousy—they were symptoms of your condition. There was never any affair. Dr. Nabil was 65 years old, Rumi. He had been my doctor since I was a child. The baby was yours. I loved you."

A knock at the door interrupts his breakdown. "Rumi? Are you awake? I heard shouting."

It's Marzia, Later than usual, but as a childhood friend nothing serious. But tonight is different. The ghost of Jannat has broken through the chemical barriers, forced him to remember.

"She's here to keep the monster contained," Jannat whispers. "The question is: what will you do with the truth?"

**1:15 am. April 4, 2025**

Marzia enters cautiously, medical bag in hand. Her eyes widen when she sees Rumi's state—wild-eyed, sweating, clearly in the midst of a psychotic break.

"Rumi," she says gently, "you haven't been taking your medication, have you?"

"I remember," he whispers. "I remember everything, Marzia."

The color drains from her face. "What do you remember?"

"The hammer. The blood. The sound her skull made when I—" He chokes on the words. "I killed her. I killed my pregnant wife."

Marzia sets down her bag slowly. "You're having an episode, Rumi. Let me help you."

"Stop LYING!" Rumi roars, lunging to his feet. "I saw it! Jannat showed me the truth! You helped me cover it up, and then you've been drugging me for three years to make me forget!"

"Jannat?" Marzia's voice softens further. "Rumi, Jannat isn't here. She died three years ago."

"She's right there!" Rumi points to where Jannat's ghost stands, blood still dripping from her shattered skull. But Marzia's eyes see nothing but empty space.

**1:30 am. April 4, 2025**

"You need your medication," Marzia insists, reaching into her bag to prepare a syringe. "You're having a psychotic episode. These delusions—"

"They're not delusions!" Rumi grabs a lamp from the side table and hurls it across the room. It shatters against the wall, plunging half the room into darkness. "I killed her because I thought she was cheating. But she wasn't. She was pregnant with my child."

Marzia's clinical demeanor cracks slightly. "Yes. She was. And you've spent three years blocking out what you did because your mind couldn't handle the guilt. The medication helps control your paranoid schizophrenia, Rumi. Without it—"

"Without it, I remember the truth," he finishes, advancing toward her. "That I'm a murderer. That you helped me cover it up."

"I had no choice," Marzia finally admits, tears streaming down her face. "I loved you. And afterward, I thought I could at least keep you stable, keep you from hurting anyone else, and yourself."

Jannat's ghost drifts between them. "She's afraid of you, Rumi. She always has been. Ever since that night."

**1:45 am. April 4, 2025**

"I should have gone to the police," Marzia continues, edging toward the door. "But I'd already helped move the body, already helped stage the scene. I was complicit. So I convinced myself that keeping you medicated, keeping you contained, was the best I could do."

"All these years," Rumi whispers, "I thought you were my friend. My support."

"I was your jailer," Marzia corrects. "Your psychiatric nurse. Your conscience. Because you destroyed yours with the same hammer you used on Jannat's skull."

Rumi lunges at her suddenly, his hands closing around her throat. "You should have let me face justice! You should have let me pay for what I did!"

Marzia struggles against his grip, her medical bag falling to the floor, instruments scattering. "Rumi, please," she chokes out. "This isn't you—it's the illness!"

"No," he snarls, tightening his hold. "This is exactly who I am. A murderer."

**2:00 am. April 4, 2025**

As Marzia's struggles weaken, Jannat's ghost moves to Rumi's side. "This won't bring me back," she whispers in his ear. "This won't bring our baby back."

Rumi's grip loosens slightly. Marzia gasps for air.

"She tried to help you," Jannat continues. "In her way. She was wrong to cover up my murder, but killing her won't make things right."

With a cry of anguish, Rumi releases Marzia. She collapses to the floor, coughing and clutching her bruised throat.

"Get out," Rumi tells her hoarsely. "Get out and call the police. Tell them everything. Tell them I'm confessing to the murder of Jannat."

Marzia staggers to her feet. "Rumi, you're not well—"

"GET OUT!" he roars, picking up a kitchen knife from her scattered medical instruments. "Call the police, or I swear I'll finish what I started."

She backs toward the door, never taking her eyes off him. "I'm sorry, Rumi. I'm so sorry for all of it."

As the door closes behind her, Rumi turns to face Jannat's ghost.

"What happens now?" he asks the spectral figure of his murdered wife.

"Now," she says, "you face the truth."

**2:30 am. April 4, 2025**

Police sirens wail in the distance, growing closer. Jannat's ghost approaches Rumi, her ruined face inches from his.

"They'll take you away," she says softly. "You'll spend the rest of your life in prison, or in a psychiatric facility. Is that justice enough for what you did to me? For what you did to our child?"

Rumi looks down at the kitchen knife still clutched in his hand. "No," he whispers. "It's not enough."

"What would be enough, Rumi?" she asks, her voice somehow both tender and terrible.

He raises the knife, studying its gleaming edge. "The same pain I inflicted. The same destruction."

"Yes," Jannat agrees, her spectral hand guiding his. "Show me you understand what you did to me."

The first cut is hesitant—a slash across his forearm that wells with blood. But the second is deliberate. And the third. By the fourth, Rumi is sobbing, carving into his own flesh with the same savage intensity he had once brought down the hammer on Jannat's skull.

**2:45 am. April 4, 2025**

When the police break down the door, they find Rumi on his knees in a pool of his own blood. His arms are ribboned with deep, gaping wounds. The knife lies beside him, its blade crimson to the hilt.

