A U T H O R

——

The body lay in the middle.

Thirty-eight stab wounds.

A small group of officers and constables stood a few feet away, watching in silence as forensic team collected samples and photographers documented the scene.

“It’s strange,” one officer said after a long pause, his gaze fixed on the body. “To think someone has been killing for this long and still walks freely among ordinary people.”

He exhaled slowly.

"There’s something deeply unsettling about it.”

“Oh, absolutely, sir,” a constable replied, lowering his voice instinctively. “There’s definitely something broken in his mind. Even animals kill to survive…” His eyes drifted toward the body, expression tightening. “Just looking at him, all I can think about is ...the pain this man must have gone through before he died.”.”

Dhruv kept his eyes fixed on the body.

“Twenty-eight stab wounds to the chest,” the younger constable spoke again, glancing through the report. “The last body had twenty-seven.”

A heavy silence settled between them.

“He matches the number of stab wounds to the victim number,” the constable continued quietly. “This is the twenty-eighth victim.”

“He’s a psychopath, Never leaving a single trace...no mistake... nothing.” someone muttered.

"No,” Dhruv said calmly, his voice cutting through the silence. “He’s a perfectionist.”

He looked at the body for a moment before speaking again.

“But every perfectionist slips,” he said. “No matter how careful a person is.”

R I D A
——

“Okay, Max... Time to get up, baby.”

I pulled him closer for a moment, burying my face in his soft fur, before reluctantly dragging myself out of bed. The floor felt cold beneath my feet as I stumbled toward the bathroom, my mind still wrapped in the haze of sleep. Mornings always carried that strange, dreamlike quality, as if my brain needed a full hour of gentle coaxing before it remembered it belonged to a functioning adult.

After finishing my usual routine and taking a long, steaming shower, I stepped out feeling slightly more alive, though still wrapped in a lingering fog. First things first. I filled Max’s food dispenser with fresh kibble and replaced his water, watching as he circled my legs with sleepy approval.

“One of the saddest parts of my day,” I mumbled dramatically, scratching behind his ears, “is going to work alllll because I have to leave you.”

Lately, an unexplained exhaustion had settled over me like a heavy cloak. My haemoglobin levels were normal, I am sleeping on time, and eating reasonably well, yet the fatigue clung stubbornly, like an unpaid bill that refused to be ignored.

It's kinda sus.

I went through my ritual of creams and serums, slipped into a pair of comfortable jeans and a soft T-shirt, twisted my hair into a messy bun, applied some basic makeup, and shrugged on my jacket. Then came the most important ritual of all.

The Bag check.

Water bottle.
Headphones.
Book.
Wallet.
Cards.
Snacks.
Sunscreen.
Pepper spray.
Stole.

“Umm…” I muttered, peering inside. “Basic-basic survival check complete.”

Grabbing my helmet and keys from the table, I turned to Max with mock solemnity.

“Bye, Max. I’ll be back soon. Take care of the house…” I said, as if he were a responsible tenant paying rent. He merely blinked at me with lazy indifference.

Unemployed kid behavior, as usual.

I locked the door, fastened my helmet, started my bike with a familiar roar, secured the main gate, and finally rode off toward the studio.

Only to stop abruptly at the entrance.

“Are yaar…” I groaned.

(Oh god)

A stranger’s bike was parked squarely in my usual spot. I glared at the uncle who was supposed to watch over the parking area—the one who was perpetually drunk and never quite vigilant enough to prevent such intrusions.

“Yeh kiski bike hai?” I called out, my irritation rising.

(Who's bike is this?)

“Yeh… yeh toh…” he slurred, swaying slightly.

(This... this...)

“Yeh lamhe woh baatein baad mein karna,” I snapped. “Hatao isko.”

(Have these conversations later on... Move this away.)

He fumbled around for a few moments but eventually managed to move the offending vehicle. I parked my bike with a satisfied huff and walked straight into the studio.

“You’re late,” Pammi remarked the moment I stepped inside.

Pammi is the owner of the voice-over studio where I work, or, more accurately, where I single-handedly carried the entire operation on my shoulders. Humbly speaking, I am the only artist who consistently brought in real work. The others, in my brother-in-law's blunt words, were simply mediocre.

“Late for what?” I asked, dropping my bag onto the chair. “Removing spider webs from the ceiling?”

He shot me a weary look.

I flashed him a bright smile. “Kidding, boss!”

He wouldn’t fire me. He knows that if I walked out, the studio would collapse financially within weeks. And I wouldn’t leave either, because no one else would tolerate my sharp tongue.

We were locked in a comfortably toxic professional relationship.

There was also another, more serious reason he couldn’t afford to let me go.

Some time ago, I had accidentally walked in on him cheating on his wife with the maid. I hadn’t chosen the “wrong side,” as some might expect. Instead, I had quietly confronted him and told him to stop.

To his credit, he did.

Pammi has two young children and the sweetest wife imaginable—a woman who genuinely believed her husband adores her. I couldn’t bring myself to shatter her world, especially knowing she likely wouldn’t have the means or courage to leave. The alternative was too painful to consider: a broken family, lasting trauma for the children, and unnecessary chaos.

No. I passed on that burden.

It might not be moral, but sometimes the right decisions aren't always the moral ones.

“We have a client session in fifteen minutes,” he said, sliding a script toward me. “Kloviya Skincare. They’ve requested revisions.”

I picked up the papers, quickly skimming the highlighted notes.

“What changed?”

