Smiling Devil: Rage Chapter - 2

After a few hours, Pravin returned home. He quickly went into the kitchen and hurriedly drank some water.

After drinking some water, he sat down in a corner. Resting his head down, he began to think. He couldn’t believe what he had done.

He had killed someone in a fit of anger. The promise he had once made to someone was now broken.

Even during his shower, dinner, and while trying to sleep, that thought never left him. At the same time, his mind kept spinning with the fear that the police might arrest him.

Yet, there was still a strange calmness within him. His eyes showed no fear—only confusion.

The next day, he went about his regular routine, but he kept checking the news—wondering if there was any report about a dead body found in the sewer water.

At the office, he maintained an unusual silence. Abhinav asked him, “Brother, what happened? Why are you so quiet?”

Pravin responded, “Nothing.” Abhinav asked, “You were quiet yesterday too. And today, you’re the same. What’s going on in your mind?”

Pravin said, “Nothing… I’m just confused about something.” Abhinav responded, “What is it? Is it about your love?”

Pravin knew he couldn’t reveal what had happened, so he diverted the conversation in a different direction.

Pravin started, “Yesterday I was just upset because the manager yelled at me. But today is different—I saw a reel. The reel was about deciding who is guilty in an imaginary scenario. A month ago, during rush hour in a packed metro, Raghav, a calm man, accidentally bumped into Nikhil, who was quick-tempered. The crowd had pushed Raghav, and Nikhil’s shirt tore in the process. ‘Are you blind?’ Nikhil shouted. ‘I’m really sorry. It was the crowd,’ Raghav said quietly. But Nikhil, angry and embarrassed, slapped Raghav hard. The coach went silent. Raghav said nothing. He just looked at Nikhil and turned away, holding on to his dignity. A month later, they were traveling in the same metro train unaware. The metro derailed near a bridge, and the last coach hung dangerously over the edge. Nikhil was inside, clinging on and screaming for help. Raghav, in the safer coach, saw him struggling. Their eyes met. Nikhil cried out, “Please, help me!” Raghav paused. He remembered everything—the slap, the humiliation. And then… he turned away. Nikhil fell, and his life ended there. Now tell me… who is more wrong here?”

Abhinav think about it, “In this case, both are wrong. I can say the Raghav is clearly wrong because he didn’t help the person. When Raghav is on the verge of death. Also the Nikhil was wrong. Showing his anger and ego on someone due to situation. Also embrassing him is totally wrong. So in this case, both are wrong.”

Abhinav continued, “But why you were thinking about this? I don’t think there’s anything to think about.” Pravin responded, “I know… but the reel was told in a Vikram–Betal story format. In the end, the person in the reel asked a final question: Who is the real evil—the man who provoked him, or the man who refused to help?”

Abhinav said, “That’s a real trick question. I’d say both men showed anger in their own ways. Anyway, don’t waste your time on reels.” Pravin simply nodded and returned to his work.

The same question came up again during lunch. Each of Pravin’s colleagues shared the same opinion: both men were wrong.

But Indu had a different opinion. She said, “I believe the man who embarrassed Raghav was the one truly at fault. Think about it—public humiliation can leave a deep wound.”

Hearing this, Pravin felt a wave of happiness—it was the answer he had been hoping for. And more than that, it came from the girl he loved. In that moment, he felt truly blessed.

But one of the colleagues disagreed. “I’m against that. Yes, Raghav was embarrassed, and that was wrong—but people hardly remember such things. He could have overcome it in two or three days. On the other hand, Nikhil lost his life. Which is greater? So, I’d say Raghav was wrong.”

Hearing this, Pravin felt a spark of anger inside, but he hid it beneath a faint smile. Then Indu responded, “I don’t care. My decision remains the same.”

Abhinav broke the tension, saying, “Okay fine, chill guys. It’s just a hypothetical question—don’t overthink it.” After that, everyone fell silent.

Evening came, and Pravin was heading home through the Mumbai locals. As he traveled, his co-passenger was watching Instagram reels on loud volume.

Pravin plugged in his earphones and tried to listen to music, but the sound of the reels still slipped through, partially reaching his ears.

At that moment, a news reel popped up. It began, “An unidentified dead body has been found in a Navi Mumbai sewer…”

When Pravin heard the words ‘dead body’ and ‘sewer,’ something stirred deep inside him. He quickly searched for the news, and for a moment, his mind went completely blank.

The news stated, “Airoli police have discovered a corpse in the sewers. It was first spotted by a local resident. The identity of the deceased remains unknown, as the body has been severely damaged by prolonged exposure to water. However, a blunt injury was found on the victim’s head, and police suspect it could be a case of murder.”

Hearing this, Pravin was completely shaken. He didn’t know what to do. In a rush, he got off at the next station and headed straight to Airoli—the very place where the body had been found.

After an hour, he reached the spot. It was a sewage water flow area, with a main road running nearby. Yellow police tape surrounded one section near the sewer. His mind began to rewind to that night—he suddenly remembered that he had thrown the steel rod near the bridge. Without wasting a moment, he quickly headed toward Panvel.

After nearly half hours of travel, Pravin reached Panvel—the place where everything had gone wrong. The night was darker than he remembered, heavy with silence and the foul stench of sewer water trickling beneath the bridge. The structure loomed above him like a silent judge—unchanged, unmoved. He walked to the exact spot near the base, his shoes crunching against the wet gravel. His breath grew uneven as the memory pressed down on him.

Using his phone’s flashlight, he scanned the muck and trash, rats scattering in every direction. Then his beam froze—there it was. The steel rod, half-buried, faintly stained, unmistakable. His fingers trembled as he bent down and wrapped it in an old rag.

