The Girl in the Red Dress
The neon lights of the city flickered against the rain-slicked pavement, casting jagged reflections that danced like secrets. Detective Arjun Malik leaned against the bar counter, nursing a glass of cheap whiskey. His eyes, heavy with sleepless nights, scanned the crowd at The Velvet Owl, a dive bar tucked in the underbelly of Karachi. He was here for a lead—a woman tied to a string of disappearances that had the city on edge.
She walked in at exactly 11:43 PM. The room didn’t stop, but it felt like it should have. She wore a red dress that clung to her like a whispered promise, her dark hair cascading in waves that caught the dim light. Every head turned, every conversation faltered. She moved with a predator’s grace, her eyes sharp, scanning the room before settling on a man in a corner booth. Arjun’s grip tightened on his glass. That was him—Raza, the club owner with a rap sheet longer than the Indus.
Arjun had been chasing the case for weeks. Five men, all wealthy, all vanished after being seen with a mysterious woman. No bodies, no ransom, no trace. Just whispers of a femme fatale who left nothing but questions. The department called her a ghost. Arjun called her trouble.
She slid into the booth across from Raza, her smile a blade wrapped in velvet. Arjun couldn’t hear their conversation over the jazz humming through the speakers, but he saw Raza’s face—nervous, eager, like a man staring into a flame he couldn’t resist. She leaned closer, her fingers brushing his hand. Arjun’s pulse quickened. He’d seen that move before in grainy CCTV footage, the last moments of the missing men.
He slipped his phone out, texting his partner: She’s here. Red dress. Corner booth. Move in quiet. But something felt wrong. The air was too heavy, the shadows too sharp. He glanced at the bar’s mirror, and for a split second, he swore her reflection didn’t match her pose. A trick of the light, maybe. Or maybe not.
Minutes ticked by. Raza stood, following her toward the back exit like a moth to a pyre. Arjun tossed a crumpled bill on the counter and followed, his hand brushing the holster under his jacket. The alley behind the bar was a maze of rusted fire escapes and overflowing dumpsters. The rain had stopped, but the air was thick with the scent of decay.
He heard her laugh first—a low, musical sound that sent a shiver down his spine. Then he saw them, just beyond a flickering streetlamp. Raza was pressed against the wall, her hands on his chest, her lips close to his ear. Arjun crept closer, his boots silent on the wet asphalt. He caught fragments of her voice, soft but commanding: “You shouldn’t have come tonight.”
Raza’s eyes widened, his mouth opening to protest, but no sound came. His body stiffened, then slumped, his face frozen in a mask of terror. She stepped back, and Arjun’s breath caught—she was alone. Raza was gone. Not collapsed, not fallen. Gone. The alley was empty except for her, the red dress glowing like a warning in the dark.
Arjun drew his gun, his voice steady despite the hammering in his chest. “Freeze! Hands where I can see them!”
She turned slowly, her eyes locking onto his. They were impossibly dark, like wells with no bottom. Her smile was slow, deliberate, as if she’d been expecting him. “Detective,” she said, her voice a caress that made his skin crawl. “You’re chasing shadows.”
“Where’s Raza?” he demanded, stepping closer, his gun trained on her. “What did you do to him?”
She tilted her head, her hair spilling over one shoulder. “Do you really want to know?” she asked, taking a step toward him. His instincts screamed to shoot, but his finger wouldn’t move. Her presence was suffocating, like the air itself was bending to her will.
“Stay back!” he barked, but she didn’t stop. The streetlamp flickered, and in that split second, she was closer—too close. Her hand brushed his wrist, cold as marble, and his vision blurred. The alley twisted, the walls bending inward, the shadows whispering things he couldn’t understand.
When his partner found him an hour later, Arjun was alone, slumped against the dumpster, his gun still clutched in his hand. The red dress was gone. So was Raza. The only trace was a faint scent of jasmine in the air and a single word scratched into the pavement: Run.
Arjun didn’t sleep that night. He sat at his desk, staring at the case files, the faces of the missing men blurring together. But one thought burned clear: she wasn’t human. And she wasn’t done.
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