"I killed my wife," he tells the officers calmly as they rush to apply tourniquets. "Three years ago. I beat her to death with a hammer because I thought she was unfaithful. She was pregnant with my child."

"Sir, you need medical attention," an officer says, pressing gauze to the worst of the wounds. "You can make your statement after we get you to a hospital."

"No," Rumi insists. "I need to confess now. I need you to know what I did."

As paramedics work to save his life, Rumi recounts every detail of that terrible night three years ago—the argument, the hammer, the sickening sounds, Marzia's reluctant assistance. He describes how they staged the car accident, how he's been medicated to suppress his memories and violent tendencies since then.

Throughout his confession, he keeps looking to the corner of the room, where the officers see nothing but shadow. But Rumi sees Jannat, her form now whole, unblemished, smiling sadly at him.

"I'm sorry," he whispers to her as the paramedics lift him onto a stretcher. "I'm so sorry."

**Two Weeks Later - April 18, 2025**

The psychiatric ward is clean but sterile, devoid of sharp objects or anything Rumi might use to harm himself again. His arms are heavily bandaged, the wounds still healing from his suicide attempt. The doctors have diagnosed him with paranoid schizophrenia with psychotic features, exacerbated by extreme guilt.

Marzia visits, now in her professional capacity as a psychiatrist. Her throat still bears the yellowing bruises of his attack.

"The police found the hammer," she tells him, maintaining a careful distance. "Hidden in the attic, just where you said it would be. The DNA evidence confirmed everything."

"Will you be charged?" Rumi asks dully.

"Accessory after the fact. Obstruction of justice." She shrugs. "My license will be revoked, of course. I'll likely serve some time."

"I'm sorry," he says, and means it. "For dragging you into this. For what I did to Jannat."

"I made my own choices," Marzia replies. "I'll face my own consequences."

As she turns to leave, Rumi calls after her. "Do you think she can rest now? Now that the truth is known?"

Marzia pauses at the door. "Jannat is gone, Rumi. The only ghosts are the ones in your mind."

But as the door closes behind her, Rumi feels the familiar presence beside him. Jannat sits on the edge of his bed, whole and beautiful as she was in life.

"Are you still here to torment me?" he asks.

"No," she says gently. "I'm here to help you heal. The truth is out now. Justice is being served. My spirit can begin to rest."

"Will you ever forgive me?" he asks, tears streaming down his face.

Jannat's ghost reaches out, her touch like a cool breeze against his cheek. "Forgiveness isn't what you need from me, Rumi. What you need is to forgive yourself enough to face your illness, to get the help you've needed all along."

"And then?"

"And then," she says, beginning to fade into the sunlight streaming through the barred window, "you live with what you've done. You carry it. That's your sentence. That's your penance."

As she disappears, Rumi feels something shift inside him—not peace, exactly, but perhaps the first fragile foundation upon which peace might someday be built. The echo of her presence lingers, no longer an accusation but a reminder of the terrible truth he must never again forget.


### SUB-BRANCH 1.2: Marzia killed Jannat

**11:30 in the evening. April 3, 2025**

Rumi approaches cautiously, his heart pounding. "Jannat? How... how are you here?"

Jannat's bloody form turns to face him fully, revealing the extent of her injuries. Her skull is partially caved in, brain matter visible through the cracks, and her neck bends at an unnatural angle. "I've been waiting for you to see me, Rumi. Really see me."

"I don't understand. You died in a car accident."

"Did I?" The spirit's voice carries a hollow, echoing quality. "Or is that just what she wanted everyone to believe?"

The temperature in the room drops dramatically. Frost begins forming on the windows despite the spring weather. The television flickers to life, showing static that gradually resolves into security camera footage.

**12:00 am. April 4, 2025**

On the screen, Rumi sees grainy black and white footage from what appears to be a hospital parking garage. The timestamp shows March 14, 2022 - the night Jannat died.

"Watch," Jannat's spirit whispers. "Watch what really happened that night."

The footage shows Jannat walking alone through the parking garage, clearly distressed. She's on the phone, gesturing frantically. Then another figure appears - Marzia, approaching from behind with something metallic in her hand.

"I was calling you," Jannat's spirit explains. "I had discovered something terrible about Marzia, and I was trying to warn you. But you didn't answer."

On screen, the two women begin to argue. The audio is unclear, but their body language speaks of confrontation, anger, desperation. Suddenly, Marzia raises what appears to be a tire iron and brings it down on Jannat's head with savage force.

"What did you discover?" Rumi asks, horrified by the brutal attack on the screen.

"She had been drugging you, Rumi. For months. Small doses in your food, in your coffee that she would bring you. Drugs that made you more susceptible to suggestion, more compliant."

**12:15 am. April 4, 2025**

The security footage continues in gruesome detail. After the first blow drops Jannat to the ground, Marzia doesn't stop. She continues beating Jannat's head with the tire iron, each strike more vicious than the last. Blood pools around Jannat's head as her skull fragments scatter across the concrete.

"She told me that night that she had been slowly poisoning your mind against me. Planting doubts about my faithfulness, my love for you. Making you paranoid and suspicious so that when she finally struck, you would believe any story she told."

On the screen, Marzia finally stops her assault, breathing heavily. Jannat's head is now completely caved in, her face an unrecognizable mess of blood, bone, and brain tissue.

"She didn't just hit me once and let me die. She kept beating my skull until there was nothing left of my face. She wanted to destroy everything about me that you loved."

"This is horrible. Why would she do this?"

"Because she discovered I was pregnant."

