The rain hit Kathmandu in slow, heavy sheets, soaking the rooftops and turning the alleyways into rivers of filth. Streetlights flickered in and out, their glow distorted by the downpour. Somewhere in the distance, temple bells rang—slow, deliberate, as if marking the passing of something unseen.
Pravash barely noticed.
He sat in his car, gripping the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the crumbling warehouse across the street. It stood at the edge of the city, past the busier markets and neon-lit restaurants, where Kathmandu gave way to its uglier, forgotten bones.
A black-market organ trade den.
The intel had come from a paid informant—a nervous, rail-thin man who swore on his mother’s grave that the missing girl, Anisha, had been seen here before she vanished.
If that was true, then this place was tied to the disappearances. And Pravash needed answers.
He reached for his gun, but his fingers hesitated.
His hands were different now.
Since the night at the shrine, they had felt… off. The skin looked the same, the bones felt the same, but they weren’t. Sometimes, when the room was dark enough, they flickered. Blurred.
And then there was the mask.
It sat in his bag on the passenger seat, untouched since that night. But Pravash could still feel it. It wasn’t just an object. It was a presence, watching, waiting.
“You are not alone anymore.”
He exhaled sharply. He didn’t have time for this.
Shoving the thoughts aside, he checked his weapon, then stepped out into the rain.
Inside the warehouse, the air smelled of blood and disinfectant. The kind of sharp, metallic stink that clung to the back of your throat.
Pravash moved like a shadow, his steps muffled by the wet concrete. The building was mostly empty—no machinery, no storage racks, just a few rusting tables and a flickering lightbulb.
And a metal door at the far end.
Low voices murmured behind it.
Pravash pressed himself against the wall, inching closer. The voices were arguing in Newari, low and urgent.
“—Too many people are asking questions.”
“It doesn’t matter. The bodies go where they always go.”
“What if the others find out? The boss—”
“Shut up.”
Pravash’s jaw clenched. Bodies.
That was enough.
In one swift motion, he kicked the door open, gun raised. “Nobody move!”
The three men inside spun around, their faces flashing from confusion to panic. A fourth man was strapped to a makeshift surgical table, his mouth taped shut, eyes wild with terror. A scalpel was already pressed against his skin.
One of the men reached for something—a knife, maybe a gun.
Pravash fired.
The bullet shattered a hanging lightbulb, plunging the room into half-darkness. Sparks showered the floor.
The criminals scrambled—one of them lunged at Pravash, a rusted scalpel in hand. Pravash swung his gun like a hammer, catching him in the jaw. The man crumpled.
Then something crashed into him from behind.
Pain exploded through Pravash’s ribs as he slammed against the metal table. The wind shot from his lungs. He twisted, elbowing his attacker in the throat.
A second man grabbed him—too strong. He struggled, trying to bring his gun up, but another blow landed in his stomach, then another.
His vision blurred.
“Your name will be forgotten.”
The whisper curled around his skull.
And then he felt it.
The bag. The mask was still inside. But it wasn’t silent. It was humming now, a low vibration against his ribs.
Pravash gritted his teeth. Not here. Not now.
One of the men slammed a fist into his face. Stars exploded behind his eyes.
He barely heard the laughter.
“You should’ve stayed out of this, Bajracharya,” one of them sneered, grabbing his collar. “You think you’re a hero?”
Pravash coughed blood. His fingers tightened around the edge of the table.
The mask’s hum grew louder.
“Let me in.”
Another fist struck him. His vision darkened.
“Let me in.”
Pravash gasped. The pain, the exhaustion, the confusion—it didn’t matter anymore.
All that mattered was the voice.
“Let me in.”
And this time—he did.
The mask latched onto him like a second skin.
There was no moment of hesitation, no flicker of doubt—just a cold, rushing void swallowing Pravash whole. His body arched as the world folded inward, his veins burning like molten lead.
Then everything stopped.
The men around him weren’t laughing anymore.
They had frozen.
Pravash could hear it—their breathing, their heartbeats, the sharp intake of fear. Every small noise seemed amplified, layered, stretched out over time itself.
And then he saw himself.
Not through his own eyes, but theirs.
He wasn’t human anymore.
The mask had devoured his face, its black stone gleaming like obsidian beneath the flickering light. But it wasn’t just the mask—his entire form was shifting, writhing, made of something deeper than shadow.
His hands had elongated into clawed voids, twisting between solid and smoke. His body no longer obeyed gravity—it was half-there, half-not, as if reality itself was rejecting him.
