The mirror showed a man he didn’t know.
Pravash sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his own reflection in the dim morning light. His body ached, his mind felt like static, and his name—his own damn name—was gone.
He knew things. Knew how to reload a gun, how to spot a liar by the twitch of their eye, how to follow the scent of a crime scene. He knew Kathmandu’s streets by heart, could hear the market vendors in his mind, could recall the smell of jasmine incense and burnt rice from his childhood.
But when he reached for the core of himself, for the simple truth of his name—there was nothing.
A blank space.
Not a wound, not a scar. An absence.
His fingers curled into his sheets.
“You’re lucky I pulled you out.”
The woman’s voice still rang in his ears. He had woken up in his apartment—not knowing how he got there. No memory of the trip home, no recollection of what happened after Durbar Square.
But she had been there. She had saved him.
And yet, he couldn’t even remember her name.
Pravash let out a slow, unsteady breath.
This wasn’t normal.
This was the mask.
It had stolen something else.
And if it could take his own name, what would be next?
His pulse was steady, but his hands felt cold.
Then—movement.
The shadows in the corner of the room shifted, curling inward on their own.
Pravash’s spine went rigid. His hand shot toward his gun—but stopped halfway.
Because it wasn’t an intruder.
It was his own shadow.
And it wasn’t moving right.
It stretched slower than it should. The angles weren’t normal, the edges too sharp, too fluid.
And then, as he watched—it flickered.
Just for a second.
Just enough for Pravash to see something else.
Not his own form. Not a man at all.
But a tall, shifting figure with hollow eyes and no face.
A shape that wasn’t fully here, wasn’t fully anywhere.
Something that had always been waiting.
And then—it was gone.
His shadow was normal again.
Pravash let out a slow, shaking breath.
This was getting worse.
He pushed himself to his feet, walking to the sink. He let the water run over his hands, let the cold bite into his skin, grounding him. Focus. Breathe.
He looked up.
His reflection stared back.
And the mask sat on the desk behind him.
Waiting.
The shrine was smaller than he remembered.
Pravash stood in the narrow doorway, staring into the dimly lit chamber where Bhante Rigdzin sat cross-legged, just as before. The old monk’s hands were folded over his prayer beads, his blind eyes fixed on something far beyond the walls of this world.
He had come here for answers.
But now that he was standing here, in the flickering glow of the butter lamps, Pravash realized something strange.
The monk already knew why he had come.
He could feel it.
“Sit, detective.”
Pravash’s jaw tightened, but he did as he was told, lowering himself onto the mat across from the old man.
The silence stretched, thick and heavy.
Then the monk exhaled, slow and deliberate.
“You have lost something.”
Not a question.
A statement.
Pravash’s fingers twitched. He hadn’t told anyone. Hadn’t said the words out loud. But somehow, the monk knew.
“I can’t remember my name,” he said finally, his voice rough. “It’s just… gone.”
The monk nodded slowly, as if this was expected.
“It is only the beginning.”
Pravash stiffened. “What does that mean?”
The monk’s fingers traced the beads, his face unreadable.
“You are fading, detective.”
The words felt like ice in his blood.
“The mask is devouring you.”
Pravash swallowed hard. “No. That’s not—”
“Deny it if you wish.” The monk’s voice was calm, but unforgiving. “But you already know the truth. Every time you wear it, something is taken. A memory. A piece of yourself. And one day—”
His blind eyes turned toward him.
“There will be nothing left to take.”
A cold chill ran through Pravash’s spine.
No. He had control. He had to.
“The mask gives me power,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady.
The monk inclined his head. “Yes. But power always has a cost.”
Pravash clenched his fists. “Then tell me how to stop it.”
The monk sighed, the beads clicking softly in his hands.
“You cannot.”
The words hit like a blow.
“The mask does not take because it wants to.” The monk’s voice was quiet now. “It takes because that is what it was made to do.”
Pravash stared at him, his breath coming slow and uneven.
The truth sat in his chest like a stone.
If he kept using the mask—it would consume him.
Not all at once. Not violently.
Piece by piece.
Until one day, there would be nothing left of Pravash Bajracharya.