**12:30 am. April 4, 2025**

The television screen changes to show footage from a traffic camera at Shyamoli Square. Rumi watches in horror as Marzia, now wearing gloves, positions Jannat's mutilated corpse behind the wheel of the car.

"I was awake for part of it," Jannat's spirit continues, her voice filled with anguish. "The first few blows didn't kill me immediately. I felt her dragging my body across the concrete, felt the gravel scraping against my exposed brain tissue."

The footage shows Marzia using a sledgehammer to further destroy the car's interior, making sure the injuries would appear consistent with a high-speed crash. She methodically crushes what remains of Jannat's skull to hide the tire iron marks.

"She took a sledgehammer to what was left of my head, Rumi. She wanted to make sure no one would ever be able to tell that she had beaten me to death with her bare hands first."

"Why?" Rumi whispers, tears streaming down his face. "Why would she torture you like this?"

"Because I was carrying your child, and she couldn't bear the thought of anyone else having the family she wanted with you."

**12:45 am. April 4, 2025**

Jannat's spirit becomes more solid, more present. The room fills with the scent of jasmine mixed with the metallic smell of blood.

"I had just found out that morning. I was so excited, Rumi. I was planning to surprise you when you came home from work. I had bought a tiny pair of baby shoes and everything."

Tears stream down Rumi's face. "We were going to have a child?"

"But when I went to see Marzia for a pregnancy checkup - she was my doctor, after all - I noticed something strange. She seemed devastated by the news instead of happy. That's when I started putting pieces together."

The spirit moves closer to Rumi, her mangled face inches from his. "I realized she had been in love with you for years. I found evidence in her apartment - photos of you dating back to childhood, journals where she wrote about you obsessively, detailed plans for how she could 'eliminate obstacles' to your relationship."

"She was planning this for a long time?"

"For years, Rumi. She had been working on this plan, waiting for the right moment. My pregnancy was just the final trigger that pushed her over the edge."

**1:00 am. April 4, 2025**

"She had been working on this plan for months," Jannat continues. "The drugs she was giving you were making you more irritable, more suspicious of me. She was positioning herself as your confidante while slowly poisoning our marriage."

"I remember feeling paranoid near the end," Rumi admits. "I thought you were hiding things from me."

"You were. But only good things. The pregnancy, the surprise party I was planning for your birthday, the promotion I was secretly hoping to get so we could buy a bigger house."

The spirit's form flickers with anger, her wounds opening and closing like mouths. "But she twisted your drug-addled mind to see sinister motives in everything. She made you question whether I really loved you, whether I was being faithful."

"And when you confronted her?"

"She didn't just kill me, Rumi. She tortured me. She made me beg for our baby's life before she caved my skull in. She wanted me to suffer the way she had suffered, watching you love someone else."

**1:15 am. April 4, 2025**

Thunder crashes outside, and the front door opens. Marzia's voice calls out: "Rumi? Are you awake? I brought your medication. I was worried about the storm."

Jannat's spirit suddenly becomes more urgent. "She's here. She's been coming every night since I died, making sure you stay medicated, stay compliant. Tonight is different though."

"Different how?"

"Tonight is the three-year anniversary. She's not here to drug you, Rumi. She's here to kill you the same way she killed me."

Marzia appears in the doorway, but instead of her usual medical bag, she's carrying the same tire iron she used to murder Jannat. Her expression is cold, determined.

"Hello, Rumi. I see you're having trouble sleeping again."

**1:30 am. April 4, 2025**

Marzia sets down the tire iron and pulls out a sledgehammer from behind her back.

"Three years is long enough to grieve, don't you think?" Her voice is eerily calm. "Tonight, you join your beloved wife."

"Marzia, what are you doing?"

"I gave you three years to fall in love with me. Three years of constant care, constant attention. But you're still as obsessed with that dead bitch as you were the day I caved her skull in."

Jannat's spirit moves to stand beside Rumi. "She planned this from the beginning. Make you dependent on her for three years, and then when you inevitably failed to fall in love with her, kill you the same brutal way she killed me."

"You're going to beat me to death?"

"Just like I beat her to death. I'm going to crush your skull the same way I crushed hers, one savage blow at a time. But I'll make sure you last longer than she did. She only took twelve hits to die. I'm going to make you take twenty."

**1:45 am. April 4, 2025**

Marzia raises the sledgehammer above her head. "I want you to know exactly how she died, Rumi. I want you to experience every moment of agony I put her through."

"You're insane," Rumi says, backing away.

"I'm in love!" Marzia snaps, swinging the sledgehammer at his head. He ducks just in time, the weapon smashing into the wall behind him. "And if I can't have you in life, then at least in death you'll be free from her memory."

Jannat's spirit suddenly becomes corporeal, solid enough to interact with the physical world. "Not if I have anything to say about it."

The spirit lunges at Marzia, grabbing the sledgehammer handle. To everyone's surprise, she makes contact. Marzia staggers backward, shocked.

"Impossible," she whispers.

**2:00 am. April 4, 2025**

"Three years of rage, three years of unfinished business," Jannat's spirit says, wrestling the sledgehammer away from Marzia. "You think death is the end? You think murder goes unpunished?"

Marzia pulls out the tire iron, the same one she used to murder Jannat. "You're not real. You're just his grief-induced hallucination."

"Then why are you so afraid?"

The spirit of Jannat begins to change, becoming more terrifying. Her wounds become more pronounced, more gruesome. Brain matter drips from her shattered skull as she speaks.

"You want to know what it felt like?" the spirit hisses, raising the sledgehammer. "To have your skull crushed piece by piece while you begged for mercy? To feel your baby die inside you with each blow?"

