Nimra stared at the photo on her phone — Faizan, alive, or something like him. But his eyes… they weren't his. They were voids. Deep, swirling black like vortexes of stolen memories.
And behind him?
Faces.
Blurred, broken, screaming.
A message blinked under the image:
"Welcome to the Archive. New players are arriving."
Nimra's fingers trembled. She reread the message thrice.
New players.
That meant more people had pressed ABSORB.
More hosts of cursed confessions.
The game wasn't over.
It had evolved.
She quickly pulled out her notebook — the one where she'd written every voice, every confession. But the pages… had changed.
Some entries were crossed out in red ink.
Others were rewritten.
And some had new names she didn't remember writing.
"Ali Asad – Karachi – Burned family alive in sleep."
"Arooj Khan – Lahore – Buried best friend in wall."
"Unknown – Multan – Smiled during dismemberment."
The confessions were spreading.
Without her.
That shouldn't be possible.
Unless…
Someone else was broadcasting them.
Nimra connected the melted USB drive to her backup system.
Miraculously, a folder reappeared: VX_RELAY
Inside, a single document:
"There are 6 of you now."
And beneath it, a map.
Six glowing dots across Pakistan.
Islamabad. Lahore. Karachi. Quetta. Peshawar. Sukkur.
Nimra's dot blinked green.
One other — in Karachi — blinked red.
Another — Peshawar — yellow.
The rest were black.
Inactive? Or… waiting?
A line of text blinked at the bottom:
"The Archive is unstable. Only one will remain. Begin collection."
Collection?
Of what?
Voices? Souls? Secrets?
It wasn't a curse anymore.
It was a war.
That night, Nimra had a dream.
Faizan stood across a burning bridge, his face flickering between himself and a stranger. Shadows flew around him like moths.
He spoke without opening his mouth.
"Stop them. Before they turn the Archive into a weapon."
She ran toward him.
But the bridge crumbled beneath her feet.
She fell into fire.
And woke up… screaming.
Day 2 of the Archive War
Nimra's phone received a transmission.
Not a message — a confession recording.
But this time, not from the dead.
It was a living girl. Crying. Pleading.
"I didn't want to be part of this. But they made me absorb it. They said the one who collects the most voices wins. I can't take it anymore. They scream in my head, even when I'm awake. Please… if you get this… end me."
Nimra traced the metadata.
Karachi.
Another host.
And she was cracking under the weight.
Nimra made her decision.
She had to find the others — before the Archive consumed them… or they consumed each other.
Karachi — 48 Hours Later
The city was electric. Chaotic. But beneath its lights, Nimra found the darkness.
Player 2: Hina Altaf.
19. Psychology student. Absorbed the app through a pirated data-sharing site.
Her apartment was small, filled with sticky notes and voice recorders.
And in the center, Hina — rocking back and forth, whispering into an unplugged mic.
She looked up when Nimra entered.
"You're her," Hina said. "The original. Faizan's shadow."
Nimra sat beside her. "We're the same now."
Hina shook her head violently. "No. You still have boundaries. I don't. I hear them when I blink. When I breathe. I tried to cut my ears out yesterday."
She showed the blood-stained bandages behind her head.
Nimra swallowed.
This was what losing the Archive looked like.
Hina held out a recorder.
"I collected 173 voices. Can't hold more. Take them."
Nimra hesitated. "If I absorb yours… you'll…"
"Be free," Hina whispered.
Nimra looked into her eyes.
There was no madness there.
Only surrender.
With trembling hands, Nimra activated her Archive Core.
The moment the data transferred, Hina collapsed, unconscious.
Her phone exploded into sparks.
And Nimra's mind flooded with 173 new memories.
Too fast.
Too raw.
She blacked out.
When she woke up, she was in a hospital.
Her ears ringing.
Hina was gone.
Discharged. Vanished.
But in Nimra's mind, the voices were louder. Faster. Meaner.
And in her pocket… a new message.
"You now hold 394 voices. Player 2 removed. 5 remain."
This was no longer survival.
This was a contest.
Player 3: Yusuf Khan. Peshawar.
An ex-army hacker. Claimed he "decoded" the app and turned it into a private confessional podcast.
He didn't care about morality.
He called the voices "content."
And he was thriving.
Thousands of downloads.
Paid subscribers.
He wore sunglasses inside his bunker, sipping Red Bull while streaming secrets of the dead.
"You're the righteous one, huh?" he said to Nimra when she confronted him. "Faizan's little sidekick. Still believing in redemption?"
Nimra growled, "They trusted us. They didn't ask to be exposed like this."
Yusuf laughed. "Then why do they keep talking?"
She activated the transfer protocol.
He smirked. "I've locked mine. You can't steal what I encrypt."
"But I can end your signal," she said, and smashed his broadcasting server.
The lights burst.
Screams echoed from the speakers — unfinished, broken.
He lunged at her.
They fought — brutal, silent, fueled by ghosts.
Nimra barely escaped, leaving him unconscious, server in flames.
Back home — Islamabad
Nimra stared into the mirror.
Her eyes were changing.
Turning pale gray, like glass fogged from within.
Faizan had those same eyes in the last photo.
She had absorbed too much.
She was changing.
Not into a monster.
Into a medium.
A conduit.
And the Archive… was hungry for more.
Midnight.
She sat at her desk.
Voice recorders scattered like bones.
Her phone buzzed.
New message:
"Player 4 has entered the game. This one doesn't collect. He kills collectors."
Attached was CCTV footage.
A girl — bleeding — crawling on the floor of a railway station.
A man in a black hoodie stood over her, whispering:
"Confess and die. Or hide and burn."
Nimra's mouth went dry.
Player 4 wasn't absorbing voices.
He was destroying hosts.
Wiping out competition.
And maybe… ending the Archive one scream at a time.
Nimra stood, the shadows closing in, as she whispered to herself:
"This isn't about the app anymore. This is about who controls the truth."
To be continued…