The day began with an almost surreal peacefulness—something I hadn’t experienced in all my 27 years of life. I didn’t realize then that it was the calm before the storm.

“Dr. Nia, the senior doctor wants to know if you can attend to the psycho killer case,” my assistant said, helping me into my white coat.

“Okay,” I replied. “Could you bring me a cup of coffee and prepare the therapy room?”

She nodded and left. Moments later, there was a knock on the door.

“Excuse me,” I called out.

A pot-bellied policeman stepped inside. “Ma'am, the psycho is here,” he said bluntly.

I gave him a stern glare. No one has the right to label someone based on their mental health.

“My assistant isn’t here. Could you please make him sit on the chair and lock him in?” I requested calmly.

After finishing my coffee, I stepped into the therapy room. There, locked in the iron restraints of a heavy chair, sat a massive, muscular man. The police and nurse waited outside, watching through the glass.

“Hello Mr. Arjun. How have you been feeling lately?” I asked, flipping through his file.

“Lately, I’ve been feeling the urge to tie someone up… and cut them into pieces while they’re still alive,” he said, deadpan.

I studied his face, trying to read the stress behind his words. “Arjun, try to relax first. Would you like something to drink?”

“I’m not a magician. I can’t drink with my hands locked,” he said with a smirk.

“Don’t worry. That’s the responsibility of the one who locked them,” I replied calmly.

“A hot strawberry milkshake,” he said, oddly specific.

I sighed, wondering if he was just trying to be eccentric, and asked my assistant to prepare it.

“Alright, let’s continue our session until your milkshake arrives. Tell me… why did you kill those people? Please don’t give me the same answer—you wanted to kill them, so you did. I want to understand. I’m trying to help you.”

“If I tell you… what’s going to change?”

“Maybe you’ll feel lighter after letting it out. I’ll be able to plan proper therapy. Maybe you’ll recover and get a chance to start life again—normal life.”

“What’s your so-called normal life?”

“A happy life with your family—parents, wife, children, maybe even siblings…”

“I have none.”

“But the people you’re killing—they do.”

“Like I care.”

A knock interrupted us. My assistant walked in with the milkshake, sensing my annoyance.

“Sorry for being late, ma’am,” she said softly.

I replied in Malayalam so the patient wouldn’t understand. “Lara, whether a patient comes from a good background or a bad one, it doesn’t matter. Our job is to make sure they get a good background. Treat everyone equally.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I won’t repeat it. Sorry, sir,” she said to the patient, and left.

“Shall we proceed with therapy, or would you prefer to drink your milkshake first?”

“I want to drink. I’m hungry,” he replied.

“You should’ve told me earlier. No one probably asks you whether you're hungry. Lara, call in an officer to help him drink.”

A policeman came in and lifted the glass to his lips, but Arjun stopped him midway. He turned to me. His eyes had glint which everyone failed to notice.

“Ask me. I’ll answer only three questions.” The who never opened a mouth in order to prevent the policemen from getting the clues,now volunteer to answer three questions.

I took a breath. “Why did you kill those people?”

“Because they made me an orphan,” he said, staring straight into my eyes.

“Who do you feel the urge to kill now?”

“Ashok, Arvind, Arjun.”

“Can’t they be punished by law?”

“If they could be, why are they still walking free?”

“Maybe because no one brought them to justice yet—”

“Three questions are up, darling,” he cut me off. Then, turning to the officer, “And you—dog—drink it yourself.”

The officer's fist flew at him in fury. “What did you just say, you psycho?!”

The punch landed hard, snapping Arjun’s face to the side—but he remained unfazed. Unmoving.

Then, a moment later, a thunderous sound cracked through the room.

When I opened my eyes, the officer was on the floor.

And Arjun—his massive frame towering—stood over him, the iron arms of the chair still bolted to his wrists, now swinging loosely like deadly extensions of himself.

The lock had broken. I was looking at him shocked. “ Sorry for ruining your therapy room, I’ll tell the dog, waiting outside to gather this dog, use the strong chair in your other therapy not every psycho will be sitting quite in front of a beutiful girl,” saying that he walked away.

The storm begins