"Stay away from me!" Marzia screams, swinging the tire iron wildly.

But Jannat's spirit catches it mid-swing and begins to return the favor, bringing the sledgehammer down on Marzia's head with the same savage force Marzia had used on her.

**2:15 am. April 4, 2025**

The first blow cracks Marzia's skull open like an egg. Blood and brain matter spray across the room as she falls to her knees, still conscious but mortally wounded.

"Please," Marzia whimpers, blood pouring from her shattered head. "I only wanted to love you."

"This is how you showed love?" Jannat's spirit raises the sledgehammer again. "By torturing an innocent woman and her unborn child to death?"

The second blow caves in the left side of Marzia's head completely. Her left eye pops out of its socket, dangling by the optic nerve. Still, she lives, gurgling on her own blood.

"One more, for our baby," Jannat whispers, bringing the sledgehammer down one final time.

The third blow turns Marzia's head into paste. Skull fragments, brain tissue, and blood explode across the room like a grotesque firework. Her body twitches for a few moments before going still.

As police sirens wail in the distance - neighbors had called about the screaming - Jannat's spirit, her mission of vengeance complete, begins to fade.

"Finally," she whispers. "Justice."

**2:45 am. April 4, 2025**

When the police burst through the door, they find a scene of unimaginable carnage. Marzia lies dead on the floor, her head completely destroyed. Blood and brain matter paint the walls and ceiling. Skull fragments are scattered like broken pottery across the hardwood.

And standing over her, sledgehammer in hand, is Rumi.

"She killed my wife," he says calmly as officers aim their weapons at him. "She confessed everything to me before I stopped her."

Of course, he doesn't mention Jannat's ghost. He knows they wouldn't believe him. But he doesn't need them to understand the supernatural intervention - the physical evidence will tell enough of the story.

"Sir, drop the weapon and get on your knees," an officer commands.

Rumi complies, setting the bloody sledgehammer down carefully. "In her medical bag, you'll find drugs she's been using to control me. And in her apartment, there's evidence. She kept trophies from my wife's murder."

**3:30 am. April 4, 2025**

At the police station, detectives are skeptical of Rumi's story of a three-year conspiracy. But their doubt begins to crack when they search Marzia's medical bag and find powerful antipsychotic drugs that were never prescribed to Rumi. The search of her apartment yields disturbing evidence - a shrine-like collection dedicated to Rumi, containing photographs spanning decades, stolen items from his home, and most damning of all, a locked box hidden under her bed.

Inside: the original tire iron, still bearing microscopic traces of Jannat's blood despite Marzia's attempts to clean it; a journal detailing her obsession with Rumi and her plot to eliminate Jannat; and several Polaroid photos of Jannat's battered body, taken as trophies of her crime.

Most chilling of all, they find a prenatal ultrasound with Jannat's name on it, dated just days before her murder. The words "OBSTACLE ELIMINATED" are scrawled across it in red ink.

**5:00 am. April 4, 2025**

As dawn breaks, Rumi sits in an interrogation room, exhausted but clearheaded for the first time in years. The detective across from him closes a folder containing the preliminary findings from Marzia's apartment.

"We've seen some disturbed individuals in our time, Mr. Bin Imran, but this..." The detective shakes his head. "The level of premeditation, the years of manipulation... I've never seen anything like it."

"What happens now?" Rumi asks.

"We're reopening your wife's case. We'll exhume her body for a proper autopsy. Given the evidence we've found in Dr. Rahman's apartment, I think it's clear you acted in self-defense tonight."

Rumi nods, feeling a strange mixture of grief and relief. "She was going to kill me the same way she killed Jannat. I had no choice."

"You're free to go home for now, Mr. Bin Imran. We'll need you to come back later to sign some statements, but I don't anticipate charges being filed against you."

**One Week Later - April 11, 2025**

The autopsy results from Jannat's exhumed body confirm everything. The injuries were inconsistent with a car crash. The medical examiner identifies multiple blunt force traumas to the skull that occurred before the alleged crash. Most significantly, they find evidence that Jannat was approximately three months pregnant at the time of her death.

The story becomes national news. "DOCTOR'S DEADLY OBSESSION" blares one headline. "MURDERED PREGNANT WIFE, DRUGGED HUSBAND FOR YEARS" screams another. Interviews with colleagues reveal that Marzia had been fixated on Rumi since their university days, frequently mentioning him and keeping photos of him in her locker at the hospital.

**Three Months Later - July 4, 2025**

Rumi stands beside a fresh grave. Not Jannat's, but a new plot next to hers. The small headstone reads simply "Baby Bin Imran - Never Born But Always Loved." He places a tiny pair of baby shoes on the small mound of earth.

"I'm sorry I couldn't protect you both," he whispers. "But she can't hurt anyone anymore."

As he turns to leave, he feels a gentle warmth envelop him, like being embraced by sunlight on a cool day. The scent of jasmine fills the air momentarily. And for a brief, beautiful moment, he sees them - Jannat, whole and healthy, holding a small child with his eyes. They don't speak, but they smile at him before fading into the light of the setting sun.

For the first time in three years, the echo of her voice in his mind isn't filled with questions or pain. It's a gentle whisper of peace, of closure, of a promise that someday, they'll be together again.

But for now, Rumi walks back to his car with steady steps. He has a life to rebuild, a truth to honor, and a future to face - not with the numbing fog of manipulation, but with the clarity that comes from finally knowing the whole, terrible truth.

