The mansion stood at the edge of the city like a monument to power. Tall iron gates guarded the entrance while two armed security guards stood outside the compound wall. Inside, the driveway curved through a neatly maintained garden before stopping at a large white building whose balconies overlooked the lawn. Expensive cars rested under a covered parking area, each polished to a mirror finish.

  Inside the mansion, the atmosphere was relaxed. Laughter echoed through the large living hall where several men sat around a table filled with food, drinks, and half-empty glasses of whiskey. A television in the corner played the evening news, though no one was paying attention to it.

  At the center of the group sat the man who owned the house.

  Vidhayak Mahendra Rathore leaned comfortably against the sofa, his arm resting over the backrest while a glass of whiskey hung loosely in his hand. He was in his mid-forties, well built, with the confident body language of someone who had spent years believing the world belonged to him.

  One of the men beside him laughed loudly. “Mahendra bhai, you really got lucky with that case,” he said. “The whole media was screaming about it for weeks.”

  Another man joined the laughter. “And now look at you. Not even a scratch.”

  Rathore took a slow sip of his drink before replying. “That’s how politics works,” he said casually. “People shout for a few days, then they forget.”

  “Still,” one of them said, lowering his voice slightly, “that girl’s family created quite a scene.”

  Rathore smirked. “They were poor,” he said. “Poor people always shout the loudest because it’s the only thing they can afford.”

  The men around him chuckled.

  “Besides,” Rathore continued, leaning forward slightly, “do you really think these cases matter if you know the right people? The police report disappeared. The witnesses suddenly changed their statements. The court found no evidence.”

  He raised his glass with a grin. “And justice was served.”

  The men clinked their glasses together.

  Across the room, one of the security guards stepped inside and whispered something to the house manager. The manager nodded and walked toward Rathore.

  “Sir,” he said quietly, “all the outside guards have finished their shift checks.”

  Rathore waved his hand dismissively. “Fine, fine. Let them relax. Nothing is going to happen here.”

  The men resumed their drinking and conversation.

  Minutes passed. Then something strange happened.

  The lights flickered.

  For a brief moment the room dimmed before the power returned.

  One of the guests frowned. “What was that?”

  “Probably a power fluctuation,” another man said. But the house manager looked uneasy.

  He checked his phone, then looked toward the security cameras displayed on the wall monitor. Every camera feed had gone black.

  Before he could say anything, a calm voice came from the entrance of the hall.

  “No. That was not a fluctuation.”

  The men turned toward the doorway. A figure stood there, partially hidden in the shadow of the corridor. He wore a dark hooded jacket, and his face was barely visible under the dim light.

  Rathore squinted. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded.

  The figure stepped forward slowly. The lights above revealed a young man, perhaps nineteen or twenty years old. His expression was calm. But his eyes glowed faintly red. The room fell silent.

  One of the men stood up nervously. “How did you get past security?”

  The boy looked around the room as if studying the surroundings.

  “Security is a comforting illusion,” he said quietly.

  Rathore placed his glass on the table and stood up.

  “You have ten seconds to explain yourself before my guards throw you out,” he said.

  The boy tilted his head slightly. “Your guards are already dead.”

  The words landed heavily in the room.

  Rathore’s expression hardened. “What nonsense are you talking about?”

  The boy looked directly at him. “Mahendra Rathore,” he said calmly. “Age forty-six. Two consecutive election victories. Three corruption investigations closed without evidence.”

  The men exchanged uneasy glances. “And one rape case,” the boy continued.

  Rathore’s face darkened. “That case was dismissed,” he snapped.

  “Yes,” the boy replied softly. “It was.”

  For a moment, the two men simply stared at each other.

  Then Rathore laughed. “You came all the way here to lecture me about morality?” he said. “Do you know who I am?”

  The boy nodded. “That is exactly why I came.”

  Rathore walked closer, his confidence returning. “Listen carefully,” he said in a low voice. “People like you shout about justice because you have no power. People like me decide what justice means.”

  The boy watched him without blinking.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  “So you admit it,” he said.

  Rathore shrugged.

  “I admitted nothing,” he replied. “The court admitted it for me.”

  The boy’s expression did not change. “Courts fail,” he said quietly.

  Rathore laughed again. “That’s the beauty of power.”

  The boy looked at him with a calm, almost curious gaze.

  “Yes,” he said. “And tonight you will learn the cost of it.”

  The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

  Rathore opened his mouth to respond, but the words never came.

  Mahendra and his guests suddenly realized that the mansion around them had vanished. The luxurious hall, the music, the lights—everything was gone. They now stood in a place completely unknown to them.

  “Where…” Mahendra stammered, looking around in confusion. “Where are we?”

  No answer came.

  The men slowly began wandering around the area, fear creeping into their voices. The place looked abandoned. Broken glass lay scattered across the floor. Test tubes, cracked flasks, and rusted metal stands were spread across long laboratory tables.

  It looked like a laboratory.

  A destroyed one.

  “Where are we, bhai?” one of them asked nervously.

  Mahendra wiped the sweat from his forehead and looked around again. “Does anyone have a phone?” he asked.

  “I do,” another man replied as he pulled out his phone. He stared at the screen for a moment before shaking his head. “But there’s no signal.”

