Raghav looked at her. The blankness was still there, which was itself an answer.
"They found him in a rented flat in Noida. Along with a room that — the report says — was set up like a 'studio.' Cameras, lighting, recording equipment. He'd been held there for three weeks."
"Held? He's alive?"
"He's alive. Malnourished, dehydrated, traumatised. But alive." He paused. "And the flat — the studio — it had photographs on the walls. Hundreds of them. Of all the subjects. Including the missing ones."
"And the Watcher?"
"Gone. The flat was empty when the police arrived. Vikram was alone. Whoever held him cleared out before the raid."
"How did they find the flat?"
"Anonymous tip. Called from a burner phone. The caller gave the exact address and said: 'The Watcher wants you to find him. But not the Watcher.'"
The Watcher had released Vikram deliberately. Not as a mercy — as a message. Look what I can do. Look what I've been doing. You can find the prey, but you can't find me.
Isha felt the cold of it. The calculation. The showmanship. This wasn't a crime of passion or impulse. This was performance. The Instagram account, the ratings, the strategic disappearances, and now the theatrical release — the Watcher was directing a show, and the audience was everyone.
"I need to talk to Vikram," she said.
"He's at Safdarjung Hospital. The doctors say no visitors for forty-eight hours."
"I don't have forty-eight hours."
"I know." Raghav looked at her — at the woman rated 9.5, the highest the Watcher had ever scored. "Neither do you."
Isha walked out of the Cyber Cell and into the Delhi afternoon, Dev two steps behind her, and felt the city differently than she'd ever felt it. Every face was a potential Watcher. Every phone pointed in her direction was a potential camera. Every stranger standing fifteen to twenty metres to her left was a potential threat.
9.5. Three to five days. The clock was ticking.
And somewhere in South Delhi, the Watcher was watching the clock too.