Only Yami.
A shadow with no past, no name, no face.
His heart pounded.
“You’re telling me I’m already dead,” he said bitterly.
The monk shook his head. “No. But you are no longer only a man.”
Silence.
Pravash ran a hand over his face, exhaling. “Then what am I supposed to do?”
The monk hesitated.
Then, finally, he spoke.
“You must choose.”
Pravash looked up.
“To remain. Or to disappear.”
The night felt wrong.
Pravash sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his hands in the dim glow of the streetlights outside. His fingers flexed, his palms rubbed together, but no matter how much he moved, they still felt… off.
Like they weren’t his anymore.
He hadn’t touched the mask since returning from the shrine. It sat across the room on his desk, silent, still. But he could feel it.
Watching.
Waiting.
The monk’s words crawled through his skull like insects.
“You must choose. To remain. Or to disappear.”
His own name was gone.
What would be next?
Pravash exhaled sharply and stood, shaking off the thought. He stripped off his coat, peeled away his shirt. His ribs ached from the fight in Naraka. His body was a map of bruises—black, purple, yellowing patches stretching across his torso.
But something else caught his eye.
A fresh bruise, high on his forearm.
Shaped like fingers.
Like something had grabbed him.
His stomach turned.
He hadn’t fought anyone tonight. Hadn’t been attacked since escaping Guru Kaalo.
So where the hell had this come from?
The answer came before he could stop it.
“Not all of you made it back.”
His breath caught.
No. That wasn’t possible.
Was it?
His fingers brushed over the bruises, tracing the edges. The skin was cold. Colder than the rest of him.
A chill spread down his spine.
His body was here. In this world.
But something else—something unseen—was still there.
A headache pulsed at his temple. His exhaustion weighed heavier than before, pulling at his limbs. He ran a hand down his face, groaning.
“Sleep.”
The whisper wasn’t spoken.
It slid into his mind.
Pravash barely made it to the bed before the world went black.
Naraka.
The dream swallowed him whole.
He was standing in the empty streets of Kathmandu again.
But it wasn’t Kathmandu.
The temples were shattered ruins. The buildings stretched at odd angles, like a child’s drawing gone wrong. The sky above was deep, endless black.
And in the distance, voices called his name.
Not Pravash.
Something else.
Something older.
“Yami.”
His chest tightened.
The shadows around him rippled. He turned, his breath sharp, and saw them.
Figures drifting through the broken streets. Faceless. Silent. The forgotten.
And they were moving toward him.
Not attacking.
Not threatening.
Just reaching.
“Yami.”
The whisper rang through his bones.
He took a step back.
Then another.
The ground tilted beneath him.
He stumbled, his hand shooting out to catch himself—
And his fingers met skin.
Cold.
Wet.
He looked down.
And saw a hand, reaching from the ground.
Clawing at his ankle.
More hands broke through the cracked earth. Grasping, stretching, pulling.
He tried to move.
Tried to breathe.
But their grip was stronger than death.
And the last thing he heard before the darkness took him was his own voice.
“I don’t want to be forgotten.”
The Waking World.
Pravash gasped.
His body jerked upright, his lungs burning, his skin cold with sweat.
The apartment was dark. Silent. The world was real again.
But his hands.
They were bruised.
As if something had been gripping him.
His pulse thundered.
He wasn’t just dreaming of Naraka anymore.
Some part of him was still there.
And some part of it—was here.
The boy had vanished without a sound.
Pravash stood near Seto Machindranath Temple, watching as the morning crowd moved through the streets. Tourists snapping photos, old men playing Bagh Chal, vendors selling boiled peanuts and tea.
Life continued as usual.
But someone was missing.
Bikash Thapa. Age eleven. Last seen at dusk.
His mother swore she had only looked away for a second—one second. When she turned back, her son was gone.
No witnesses. No sign of struggle.
Just like the others.
Pravash took a slow breath, scanning the temple’s entrance.
The Seto Machindranath idol stared back at him, its painted white eyes frozen in time. The deity was known as Karunamaya—the compassionate one. A god of mercy.
But Pravash didn’t believe in mercy anymore.