---

# BRANCH 2 - MURDER MYSTERY

## Option 2: Rumi says in wonder looking keenly on the window, "Who's there?"

**7:40 in the evening. April 3, 2025**

Rumi goes closer to the window and realizes that the windows are closed, which were kept open and there's someone standing outside the window. Just when he opened the widows, he got jumpscared by his friend Marzia, his childhood friend who is a doctor. "Have you lost it or something?" Rumi angrily asked Marzia. "You are still scared by Ghosts, aren't you? Grow up, you are 27 not 7, kiddo." Marzia laughing at Rumi and says. "Shut up, and come inside" Rumi calming himself down. Marzia comes in. Rumi points at the mess in the drawing room and asks Marzia, "It was you, wasn't it?" "Bullseye!", Marzia with full enthusiasm. Rumi hands over a mop to Marzia and says, "You're not leaving untill that's neat and clean."

**8:15 in the evening. April 3, 2025**

While Marzia cleans, she notices Rumi staring at her with an odd expression. "What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Marzia," Rumi says slowly, "why were you outside my window? How long were you watching me?"

Marzia pauses her cleaning. "I... I was worried about you. Today marks three years since..." She trails off.

"Since the accident. Yes, I know." Rumi's voice is flat. "But that doesn't explain why you were hiding outside instead of knocking on the door like a normal person."

### SUB-BRANCH 2.1: Marzia is the Killer

**8:30 in the evening. April 3, 2025**

The scent of freshly brewed tea hangs in the air, a fragile peace overlaying a palpable tension. Rumi sits across from Marzia, watching the woman he has known his entire life. The ease they once shared has evaporated, replaced by a cold, gnawing suspicion in Rumi’s gut. He noticed the inconsistencies in her story about being outside his window, the timeline that didn't add up.

"How did you get that scratch?" Rumi asks, his voice carefully neutral as he nods toward a raw, red line on the back of her hand.

Marzia flinches, instinctively pulling her hand back. "Oh, this? A clumsy run-in with a file cabinet at the clinic today. It’s nothing." Her laugh is brittle.

Rumi leans forward. "It’s funny. There’s a nail sticking out of the window frame you were peeking through. It seems to be at just the right height."

**9:15 in the evening. April 3, 2025**

Marzia’s smile wavers. "Rumi, you’re not making any sense. The grief is making you paranoid. Maybe you should take your medication. Today is the third year of that acci ... ..."

"Maybe, I know it's the third year of her leaving me" Rumi says, his eyes never leaving hers. "I was on the phone with the police earlier today. Just a follow-up. They told me something interesting. The case was never officially closed. And recently, they received an anonymous tip about another car being seen near Shyamoli Square that night."

The color drains from Marzia’s face. "That's impossible. It was a deserted road. It was raining. No one was there."

The slip is catastrophic, and they both know it. Rumi’s voice drops to a whisper. "How would you know no one was there, Marzia? The police report said you were on call at the hospital all night."

9:45 in the evening. April 3, 2025

The charade is over. Marzia’s expression shifts, the mask of the caring friend melting away to reveal something cold and reptilian. A slow, chilling smile spreads across her lips.

"You were always smarter than she was," Marzia says, her voice dripping with a venom that has been hidden for years. "Yes. I was there. I followed her. I watched her die."

"You killed her," Rumi states, the words tasting like ash.

"I corrected a cosmic error!" she snarls, standing up. "I loved you! While you were wasting your life on her, I was building a career, making myself worthy of you. She was a placeholder, and her time was up."

**10:15 in the evening. April 3, 2025**

The confession pours out of her like poison from a ruptured vessel. She tells him everything with a horrifying sense of pride. She describes luring Jannat to the hospital parking garage under the guise of giving her a prenatal checkup.

"Oh, did I forget to mention?" she says with a theatrical gasp. "She was pregnant, Rumi. Three months. She was going to tell you that night. She was carrying your son."

Rumi feels the world drop out from under him, a bottomless abyss of renewed grief opening up.

"I couldn't let her have that," Marzia continues, her eyes alight with sick pleasure. "So I took a tire iron to her head. I destroyed her face so you would forget her faster. Then I drove her to Shyamoli Square and staged the crash. I am the author of your freedom, Rumi. And I am the architect of your survival for the past three years."

**10:50 in the evening. April 3, 2025**

"The pills I gave you," she says, moving toward the door, "they weren't just for grief. They were to keep you in a fog. To keep you dependent. To keep you mine." She reaches into her large handbag she left by the door and pulls out a heavy, stained tire iron. "I kept this. I wanted it to be here tonight when you finally understood everything I've done for you."

Rumi, moving on pure adrenaline, subtly takes his phone from his pocket, places it on the armrest of the sofa, and activates the audio recorder.

"You're insane," Rumi breathes, trying to keep her talking.

"I'm devoted!" she screams, raising the weapon. "And now, you will finally thank me."

**11:05 in the evening. April 3, 2025**

She lunges, but her monologue has given Rumi precious seconds. He throws a heavy glass tabletop at her feet, sending shards skittering across the floor and making her stumble. The distraction gives him the opening he needs to run, not for the door, but deeper into the house, toward the kitchen.

"You ungrateful bastard!" Marzia shrieks, her voice unnaturally high. Blood drips from her feet where glass has embedded itself in her flesh, each crimson footprint tracking her pursuit. "I killed for you! I gave you everything!"

Rumi skids into the kitchen, frantically scanning for a weapon. His hand closes around a chef's knife just as Marzia appears in the doorway, her silhouette demonic against the hallway light. Her pristine doctor's demeanor has completely disintegrated, replaced by something feral and unhinged.