But just as he was about to stand — Vrrrooommm. A motorbike engine tore through the night. It wasn’t passing. It was slowing. Panic surged. Without thinking, Pravin sprinted toward the edge of the sewer canal and hurled the rod into the black water.

He ducked behind a concrete column, heart pounding against his ribs, pressing his phone to his chest to block its glow. The motorbike stopped overhead. The biker got down and started checking bike. A flashlight beam cut through the darkness, sweeping the area. Pravin didn’t move a muscle. Every second dragged, stretching into an eternity.

Then the bike started again, its engine fading into the distance. Still, Pravin didn’t move. He waited—five long minutes of silence, broken only by the trickle of sewer water. At last, he crept out from behind the pillar. The rod was gone—swallowed by the sewer, by the night. A piece of his past, buried where no one could ever find it.

He quickly left the place, and by 1:30 a.m. he reached home. Dropping onto the sofa, he let out a breath of relief, convinced he had erased every trace of evidence. With that confidence—that he would never be caught—Pravin drifted into sleep on the sofa.

The next day, Pravin went about his work as usual, seemingly without a care. But then his eyes shifted to the office entrance. Two policemen were standing at the reception.

A wave of tension gripped him. Had he been caught? Did the police already know? Questions burst through his mind, one after another. His chest tightened with a single, crushing thought—his life was over. He was going to end up in jail.

The policemen entered the office, and everyone looked on in confusion, whispering about what was happening. Pravin kept his head down, certain that this was the moment—he was going to jail.

But then, the policemen turned—not toward Pravin’s desk, but to a corner desk across the room. In an instant, they grabbed one of the employees and barked, “You scammer! Come with us.”

They dragged the employee out with them, leaving the office in stunned silence. Everyone was confused, while Pravin sat frozen in shock—he had escaped, at least for now.

A little later, the office learned the truth: their colleague had been involved in a bank forgery scam. He had used fake documents to secure a loan for foreign education and then absconded.

Pravin still couldn’t believe how the wind had turned in his favor. A surge of confidence and pride filled him—no one could touch him now. And his instinct proved right: with no evidence to pursue, the police closed the case.

Pravin slipped back into his regular life, routine works and unbothered—even the memory of dried blood on his hands couldn’t disturb him. But too soon, those same hands would be drenched in fresh blood.

Two weeks later, at Pravin’s office, a tense silence lingered inside the conference room. Pravin sat with Indu and a few colleagues, their eyes fixed on the CEO who stood at the head of the table. His presence filled the room with an unusual weight, as if something far more serious than routine business was about to be discussed.

The CEO announced, “Our IFC project that you all worked on has been successfully completed, and the clients are very happy with the results. Kudos to each one of you.”

The CEO then continued, “As a reward, I’ll be increasing your salaries. But before that, I’ve arranged a party for all of you at NewClub Pub tonight to celebrate this success. So, let’s meet there.” The announcement brought a fresh wave of excitement.

Smiles spread across the room, and the employees buzzed with chatter. The idea of a night out together after weeks of hard work lifted everyone’s spirits even higher. Pravin clapped along, his face lit with joy.

Later that night, the pub pulsed with music and laughter. Pravin, Indu, and their colleagues gathered around a large table, glasses clinking in celebration of their hard-won success.

As the DJ cranked up the volume, Indu and a few others drifted to the dance floor, caught up in the rhythm. Colorful lights flickered across their faces as they laughed and swayed to the music.

Pravin remained at the table, a half-empty glass in his hand. His eyes lingered on Indu, watching her from afar.

His gaze shifted briefly, but then he heard Indu’s voice cut through the noise. “How dare you touch me?” she shouted. Pravin rushed to the dance floor and pulled Indu back.

He stood protectively, holding her as she glared at a man nearby. “What happened?” Pravin asked, his voice calm but edged with steel.

Their colleague, Rhea, stepped forward. “That guy touched her inappropriately while she was dancing!” she said, her voice trembling with anger. The man smirked, shrugging. “It was just a dance. She’s overreacting.”

Pravin’s eyes narrowed. “You bloody asshole. Apologize to her.” The man laughed mockingly. “Apologize? She should be flattered.”

Before Pravin could respond, a bouncer intervened, pushing between them. “Break it up!” he ordered. The man sneered, “My brother-in-law owns this pub. You’re done here.”

The bouncer dragged the man away, and Pravin guided Indu back to their table. She was fuming. “Why didn’t you hit him?” she snapped.

Pravin’s fists clenched, a dark anger flickering beneath his calm exterior. He said nothing. The group decided to leave the pub.

Outside, they exchanged goodbyes, but after the others departed, Pravin slipped back inside, blending into the crowd like an unassuming shadow. He paused, scanning the pub for CCTV cameras.

He melted into the darkness, finding a hidden corner that kept him out of sight of both people and surveillance. The man, now deep in a drunken stupor, swayed slightly, oblivious to his surroundings. Pravin’s heart raced—his prey was vulnerable, and his eyes burned with cold fury.

The man staggered to the upper terrace, a cigarette glowing in the dim light. Pravin followed, his face partially shrouded in shadow, every step calculated and silent. The terrace stretched above the patrons below, its sharp angles and deep shadows cast by the flickering lights. The man puffed smoke, unaware of the danger closing in. The terrace was deserted.

Pravin’s fury coiled like a predator ready to strike. He crept closer, muscles taut, each heartbeat pounding in his ears. Then—swift and silent—he lunged, kicking the man’s back and shoving him off the terrace.

The body plummeted, crashing onto the ground below with a sickening thud. Silence followed, thick and heavy. The man was gone.

Pravin didn’t linger. He vanished into the shadows, moving like a phantom through the camera’s blind spots. The terrace lay empty behind him. Revenge had been served—silent, perfect. In the night, Pravin melted away, unseen, untouchable.