Not after what he had seen.
The old woman who ran the temple grounds approached him hesitantly. Her fingers trembled as they adjusted her red shawl.
“Detective?”
Pravash nodded. “You were here last night?”
She swallowed. Nervous. “Yes. I saw… something.”
He studied her face. She was afraid.
“What did you see?”
The old woman glanced around before lowering her voice.
“The shadows moved.”
Pravash’s chest tightened.
She clutched the edge of her shawl, her voice barely above a whisper. “It was after the evening prayers. The boy was standing right there—” She pointed toward the stone steps. “Then the shadows stretched. And he was gone.”
Pravash’s blood ran cold.
“Did you hear anything?”
She shook her head. “Only… only the wind.”
His fingers curled into fists.
Not the wind. A whisper.
The same whisper he had heard before.
“You will be forgotten.”
Pravash exhaled sharply. “Did the temple have a basement? Tunnels?”
She hesitated.
Then—slowly—she nodded.
“Long ago. But they were sealed.”
Pravash’s gut twisted. “Where?”
She pointed toward the back of the temple.
A small, forgotten alleyway, overgrown with vines.
A place people no longer walked.
Pravash didn’t wait.
He moved.
The Door That Shouldn’t Exist
The alley behind the temple was narrow, the air thick with incense and damp stone.
The deeper Pravash walked, the quieter the world became.
No voices. No city sounds.
Just the rhythmic drip-drip-drip of water seeping through the cracks in the walls.
Then—he found it.
An old wooden door.
Half-rotten. Marked with faded carvings. The kind he had seen in Naraka.
Pravash’s breath hitched.
This wasn’t just a door.
It was a boundary.
A place that shouldn’t exist—but did.
His gut screamed at him to stop.
To turn back.
But he wasn’t that man anymore.
He reached out.
And the moment his fingers brushed the wood—
The door opened on its own.
The door swung open, revealing darkness.
Not just an empty room. Not just a shadowed space.
A void.
Pravash exhaled slowly, his pulse steady—but his instincts screamed. This wasn’t just a forgotten alleyway. This was something else.
Something wrong.
But the boy was missing. And Pravash had already come too far to turn back now.
He stepped inside.
The Forgotten Place
The air thickened the moment he crossed the threshold.
The temple’s scent of incense and oil lamps was gone. Instead, the room smelled of damp stone, old wood, and something else—something decayed.
Pravash let his eyes adjust.
The chamber stretched farther than it should have. The walls—if there were walls—were swallowed by the dark. The only thing visible was the faint glow of old carvings along the floor, symbols etched into the stone.
And then—
A whisper.
“You came back.”
Pravash froze.
The voice was close. Too close.
He turned sharply, his hand instinctively reaching for his gun.
A woman stood at the far end of the chamber.
She wasn’t like the others. Not like the faceless things in Naraka.
She was real. Flesh and blood. Alive.
Her hair was loose, falling in dark waves over her shoulders. Her eyes—god, her eyes—held something terrible in them. A sadness so deep it could not be measured.
She was staring at him like he was a ghost.
“Pravash,” she whispered.
His pulse skipped.
She knew his name.
Not Yami. Not the thing he had become.
His name.
And yet—
He didn’t know her.
He should have.
The way she looked at him, the way she held herself—she wasn’t a stranger.
But there was nothing.
Just an empty space where a memory should have been.
A name he should have known.
A history that was already gone.
Pravash swallowed hard.
“Who are you?”
The woman’s face cracked.
Not in anger.
In pain.
For a moment, she didn’t speak.
Then—her voice broke.
“I’m your wife.”
The words hit like a blade.
Pravash staggered back. His vision swam. His breath caught in his throat.
No.
No, that couldn’t be—
That didn’t make sense.
He would have remembered. He would have known.
Wouldn’t he?
His mind reached for something—anything.
For the echo of a laugh.
For the warmth of a touch.
For the outline of a woman’s voice calling his name in the morning light.
But there was nothing.
No memory. No image.
She was a void in his mind.
A person who had been taken from him.
His hands shook.
“What have I done?”
The mask at his side whispered.
“You are almost free.”