"Do you know how carefully I planned it?" she pants, advancing slowly, the blood-crusted tire iron swinging at her side. "How I studied the human skull for weeks to know exactly where to strike? How many blows it would take to destroy her face beyond recognition?"

Rumi backs against the counter, knife held before him. "You're sick, Marzia."

"I'm DEVOTED!" she screams, spittle flying from her lips. "I crushed her skull like an overripe melon! Do you know what that sounds like, Rumi? The way bone splinters and brain matter squishes between your fingers?"

She swings the tire iron wildly, smashing it into the cabinet beside his head. Wood splinters and dishware crashes to the floor. Rumi ducks and rolls, slashing at her legs with the knife. She howls as the blade opens a gash across her thigh.

**11:15 in the evening. April 3, 2025**

"I gave her time to beg," Marzia hisses through clenched teeth, limping but still advancing. "I told her about us, about our future together. I made her understand she was just an obstacle. I showed her the ultrasound pictures of your baby before I caved her skull in!"

Rumi's hand trembles, grief and rage warring within him. "Our baby... you killed our child."

"A mistake! An aberration!" She lunges again, the tire iron whistling through the air. "That fetus would have tied you to her forever!"

Rumi sidesteps, but not quickly enough. The tire iron catches him on the shoulder, sending shocking pain down his arm. The knife clatters from his nerveless fingers.

"You should have seen her face when I told her I'd been drugging you," Marzia laughs, her eyes wild with madness. "How I'd been slowly poisoning your mind against her. Making you doubt her. Making you ready to believe any story I told about her death."

Backed into a corner, Rumi grabs the only weapon within reach—a kettle of boiling water he'd left on the stove. With a desperate heave, he flings the scalding contents at Marzia's face.

Her scream is inhuman. The tire iron drops as her hands fly to her blistering skin. Steam rises from her face as layers of skin begin to slough off. Through her fingers, Rumi can see raw, red flesh already bubbling.

**11:25 in the evening. April 3, 2025**

"You've ruined everything!" she shrieks, blindly groping for her weapon. "My face! MY FACE!"

Rumi dives for the fallen knife, but Marzia's flailing hand finds the tire iron first. Blinded by pain, she swings it wildly, connecting with Rumi's ribs. He feels something crack inside his chest as he crashes into the refrigerator, gasping.

"I'll kill you slowly," she growls, her voice guttural through her ruined lips. "I'll peel the skin from your bones the way you've peeled it from my face!"

She corners him, raising the tire iron for a killing blow. In that moment, Rumi sees Jannat's face—not as she was in death, but smiling, alive, carrying the child he never knew existed. With desperate strength, he grabs a heavy cast iron pan and swings it upward.

The impact is sickening. The pan connects with Marzia's jaw, shattering it on impact. Blood and teeth spray across the kitchen tiles. She staggers backward, choking on fragments of her own bone.

**11:35 in the evening. April 3, 2025**

Neighbors, hearing the cacophony of screams and crashes, have finally called the police. Sirens wail in the distance.

Marzia, face boiled, jaw shattered, still advances on raw determination and madness. "We... belong... together," she gurgles through the ruin of her mouth.

Rumi, cornered and desperate, breaks off the leg of a wooden chair. As she lunges one final time, he drives the splintered wood upward, catching her under the chin with such force that it penetrates through the soft tissue of her throat.

Blood fountains between them as her eyes go wide with shock. The tire iron falls from her fingers with a clatter that seems to echo through eternity. For a moment, she simply stares at him, impaled and dying, her expression almost tender.

"I... only... wanted... you," she manages, blood bubbling from her lips, before collapsing forward.

**11:45 in the evening. April 3, 2025**

When the police burst through the front door, they find a scene from a nightmare. The kitchen is painted in blood and viscera. Marzia lies face-down in a spreading crimson pool, the chair leg still protruding from her throat. Rumi sits against the far wall, clutching his broken ribs, his phone in his trembling hand—the audio recording of her confession still playing.

"She killed my wife," he says simply as they approach, weapons drawn. "She killed my baby."

In the chaotic aftermath, as paramedics tend to his wounds and detectives photograph the carnage, Rumi feels not victory but a hollow, aching emptiness. Justice has been served, but it cannot bring back what was lost. The recording will exonerate him of Marzia's death, but the truth of what happened three years ago—the premeditated murder of his pregnant wife—will haunt the city for years to come.

As dawn breaks on April 4th, Rumi sits in a hospital bed, staring at the first rays of sunlight. For the first time in three years, his mind is clear, unburdened by the fog of Marzia's drugs. The grief is raw, crushing, but it is honest. He mourns not just Jannat, but the child he never knew, the future that was stolen from them all.

Yet beneath the sorrow, there is a fragile seed of peace. The echo of his wife no longer haunts him with questions—only with memory. And memory, unlike doubt, can eventually become a comfort instead of a torment.

### SUB-BRANCH 2.2: Rumi as the Killer

**8:15 in the evening. April 3, 2025**

While Marzia cleans, she watches Rumi with a look of deep concern. "Rumi, are you feeling alright? You've been quiet ever since I got here."

"I'm fine," Rumi says, but his own voice sounds distant. He stares at the cleaned floor, but in his mind, he sees a dark stain, a shadow he can't seem to scrub away.

"You're having one of your episodes again, aren't you?" Marzia says gently, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You were staring out the window for ten minutes before I knocked. Did you forget I was coming over?"

