PARASITE

FATHER

A Crime Thriller by Tanvir Hossain

FATHER IS A CRIME THRILLER STORY WRITTEN BY

TANVIR HOSSAIN

EMAIL:- xdimaginary@gmail.com

CHAPTER COUNT- 4

WORD COUNT- 6579

FATHER: A masterpiece of shadows where every crime has a face, and every truth hides a lie. Experience a world of relentless thrill, bone-chilling twists, and gut-wrenching drama.

A Story by

TANVIR HOSSAIN

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1:- PARASITE………….

CHAPTER 2:- HOUSE 21…………….

SUB 1:- OWN BLOOD……..………………….

SUB 2:- CHECKMATE……………..…………..

SUB 3:- TEAR…………………………………….

CHAPTER 3:- FL

ASHBACK……….

CHAPTER 6:- FATHER……….

CHAPTER 1:- PARASITE

21 DECEMBER 2021 : MUMBAI

The silence was too deep to ignore. A man in a sharp black coat walked steadily through the shadows, a bag gripped firmly in his hand. It was exactly 12:21 a.m. The night was so unnaturally still that the sound of his own breathing echoed against the empty walls. Step by step, he moved down the deserted street, his every breath a sharp contrast to the suffocating quiet. Suddenly, the sharp click of another pair of boots echoed from the darkness behind him. Arthur stopped and spun around, but the street was empty. Nothing but shadows danced under the flickering lights.

He tightened his grip on the bag, his pulse quickening. "Arthur, you're far too late tonight," he muttered to himself, his voice a low whisper in the cold air. "Better get home fast before some thief or scavenger finds me."

He turned back and continued walking, unaware that something—or someone—was perfectly synced with his movements. He didn't know it yet, but he wasn't alone. The hunt had already begun.A voice suddenly broke the silence, crawling up Arthur's spine. It was low, raspy, and terrifyingly familiar.

"Hello, Arthur," the voice drifted from the shadows. "Do you remember Lana? I really hope you do."

Arthur’s breath hitched in his throat. He felt like a deer caught in headlights, unable to move or even speak. The voice came again, closer this time, dripping with cold hatred. "Because if you’ve forgotten... I’m here to give you a reminder you’ll never forget."

A flash of steel caught the pale moonlight. Before Arthur could even process the shadow moving behind him, a heavy knife came down with sickening force. The impact was silent but final. Arthur’s knees buckled, and his world went black instantly. He slumped to the concrete—lifeless—leaving only the sound of the wind echoing in the empty street

The next morning, at 10:21 a.m., the city had begun its usual crawl. A waste collector was making his rounds near the alley when he spotted something through the stench of the dumpster. His heart skipped a beat as he cleared a few bags.

There lay Arthur. His body was completely stripped bare, his skin pale and cold against the filth. But it was the sight on his chest that made the collector’s stomach churn—the word 'FATHER' had been carved deep into his flesh with surgical precision.

The man stumbled back, falling onto the hard ground in sheer terror. With trembling hands, he fumbled for his phone and dialed the police.

"I... I found a body! In the dumpster!" he gasped, his voice cracking.

"Sir, stay calm. What is your location?" the dispatcher asked firmly.

"Halakpur... Street 21," he managed to choke out.

"We’re sending a unit right now. Don’t touch anything. Leave the area exactly as it is.”

The police sirens wailed as they arrived at the scene by 11:12 a.m. The officers gathered around the dumpster, their faces hardening as they saw the victim. "The body is still fresh," one of them remarked. "This happened last night."

A car door slammed, and Officer John stepped out. He was a man of imposing height, filling out a sharp black shirt tucked into blue trousers. A half-burnt cigarette hung from his lips, the smoke curling into his thick, well-groomed beard that covered his jawline, topped with a stern mustache. He looked like a man who had seen too many crime scenes and slept too little.

"Sir," Officer Amir said, gesturing toward the body. "Based on the rigor mortis, he was likely killed sometime last night."

John took a long drag of his cigarette, his eyes scanning the alley with clinical focus. "Amir, get the CCTV footage from every camera within a two-mile radius from last night," he commanded, his voice deep and raspy. "I want doors knocked on. Ask if anyone saw anything unusual—a runner, a shadow, anything at all. He flicked the ash onto the pavement. "Process the body thoroughly and get it to the lab immediately. I want to know exactly what that carving on his chest is telling us.”

The scene shifts to the precinct. The atmosphere in the briefing room was thick with tension as Officer John stood before a whiteboard covered in gruesome crime scene photos. All eyes were on him.

"This isn't an isolated incident," John said, his voice echoing against the sterile walls. "This murder is identical to the one we saw two weeks ago. Same time frame, same surgical precision, and that same haunting signature—FATHER—carved into the skin."

He paced the room, the officers listening in stunned silence. "That makes it four bodies in less than a month. Same weapon, same MO. We aren't looking for a common thief or a random mugger anymore."

He slammed his hand on the table, leaning in close. "We are hunting a serial killer. He’s meticulous, he’s fast, and he’s just getting started. If we don’t find the connection between these victims soon, there’s going to be a fifth body on that slab before the week is over.”

The investigation took a chilling turn as the links between the victims began to surface. It was revealed that all four men weren’t just acquaintances—they were inseparable friends. Records and family testimonies showed that seventeen years ago, these men spent almost every waking hour together.

Their wives and families were baffled; none of them had known enemies or were involved in anything that would warrant such a brutal end. The list of the dead was growing: Mohit, Arsu, Amit, and now Arthur.

But the circle wasn't complete. There were two more names from that original group of friends: Arhan and Rehan.

"What’s the connection between these two and the victims?" one of the junior officers asked, leaning over a spread of old photographs.

