I still remember the day we watched him die in the electric chair. The room buzzed with finality, the air thick with justice served. We thought it was over—Prakash, Anand, Samuel, and me, Roshan—four men who brought a predator to his knees. He killed those girls after whispering love into their ears, then fried their bodies like meat on a grill. We made sure he felt the same current.

But last night, during the storm, the power surged in my house. The lights flickered, and I saw him—standing at the foot of my bed, skin blackened, eyes glowing like live wires. He didn’t speak. He just smiled.

This morning, Samuel’s wife was found dead. No marks. No struggle. Just the smell of burnt flesh and a single phrase scorched into the wall: You’re next.

I don’t know how he’s back. But I know one thing—we’re not dealing with a man anymore. We’re dealing with hate that outlived death.