  “Fuck!” Mahendra cursed under his breath.

  Before anyone could say anything else, one of the men suddenly pointed toward the far end of the room.

  “Hey… look, bhai,” he said quietly. “A girl.”

  They all turned. A girl stood in the distance, partially hidden in the dim light of the ruined laboratory. Her long hair covered part of her face, and she remained completely still.

  The men slowly approached her. “Hey!” one of them called out. “Where are we? What is this place?”

  The girl did not answer.

  Mahendra stepped closer.

  As soon as he saw her face clearly, his expression changed. The color drained from his face and beads of sweat formed instantly on his forehead.

  He recognized her. She was the same girl. The girl he had abused. The moment the realization struck him, something even stranger happened. His companions suddenly vanished. One by one, they disappeared as if they had never been there at all. Mahendra stood alone in the ruined laboratory. The girl looked directly at him.

  “Ready to pay the price?” she asked softly.

  Mahendra’s breathing became uneven. Before he could react, four figures slowly appeared behind the girl.

  They were the same men who had been standing beside him moments earlier. But their bodies were twisted in unnatural ways. Their arms hung loosely, bones dislocated and bent at impossible angles. Their heads tilted unnaturally as if their necks could no longer support them. Mahendra’s fear turned into pure panic. He turned and began running.

  Behind him, the girl’s voice echoed through the empty laboratory.

  “Running is futile,” she said calmly. “So futile.”

  Mahendra kept running.

  When he looked back again, the girl was smiling. The smile was unnatural. Cold. Almost playful. And then she disappeared.

  Eventually, Mahendra saw a faint opening at the far end of the ruined laboratory.

  An exit.

  Hope surged through his chest. He ran toward it with everything he had left, his footsteps echoing loudly across the broken floor. The doorway grew closer. Just a few more steps. But the moment he reached it, something unnatural happened. A thick wall of black smoke suddenly rose from the ground, spreading across the doorway like a living barrier. Mahendra crashed straight into it. The impact threw him backward onto the floor. Pain shot through his face as his nose struck the ground. Warm blood began dripping down his lips.

  He groaned and tried to push himself up. A slow sound echoed behind him. Mahendra turned.

  The girl was floating in the air a few feet above the ground. Her expression was calm.

  “Did that hurt?” she asked softly.

  Mahendra’s strength collapsed. His arrogance, his confidence, the pride of a powerful politician everything vanished in an instant.

  “I’m sorry,” he cried, crawling toward her. “Please… forgive me.”

  His voice broke as he began begging.

  “I will surrender,” he said desperately. “I will confess everything. I’ll accept my crime. Just… please let me live.”

  For a moment, the girl simply watched him. Then something changed. Her form began to distort. The figure slowly shifted, and the girl’s body transformed back into the boy. The red-eyed boy looked down at Mahendra without emotion.

  “Once a deed is done,” he said quietly, “the consequence begins its journey.”

  Mahendra shook his head frantically. “No… please—”

  The boy’s glowing eyes narrowed slightly. “You had power,” he continued calmly. “You had courts, laws, influence, and wealth.”

  He slowly descended toward the floor. “And still, you chose injustice.”

  Mahendra’s voice trembled. “Please… I’ll fix everything…”

  The boy looked at him as if studying something insignificant. “You already had that chance,” he said.

  Then he spoke the final words in a voice colder than the empty laboratory around them.

  “Now the consequence has arrived.”

  The next morning, the country woke up to a scene no one could explain. Outside the mansion of Vidhayak Mahendra Rathore, a large crowd had already begun to gather. At first it was the guards who noticed something strange near the front road. Then the neighbors stepped outside. Within minutes, dozens of people stood frozen in place, their phones raised as they tried to process what they were seeing.

  During the night, something impossible had appeared.

  A massive concrete wall now stood directly in front of the mansion gate. The wall had not existed the previous evening. Security guards swore that the road had been completely clear when they finished their patrols. Yet somehow, overnight, a gigantic slab of stone had emerged from the ground like a monument. And on that wall were bodies. Fourteen bodies.

  Mahendra Rathore and thirteen other men. Some of them were his close associates. Others were criminals already known to the police, men accused of rape, trafficking, and violent assault. Their faces were already being recognized by people watching the videos spreading online.

  Each body had been nailed directly into the surface of the wall. Their limbs were twisted and stretched in disturbing directions, bones bent unnaturally as if their bodies had been forced into position while still alive. Arms were pulled outward. Legs were folded sharply. Heads hung at crooked angles.

  But the arrangement was not random. The bodies had been positioned with terrifying precision. Each one formed part of a letter. From a distance, anyone standing on the road could clearly read the message written across the giant wall.

  M O N S T E R

  I S

  R E A L

  The letters stretched across the entire surface like a grotesque announcement. No one understood how the wall had appeared. No one understood how fourteen men had been captured, killed, and arranged in such a way without anyone noticing.

  Police sirens echoed through the street as officers rushed to seal the area. But by then it was too late. Hundreds of videos had already been uploaded. The entire country was watching. And for the first time since the Pune incident, the message was no longer a rumor whispered in fear. It was written in plain sight for the world to see.

  Monster Is Real.