John stared at the board, his eyes narrowing as he connected the dots with a red marker. "The connection isn't just friendship—it’s a shared past. And if the killer is following this list, Arhan and Rehan aren't just witnesses. They are targets. The predator is finishing what started seventeen years ago, and those two are next on the menu.”

John sat hunched over his desk at home, the glow of a single lamp illuminating the scattered crime scene photos and witness reports. He was meticulously scanning every piece of information the neighborhood canvassing had turned up, but the results were hollow.

A black coat. A mask. Long hair. Average height. Bloodstains on the trousers.

The only physical evidence sat in a small plastic bag: a single strand of hair. It wasn't enough. It was nowhere near enough.

"SHIT!" John roared, slamming his fist onto the desk. "I have nothing! What the hell am I even doing?"

The door creaked open. The sudden outburst had drawn his wife and young daughter to the room. His daughter looked at him with wide, innocent eyes, clutching the doorframe. "What happened, Papa?" she asked softly.

John’s expression softened instantly, the fire in his eyes replaced by a weary sadness. He forced a small, tired smile. "It’s nothing, beta. Nothing at all."

He looked up at his wife. "Radhika, please... take her inside. I just need a moment.”

John paced his room, his mind racing.

"The connection... it’s all in the past. If I can just find the link between these six—"

His thought was shattered as a junior officer burst in, pale and trembling. "Sir! Look at this. Now!"

On a smartphone screen, a YouTube live stream was playing. An unknown user was broadcasting a nightmare. Rehan was tied to a chair, gagged and struggling, while a masked figure moved in the shadows behind him. The killer was slowly, agonizingly carving the word 'FATHER' into Rehan's chest.

"Trace it! Now! Get me a location!" John bellowed.

The tech team scrambled. "Sir, we’ve got a hit! An under-construction building in Azimnagar, Site 21."

The sirens screamed as a dozen police cruisers tore through the city. John kept his eyes glued to the live feed. Rehan was still alive, still screaming behind the tape. "We’re going to get him," John hissed through gritted teeth. "This ends today."

They reached the building and stormed the floors, following the background details seen on the live stream. They reached the exact room, guns drawn, hearts pounding. John kicked the door open.

"POLICE! DON'T MOVE!"

Silence.

There was no killer. There was no Rehan. The room was empty except for a projector mounted on a tripod, casting a high-definition loop of the torture onto a white sheet hung against the far wall. The 'live' stream was a pre-recorded deception, timed perfectly to lure them there.

In a fit of pure rage, John grabbed the projector and hurled it against the ground, shattering it into pieces. He stepped forward and ripped the white sheet off the wall.

Behind it, painted in fresh, dripping blood directly onto the concrete, was the word: FATHER.

The media was in a frenzy. The YouTube livestream had gone viral within minutes, spreading terror across the city faster than any virus. Headlines screamed about the "Live-Stream Killer," and the public was demanding answers.

"We have to catch that parasite," John hissed, slamming his phone onto the dashboard. "We have to catch him before he turns this entire city into his playground."

The investigation went into overdrive. John and his team buried themselves in the archives, scouring through cold cases and old records, searching for anything—a name, a face, a shared sin from seventeen years ago. But the past remained a locked vault. There was nothing but dead ends.

Then, the news broke.

A body had been discovered washed up near the banks of Powai Lake. It was Rehan. He was found exactly like the others—branded with that haunting, blood-red 'FATHER' mark across his chest.

Mumbai was paralyzed. The citizens were terrified, and the media was in a state of absolute chaos. The question wasn't if the killer would strike again, but who was the final name on his list.

The police had Arhan in an iron-clad grip. He was their last card, the final piece of the puzzle. They moved him to a high-security zone, convinced the killer would come for him next. Inside the interrogation room, the air was thick with the smell of stale coffee and desperation.

“Think, Arhan!” John barked, leaning so close that Arhan could smell the tobacco on his breath. “Did you people kill someone? Was there a debt? A grudge? Why is he hunting you like animals?”

“I swear, Sir... I don’t know anything!” Arhan stammered, his eyes darting around in terror.

John’s patience snapped. He grabbed Arhan by the collar, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. “Do we look like fools to you? He’s carving 'FATHER' into your friends' chests! Speak up, you son of a bitch! Who did you hurt seventeen years ago?”

“Sir, please... calm down! Trust me!” Arhan sobbed.

John stepped back, exhaling sharply. He walked to the corner of the room where Amir was waiting. “Did he do it?” Amir whispered. John looked back at the trembling boy. “No,” John muttered. “I looked into his eyes. He’s telling the truth. He’s as clueless as we are.”

The clock on the wall struck 12:21 AM. The station was a fortress—armed guards at every exit, cameras everywhere. Arhan was safe. Or so they thought.

Meanwhile, miles away at a quiet suburban hospital, a shadow moved through the sterile hallways. A man in a black coat entered a private ward where a young man lay unconscious. Without a word, the figure took him.

The next morning, the sun rose over a new nightmare. A body was found dumped near the city outskirts. The word 'FATHER' was freshly carved into the chest, but next to the body lay a chilling note written in bold, black ink: "FINAL DESTINATION DONE."

Back at the station, the news hit like a physical blow. Arhan was alive, but the cycle was over.

"If Arhan is still here, then who the hell did he kill?" John roared.

Arhan looked at the crime scene photo of the new victim and collapsed into his chair, his face turning ghostly white. "Aman..." he whispered. "They killed Aman too."

"Aman?" John froze. "Who is Aman?"

"The seventh of us," Arhan choked out.

The realization sank in like lead. The killer had finished his list. He didn't want Arhan; he wanted the others. As the team frantically began digging into the archives once more, a new name finally surfaced from

the shadows of 2009. A name that sent a chill down John's spine.

MARK !!