Rumi frowns. He had forgotten. The last few hours are a blur. "I… I think I'm just tired."

"It’s the anniversary," she says softly. "It's understandable. But you need to take your medication, Rumi. It helps keep the… bad memories from taking over."

He nods numbly and lets her guide him to the sofa. He feels a profound sense of wrongness, a gap in his memory that his brain refuses to cross.

**9:00 in the evening. April 3, 2025**

As Marzia prepares his medication, Rumi's eyes drift to the television. It's off, but in the dark screen, his reflection is distorted. For a moment, he sees a flash of another image—a face, contorted in rage. His own face. He shakes his head, trying to clear it.

"Marzia," he asks suddenly, "that night… the night of the accident. I was home, right? You came and got me."

"Yes, of course," she says, her voice a little too quick. "You were here, asleep. The police called you, and then you called me in a panic. I drove you to the hospital. Don't you remember?"

"I remember the morgue," Rumi whispers. "But everything before that is… blank. A fog."

"It's a trauma response," she explains, handing him a glass of water and his pills. "Your mind is protecting you from the pain. It’s for the best."

But as he swallows the pills, a rogue thought surfaces: Protecting me from what? The pain of loss, or the pain of knowledge?

**9:45 in the evening. April 3, 2025**

Later, as they sit in near silence, a news report on the television catches Rumi's attention. It’s a story about a domestic dispute that ended in tragedy. A man, upon discovering his wife's affair, had killed her in a fit of rage.

Suddenly, an image flashes in Rumi's mind, so vivid it makes him gasp. Jannat, standing in their bedroom, her face defiant. "Yes, I love him!" she's screaming. "And I'm pregnant with his child!"

Then, another flash. The heavy feel of a sledgehammer from his toolbox. The sickening crunch of bone. Blood spraying across the floral wallpaper they had picked out together.

"Rumi?" Marzia asks, her voice sharp with alarm. "Rumi, what is it? You're pale as a sheet."

"The wallpaper," he mutters, staring at the wall of the living room. "We painted over the wallpaper in the bedroom. Why did we do that?"

"It was old," Marzia says, her eyes darting around nervously. "You wanted a change after… after she was gone. To help you move on."

**10:30 in the evening. April 3, 2025**

"No," Rumi says, standing up. The fog in his mind is rapidly burning away, replaced by a horrifying, gut-wrenching clarity. The pills weren't for grief. they were to make him forget. "We painted it to cover the bloodstains."

He stumbles toward the bedroom, Marzia following, pleading with him to stop. "Rumi, you're not thinking clearly! You're having a psychotic break!"

He ignores her. He goes to the closet, digging in the back until his hand closes around the handle of a sledgehammer. He remembers everything now. Coming home early. Jannat with another man. The confession of the affair, the baby that wasn't his. The blinding rage.

"I didn't just kill her," he says, his voice a choked whisper, turning to face Marzia. "I killed him, too. What did we do with his body, Marzia?"

Marzia's face crumples, the lie no longer sustainable. "We staged it," she cries. "Her in the streets and him in the middle of J-Block. I helped you. You were… you weren't yourself. I did it to protect you!"

**11:00 in the evening. April 3, 2025**

The final, awful truth settles in the room. Marzia hadn't been his caretaker; she had been his accomplice. The three years of medication weren't an act of mercy, but an act of concealment. She hadn't just helped him cover up a murder; she had helped him erase his own identity as a killer.

"You let me believe I was a victim," Rumi says, his knuckles white on the handle of the sledgehammer.

"I love you!" she sobs. "I've always loved you. I couldn't let them send you to prison! I did what I had to do!"

In her desperate, twisted love, he sees a mirror of his own possessive rage that led to the slaughter. She didn't want him to heal; she wanted him broken so that she could be the one to hold the pieces. He was her patient, her project, her prisoner.

"What now, Rumi?" she asks, reaching for a syringe in her bag. "We can go on as we have. I can increase the dosage. You can forget again."

He looks from the syringe in her hand to the sledgehammer in his. Forgetfulness was a prison. The truth was a death sentence. But it was his truth.

**11:15 in the evening. April 3, 2025**

"No more lies," he says, his voice hollow.

Marzia's eyes widen with panic. The syringe trembles in her hand. "Please, Rumi. Think about what you're doing. We've kept this secret for three years. We can keep it forever."

The sledgehammer feels impossibly heavy in Rumi's grip. Not just from its physical weight, but from the memories it carries. He sees flashes of that night—Jannat's pleading eyes, the arc of the hammer as it swung down, the spray of crimson across their bedroom walls.

"I killed them both," he whispers, more to himself than to Marzia. "I came home early. I heard them in our bedroom. When I opened the door..."

The memory comes flooding back with brutal clarity. The man had been Jannat's coworker. Rumi had met him at company functions. Always too friendly, always finding reasons to touch Jannat's arm when he spoke to her. Rumi had dismissed his jealousy as paranoia.

"She told me she was pregnant with his child," Rumi continues, his voice breaking. "She said she was leaving me. That they were starting a new life together."

"She betrayed you," Marzia says softly, taking a cautious step toward him. "She deserved what she got."

**11:30 in the evening. April 3, 2025**

"And what did you deserve, Marzia?" Rumi asks, his eyes suddenly sharp with accusation. "You didn't call the police that night. You didn't try to stop me. You helped me. Why?"

Marzia's face contorts with a complex emotion—something between devotion and possession. "Because I've loved you since we were children. I watched you waste that love on her, and she repaid you with betrayal."

"So you saw an opportunity," Rumi says coldly.