“They want the tone to sound more natural,” he replied. “Less commercial, More conversational, but still premium. Softer delivery, Controlled pace.”

I nodded slightly.

“Hindi?”

“Hindi and bilingual,” he said. “Two versions. The client wasn’t happy with the previous artist.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Why?”

“She sounded too scripted,” he said. “The feedback was that it lacked emotional warmth.”

I looked through the script again.

“The pauses are written awkwardly,” I said. “And half these emphasis notes contradict each other.”

Pammi looked at me for a second.

“Which is exactly why I gave it to you.”

“Fair. What’s the deadline?”

“Scratch take today. Final approval by tomorrow if they don’t ask for another existential crisis disguised as feedback.”

I almost smiled.

“And payment?”

His expression flattened immediately.

“You ask that before every project.”

“Because professionalism includes payment,” I replied calmly.

He sighed dramatically.

“You’ll get the revised amount. Premium rate.”

Premium... That got my attention.

“Interesting.”

“Also,” he added, glancing at another file, “there’s an audiobook narration test after this.”

“What genre?”

“Psychological thriller.”

I paused.

“Name?”

“I don't rember it clearly...”

“Uhh... By?”

“Can’t tell,” Pammi said, already looking back at his laptop. “The author requested complete secrecy. If you get selected, then you’ll know.”

That was… unusual.

Anonymous authors were either painfully dramatic or painfully famous.

Sometimes both.

“Okay,” I said, picking up the script. “Send me the brief.”

“Already in your mail.”

I nodded once and turned toward studio three.

The next few hours disappeared in retakes, revisions, tone adjustments, and client feedback that somehow managed to be both painfully specific and completely vague at the same time.

A little warmer.

Less polished.

More intimate, but not too intimate.

Creative industries are exhausting.

By the time everything was finally approved, I practically collapsed onto the couch and pulled out my phone.

I opened my mail.

Brief for Audiobook Narration Test
Project Title: On Her Lips
Genre: Psychological Thriller / Dark Romance
Narration Style Required: Emotionally restrained. Intimate. Mature. Controlled delivery. Avoid excessive dramatization.

Male Lead: Dante
A man of control. Sharp, observant, emotionally guarded. His presence should feel unsettling rather than loud. Calmness over aggression.

Female Lead: Lexi
Warm but emotionally layered. Intelligent. Vulnerability should feel natural, never exaggerated.

Important Notes:
This project contains psychological tension, dark romantic undertones, emotionally intense dynamics, sensual themes, and mature content. Certain sections involve emotionally charged intimacy and heavy romantic tension, requiring a controlled, immersive, and emotionally intelligent performance.

Narration Requirements:

Emotional restraint, Smart tonal shifts, Controlled pacing, Long pauses where required, Quiet tension over dramatic delivery, Sensual atmosphere handled with maturity and precision.

Audition Process:
Selected voice-over artists will participate in an audio test. Final shortlisted candidates will receive the full manuscript and author details upon selection.

I stared at the screen for a second.

Okay.

This suddenly sounded serious.

At the bottom of the brief, there was another attachment.

Audition Material

Sample Extract | On Her Lips
Confidential. Not for distribution.

A short note sat underneath.

The following sample has been selected to evaluate tonal control, emotional restraint, pacing, dialogue distinction, psychological tension, and intimate scene handling. Kindly submit one clean audio file within forty-eight hours.

I clicked the PDF.

And fucking hell.

The sample chapter plunged straight into a heavy smut scene with graphic details and charged tension that made my eyes widen. I slammed it shut almost instantly.

Nope. Absolutely not.

A startled laugh escaped me before I could hold it back. I shook my head, pressing a hand to my forehead.

I need meditation for this.

And a ridiculous amount of vocal control.

There was no way I was walking into a professional audiobook audition and stumbling awkwardly through a scene like that. My voice needed to be smooth, confident, and completely in command — not breathy or embarrassed like a nervous teenager.

Pammi emerged from the editing room a minute later, wiping his hands on a cloth.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Not today.”

He frowned, clearly caught off guard. “Why not? The earlier we submit, the better our chances.”

“No,” I said firmly, rising from the couch. “For something like this, the calmer the mind, the better the performance.”

He crossed his arms, studying me with mild irritation. “Rida, this is a major project.”

“I know,” I replied, picking up my helmet from the side table. “Which is exactly why I don’t want to rush it.”

I tapped the PDF open for half a second, caught another glimpse of the steamy prose, and closed it again with a quick swipe.

“This requires modulation,” I explained. “If the tone feels even slightly forced, it’ll sound completely artificial.”

He still looked unconvinced, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“You really want to wait till tomorrow?”

“Yes,” I said simply. “I’d rather submit something excellent tomorrow than something average today.”

That shut him up.

Good.

“Fine,” he muttered after a long pause, clearly reluctant. “But don’t delay too much.”

“Yup!”

I gathered my things, slinging my bag over my shoulder.

“Hey,” he called out sharply, pointing toward the studio floor. “Where exactly do you think you’re going? There’s still work left.”

I turned and looked at him with raised eyebrows.

“Don’t you employ other people?”

He gave me a long, exasperated look. “Rida.”

“Pammi,” I replied in the exact same tone.

────────✿────────

Before we begin, a tiny heads-up:

✿ No cheating,
✿ No paranormal/fantasy elements
✿ No magical creatures, powers, or hidden worlds

This book is darker, more psychological, very sexy, and a little unsettling at times.

(I hope you've read the warnings and ready for whatever comes next😇)

♡Miraaj and Talessmith signing in♡