One of the men let out a strangled gasp.
And Pravash saw it.
Their fear.
It wasn’t just terror—it was personal. It was specific. It was the kind of fear that seeped into your bones, the kind that whispered to you at night, the kind you never spoke aloud.
Because they weren’t seeing him.
Each of them was seeing something different.
The first man staggered back, shaking his head wildly. His eyes darted to the corners of the room—as if something invisible was crawling toward him. He whimpered, whispering prayers under his breath.
The second clutched his own chest, breathing too fast, his pupils wide with raw panic. “No… no, please, not again, please!” he choked. His hands were covered in something—blood, but not from Pravash. From his own past.
The third man didn’t move at all. His face had gone horribly still, his lips mouthing something soundless. Tears streamed down his face as he fell to his knees.
Because they weren’t seeing Pravash anymore.
They were seeing their worst nightmares.
The mask had ripped open something ancient, something deeper than just shadow. It had made him more than a man.
It had made him fear itself.
And then he moved.
His body surged forward—not running, not stepping, but flowing, like a ripple through reality. One of the men tried to swing a knife at him, but it passed through smoke.
Pravash reappeared behind him.
His clawed fingers brushed against the man’s neck. Just a touch.
The man screamed.
It wasn’t a sound of pain—it was something worse. He collapsed, convulsing, his eyes rolling back.
Pravash didn’t know what he had done.
But he knew the man would never sleep soundly again.
The others scrambled toward the door, their bodies shaking, their voices choked with terror.
Pravash could have let them go.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he stepped forward—a living shadow, death wrapped in silence.
And the mask whispered in his ear.
“Do not let them forget.”
The last man was still trying to crawl away when Pravash caught him.
His fingers—if they could even be called that anymore—closed around the back of the man’s neck. His grip wasn’t tight, wasn’t crushing. He didn’t need to be. The fear was already doing the work for him.
The man—Krish Bahadur, age forty-five, organ trafficker, murderer—let out a strangled noise, his legs thrashing weakly. “P-please… don’t,” he whispered.
Pravash tilted his head. That was new.
He had heard men plead before. He had seen killers break in interrogation rooms, had watched gangsters turn into sniveling children when faced with the weight of their crimes.
But this wasn’t like that.
Krish wasn’t just afraid of dying.
He was afraid of something worse.
And Pravash could feel it.
It pulsed from the man’s skin like heat off a dying fire, a thick, choking cloud of guilt, regret, rot.
Pravash didn’t think. He didn’t even decide.
The mask did it for him.
His other hand moved, fingers spreading over the man’s scalp, his palm pressing against his sweat-drenched skin. A sensation like falling through ice rushed through his veins.
Then Krish screamed.
Not in pain. In revelation.
His body convulsed as his pupils rolled back, his mouth stretching into a silent howl. His arms and legs seized violently—not from pain, not from the force of Pravash’s grip, but from something deeper.
Something inside him was breaking.
And then Pravash saw it.
Flashes of memories—but not his own.
A woman in a clinic, barely breathing, begging for her kidney to be returned.
A boy, no older than ten, strapped to a metal table, his heart being cut out.
A young girl, the same girl from the alley—Anisha—bound, screaming as Krish handed her over to shadowy figures.
Every crime. Every moment. Every life he had ruined.
Pravash could see it all.
And so could Krish.
Because that was the true horror of the Curse of Remorse.
It wasn’t just punishment.
It was revelation.
Krish let out a ragged sob. His body jerked violently, his fingers clawing at his own eyes as if trying to rip the images out of his skull. But there was no escape.
Pravash could feel it now—a searing mark, a burning sigil engraving itself onto the man’s soul.
Krish would live.
But he would never be free again.
He would see them all.
Every face. Every name. Every victim he had ever destroyed.
And he would see them forever.
The mask whispered again, satisfied.
“Now he will never forget.”
Pravash’s breath was ragged. His body was shaking—but not from exhaustion.
From something worse.
He had liked it.
Not just the power. The justice.
He had felt their pain—the pain of every person this man had hurt. He had felt the balance shift.
And for the first time in a long time… he didn’t feel helpless.
He let go. Krish collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, still shuddering, still whispering apologies that meant nothing.
The mask flickered. The shadows curled away.
Pravash stepped back.
And for the first time since putting on the mask, he asked himself a question.
“What am I becoming?”
The mask peeled away like it was never there.
One moment, Pravash was something else—something monstrous, something more than human. The next, he was just himself again. Flesh and bone. Blood and breath.