"I saw a chance to save you!" she insists, tears streaming down her face. "I'm a doctor. I knew how to make it look like an accident. I knew how to help you forget."

Rumi's laugh is bitter. "You didn't want me to forget because it would heal me. You wanted me to forget so I would be dependent on you."

He sees it all now—how she orchestrated his recovery, how she isolated him from others who might question his memory gaps, how she positioned herself as his savior and caretaker. The pills weren't just to suppress his memories; they were to keep him malleable, vulnerable, hers.

"What did we do with their bodies, Marzia? Tell me everything. No more sedatives, no more half-truths."

**11:50 in the evening. April 3, 2025**

Marzia's professional demeanor has completely crumbled. Her hands shake as she sets down the syringe and begins to speak.

"You killed them both in the bedroom. He died first—one blow to the temple. But Jannat... she tried to run. You caught her in the hallway." Marzia's clinical detachment returns briefly as she recounts the details. "Multiple blunt force traumas to the cranium. Catastrophic brain injury. Death was immediate."

"And then I called you," Rumi says, the memory surfacing like a corpse in dark water.

"You were incoherent. Covered in blood. I came immediately." She straightens her shoulders, a flicker of pride crossing her features. "I knew what to do. I cleaned you up first. Then we wrapped his body in plastic sheeting from the garage. We put him in the trunk of my car."

"And Jannat?"

"We made it look like she had been in his car. Like they were running away together and crashed." Marzia's voice takes on an unsettling professional tone. "I used my medical knowledge to ensure the injuries matched what would be expected in a high-speed collision. We positioned them at Shyamoli Square, where that dangerous curve is. I made anonymous calls to ensure they would be found quickly."

"And everyone believed it," Rumi whispers.

"Of course they did. A man and woman, having an affair, trying to escape. It was the perfect story."

**12:15 am. April 4, 2025**

Rumi sinks onto the sofa, the sledgehammer sliding from his grip to the floor with a heavy thud. The full weight of his actions crushes down on him. He was not a grieving widower; he was a murderer. His hands had ended two lives—three, if he counted the unborn child.

"What now?" Marzia asks, a desperate edge to her voice. "We can increase your medication. You can forget again. We can move away, start fresh somewhere new."

"Did you ever feel guilt?" Rumi asks, looking up at her with hollow eyes. "Even once in these three years?"

"Guilt?" she repeats, as if the concept is foreign to her. "For what? For protecting you? For loving you enough to save you from yourself?"

In that moment, Rumi sees Marzia clearly for the first time—not as his childhood friend or his devoted caretaker, but as someone whose love had mutated into something monstrous. She didn't love him; she loved possessing him, controlling him, molding him into her personal project.

"I'm calling the police," he says quietly, reaching for his phone.

Marzia lunges for him with a desperate cry, knocking the phone from his hand. "You can't! I won't let you throw everything away!"

**12:30 am. April 4, 2025**

The struggle is brief but violent. Marzia fights with the desperate strength of someone whose carefully constructed world is crumbling. She claws at his face, screaming about sacrifice and devotion. When she reaches for the fallen sledgehammer, something in Rumi snaps.

He doesn't remember grabbing her throat. Doesn't remember squeezing until her eyes bulge and her face turns purple. Doesn't remember the sickening crack as her trachea collapses under his thumbs.

When awareness returns, Marzia lies motionless at his feet, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, her medical bag spilled across the floor—pills, syringes, and the carefully maintained fiction of his innocence scattered like confetti.

For a long moment, Rumi simply stares at what he's done. Then, with mechanical precision, he picks up his phone and dials.

"Emergency services," a calm voice answers.

"I need to report a murder," Rumi says, his voice steady. "Three murders, actually."

**6:00 am. April 4, 2025**

Dawn breaks over the police station, painting the interrogation room in pale gold light. Rumi has been talking for hours, his voice raw from confession. The detectives have recorded everything—the murders three years ago, Marzia's role in the cover-up, and finally, her death at his hands just hours earlier.

The evidence supports his story. In Marzia's apartment, they find journals detailing her obsession with Rumi dating back to their childhood. They find medical records showing the prescriptions she'd been giving him—powerful antipsychotics and memory suppressants, drugs that would keep him docile and dependent. Most damning of all, they find a lock box containing trophies—Jannat's wedding ring, a blood-stained shirt she kept as a memento of that night, photos of the crime scene she had secretly taken while "helping" him clean up.

As the morning light strengthens, Rumi feels neither relief nor redemption. Justice has been served, but it cannot resurrect the dead or absolve him of his crimes. Still, as the detective reads him his rights and officially charges him with three counts of homicide, there is a strange sense of peace beneath his despair.

For three years, he had lived a lie constructed by a woman whose love had curdled into possession. Now, facing the consequences of his actions, Rumi is finally free from manipulation, free from false memories, free from the toxic devotion that had kept him prisoner in his own mind.

As they lead him to his cell, Rumi thinks of Jannat. Not as she was in death, but as she had been in life—laughing, vibrant, real. The truth of what he did to her will haunt him until his dying day. But the truth, however terrible, is preferable to the comfortable lie he had been living.

The echo of her voice will follow him into prison, into old age, into whatever afterlife awaits him. But at least now, it is her true voice he hears—not the distorted whisper Marzia had planted in his drugged mind.

The cell door closes behind him with a final clang. Rumi sits on the narrow cot, alone with his memories at last. The monster he discovered within himself is terrible to behold, but at least now he can face it with clear eyes.

For the first time in three years, there are no more lies.