CHAPTER TWELVE

The glow of the computer monitor bathed Rajiv Choudhary in a soft blue light, casting stark shadows across his determined face. His office was silent except for the rhythmic clacking of the keyboard as he coded late into the night. He was on the brink of finalizing something groundbreaking, a new algorithm that promised to revolutionize data compression and ripple through the technological world. It was his magnum opus, a culmination of sleepless nights and relentless dedication.

Despite the lateness of the hour, fatigue seemed a distant concept to Rajiv. The thrill of innovation pulsed through him like an electric current, propelling him forward. He paused only to brush a lock of hair from his forehead before diving back into the labyrinthine corridors of his code.

As the lines streamed across the screen, Rajiv"s mind wandered to the journey that had led him here. From a precocious child tinkering with outdated computers in his parents" home in India, to the ambitious young man who boarded a plane to the UK with nothing but a scholarship and a dream. The transition hadn"t been easy; the cultural shift was jarring, and the loneliness had been palpable. But Rajiv was driven by a vision, a belief that his work could make a tangible difference in the world.

He remembered the pride in his mother"s eyes when he landed his first job at a prominent tech firm in London, her voice over the phone brimming with excitement. "You"re going to change the world, beta," she had said. And perhaps she was right. Rajiv"s algorithm had the potential to alter the digital landscape, to shrink the vastness of cyberspace into something more manageable, more efficient.

His rapid ascent in the industry had not gone unnoticed. Colleagues and competitors alike marveled at his ingenuity, his uncanny ability to foresee the curve of progress and stay ahead of it. Rajiv wasn"t just making a name for himself; he was etching his legacy into the foundation of the tech world.

Yet, as the hours wore on and the office grew colder, a sense of unease crept into Rajiv"s consciousness. Perhaps it was the weight of expectation pressing down on him, or maybe the eerie quiet that enveloped the building after hours. He shrugged off the discomfort, attributing it to the looming deadline and his own overworked imagination.

"Almost there," he muttered to himself, fingers flying across the keys. "Just a bit longer, and the world will never be the same."

Unbeknownst to Rajiv, as he sat immersed in his work, history"s shadow loomed ominously overhead. The past, with its dark obsessions and twisted ideals, was reaching into the present, poised to claim Rajiv as part of a grand and terrible design.

The soft hum of Rajiv"s computer was a lullaby to his concentration, the rhythmic clatter of keystrokes a testament to his dedication. The glow from multiple monitors cast a spectral ambiance over the room, an electronic aurora borealis flickering across his intent features. He leaned back for a moment, rubbing tired eyes that had seen too many sunsets and rises from this very chair.

Then, it sliced through the silence—a noise that didn"t belong in the digital serenade of his late-night labor. A mechanical whirring, subtle but unmistakable, like the sound of gears not turned for centuries finding motion once again. Rajiv frowned, tilting his head slightly. It was probably just the cleaning staff—their vacuum cleaners had made similar sounds before—but this was different. It resonated with an odd familiarity that beckoned him from thoughts of algorithms and data streams.

"Probably nothing," he mumbled, but his curiosity, a trait that had led him from a childhood in India to the precipice of tech revolution in the UK, wouldn"t let him dismiss it so easily.

He rose, joints protesting mildly, and stepped out into the hallway. The fluorescents flickered overhead, casting long shadows against the sterile walls. As his gaze traveled down the corridor, his breath hitched.

There, at the far end, stood a figure—an anachronism that seemed ripped from the pages of a Dickens novel. The figure was clad in Victorian attire, complete with a frock coat and a top hat shadowing its face, which was obscured by a gas mask. Its presence was as incongruous as a steam engine in a silicon chip factory.

Rajiv"s heart thudded painfully against his ribs. The figure held something in one gloved hand—a brass device, its contours lost to the distance but its purpose unmistakably sinister by the eerie light it emitted, a ghostly glow that seemed alive with malevolent intention.

"Who are you?" Rajiv called out, his voice steady despite the adrenaline spiking through his veins. No answer came, only the continued whirring from the device, growing louder now, more insistent.

This was no ordinary intruder; this was the specter of an era long gone, wielding technology that seemed as out of place as its attire. Rajiv"s mind raced—was this a prank? An elaborate threat? But the cold dread gripping his stomach told him this was no joke. This figure was danger incarnate, a harbinger of malice wrapped in antiquity.

As the figure began to move towards him, slow and deliberate, Rajiv"s instincts screamed for him to act. The promise of his future, the algorithm that would change the world—it all meant nothing against the primal urge to survive. He needed to escape, to warn someone, but his legs felt rooted to the spot, transfixed by the surreal nightmare unfolding before him.

"Stay back!" he warned, his voice betraying a hint of fear now. The figure paused, its head tilting ever so slightly, as if considering him.

"Rajiv Choudhary," it said, its voice a distorted echo from behind the mask, "do you believe in destiny?"

"Destiny?" Rajiv repeated, confusion momentarily overriding his terror. "What do you want?"

"Progress requires sacrifice," the figure replied, its tone clinical, as if reciting a universal truth.

"Please, I don"t understand," Rajiv pleaded, taking an involuntary step back.

But the figure advanced, relentless, the device in its hand pulsing with a rhythm that matched the quickening beat of Rajiv"s heart. And then, with the inexorability of time itself, darkness descended upon him, an abyss from which there would be no return.

Rajiv threw a punch, but the killer easily batted it away. Then another, and another. Rajiv clawed and scratched, fighting with everything he had to get away from the man. But it was not enough.

The killer then struck.

He stood alone, the shadows clinging to him like a second skin as he watched Rajiv Choudhary"s life bleed out onto the cold floor. The dim light flickered over the brass device implanted in Rajiv"s chest, casting an otherworldly glow on the macabre scene.