The air around him cooled. The darkness loosened its grip.
The room was a mess of shadows and broken bodies. The criminals—what was left of them—lay sprawled across the floor, their faces locked in silent, shaking terror.
And Pravash… Pravash felt hollow.
He stumbled back, his breaths ragged. His head pulsed like a migraine made of fire. He pressed his palm against his temple, trying to steady himself, but the pain was already crawling inward, scratching at his skull.
Something was wrong.
His vision swam. The world tilted. His knees buckled, but he caught himself against the metal table.
He clenched his jaw. Focus.
One deep breath. Then another.
His mind was fractured, his thoughts tumbling over each other like shards of glass. His body still felt too light, too unreal, like he wasn’t fully here yet. Like the mask hadn’t fully let go.
Then he realized—
Something was missing.
He blinked, swallowing against the nausea. He tried to focus, tried to trace the edges of his own memory.
And for the first time in his life, he met a void.
A cold, empty space where something should have been.
His stomach twisted.
“No.”
His fingers curled into the table’s edge. He squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating, reaching back into his past like he was grabbing at a fading dream.
But it was gone.
A name. A face. Something important.
His mother.
He could feel the knowledge that she existed. Could feel the weight of her in his life. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t picture her face. Couldn’t remember the sound of her voice.
He inhaled sharply.
“What did I do?”
He knew.
Deep down, he knew.
The mask had taken it.
It had reached into his mind, into his past, and stolen something. A price for the power he had used. A piece of himself, erased.
Pravash’s breath turned shallow. His fingers dug into his scalp, his pulse hammering against his ribs.
How much more would it take?
How much more before there was nothing left of him at all?
The thought made his skin crawl.
Then—movement.
A rustle. A groan.
One of the criminals was still alive, shivering in the corner, muttering something under his breath.
Pravash looked up. His face was still pale, still damp with cold sweat, but his eyes had changed.
The fear was still there. But now, something else had settled beneath it.
A slow, creeping realization.
If the mask had already taken one memory…
Would he even remember this man in the morning?
Would he remember any of them?
Would they remember him?
A chill crawled down his spine.
The mask still sat on the table, silent, watching.
And Pravash, for the first time, wondered if he had made a mistake.
The warehouse reeked of fear.
Pravash stood in the dim light, his breath steady but his mind unraveling. His pulse had slowed, the raw adrenaline burning off, leaving only the cold truth behind—he had lost something.
And the mask had taken it.
But he didn’t have time to process that. Someone was still alive.
A ragged cough broke the silence.
Pravash turned. The last survivor.
The man was curled in a corner, his body convulsing, his fingers twitching like he was trying to claw his way out of his own skin. His face was wet with sweat, his pupils blown wide with terror.
And he was staring at Pravash.
Not at him—through him.
Like he was looking at something else entirely.
“You… you…” the man wheezed, barely able to speak. His voice was hoarse, his lips trembling. “You’re not… real…”
Pravash stepped forward. “Who took the girl?”
The man shuddered, his teeth clattering together like he was freezing. He squeezed his eyes shut, whispering something to himself, over and over. A prayer.
Pravash grabbed him by the collar and yanked him up. “Who took her?”
The man let out a sharp sob, shaking his head. “You don’t… you don’t understand…”
Pravash slammed him against the wall. “Then make me understand.”
The man choked. His breath came out in shuddering gasps. He wasn’t just afraid of Pravash—he was afraid of something worse.
Finally, he spoke.
“Guru Kaalo knows you now.”
Pravash’s grip tightened.
“What did you say?”
The man coughed, spitting blood onto the floor. “You’re marked. He will find you. He always finds the ones who interfere. You think the mask makes you powerful? It makes you prey.”
Pravash’s jaw clenched. “Who is he?”
But the man only laughed—a broken, wheezing sound.
“Too late,” he whispered. “He already sees you.”
Then, without warning—his body convulsed.
His eyes rolled back, his limbs jerking violently. Foam bubbled from his lips.
Pravash let go. The man dropped to the floor, writhing, spasming—his breath choking off in his throat. A seizure? No. Something else.
Then—his body went still.
And his lips moved one last time.
“You will be forgotten.”
Then he stopped breathing.
Pravash stared, his blood turning ice cold.
The man hadn’t just died.
He had been silenced.
Pravash slowly turned his head, scanning the warehouse. The broken glass. The blood. The flickering light overhead.
The shadows hadn’t moved.
But he knew—somewhere, someone was watching.
And whoever Guru Kaalo was…
He wasn’t done yet.