Fourteen Kilometres away, Mylapore: Stalin residence.
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"Hey, babe, are you really going to crash at your dad's house? You aren't exactly on good terms with him, right?" I asked a girl who was scantily dressed and very tipsy.
The person standing opposite her was another girl who had just gotten out of the cab.
She was wearing a form-fitting, knee-length black bodycon dress with a plunging neckline and subtle sequin detailing. The dress highlighted her curves while exuding sophistication. Her black hair flowed down in curly waves that were gorgeous.
"It's okay; he totally doesn't mind me staying at his house. He questions the choices I make every day, and he is totally against drinking, so I moved out as a sign of protest. It's okay now. I earn enough money to live comfortably and also not be a bother to this old geezer." Saying that, she spat on the nameplate emblazoned on the side of the gate, which boldly read 'STALIN RESIDENCE'.
The girl in the cab let out a hearty laugh. Anyway, Anne, see you later. Don't be late tomorrow; it is a very important day." Upon hearing that, Ananya decided to check her phone.
The time is 1:08 a.m. Also, there were 43 missed calls on the phone. All were from her dad.
Ananya, who had just gotten back from going clubbing with a few friends, ignored that. She knew where Stalin hid his spare key, so she got in, went over to the side where there were red hibiscus flowers, and pulled out the spare key from underneath the flower pot.
She made her way to the front of the house and quietly opened the door.
Stepping through the front door, she was greeted in a foyer adorned with historical artifacts, antique maps, and vintage globes. A polished hardwood floor stretched ahead, leading to an inviting living room on one side and a cozy study on the other. The entire house was eerily quiet and dark, and none of the lights were on.
She turned on some of the house lights and called out to her dad. "Dad!? Where are you?" The only response she got was a chilling silence that enveloped the house.
"Huh, that's strange; dad is usually home by now. Is he staying out or something? Why did he call me so many times?" I thought he was calling me so much because he was worried I was out late."
She nervously pulled out her phone and glanced at the forty-three missed calls again.
"Alright, let me give him a call." She dialed up his number on her smartphone.
*Riiiing Riing*
*Riiiiiiiing
*Riiiiiiiing*
*click*
Hello, who is this?" An unfamiliar female voice sounded, with what seemed like a lot of commotion in the background.
"Uh, who is this? And is my father there?" The voice paused on the other end for a bit, as if it were hesitating.
"Your dad is in the hospital right now." The voice stated it bluntly.
A deafening silence took over Anne's head as she was just processing what was said to her.
"M-my dad? in the hospital? What happened?"
"He was attacked by unknown assailants outside Anna University College. We will be filing a police report once he recovers. Please make your way to Apollo Hospitals, Greams Road, as soon as possible."
A *beep beep beep beep* could be heard in the background as the commotion increased.
"Nurse! He's going into cardiac arrest! Quick! Bring in the crash car."
*click*
The phone call came to an abrupt end, and simultaneously, the door of the house clicked as Anne started to run her way to the hospital, and she pulled out her phone.
"Siri, give me directions to Apollo Hospital, Greams Road." She screamed into the phone as she kept running in the general direction.
Thirty minutes later, she was at the entrance of the huge hospital, drenched in sweat.
She stumbled her way to the information desk to the right after making her way through the entrance.
"I'm looking for my father," was all she could mouth out before her lack of breath caught up to her, and the nurse sitting on the gloomy night desk suddenly rose from her seat out of concern.
"Sure, who is it you're looking for?" The nurse beamed back, seeming to maintain a cheerful attitude in a place as gloomy as a hospital.
"P-Professor Stalin. Kalaimaaran Stalin. I'm his daughter, Ananya Stalin."
The nurse's cheerful vibe suddenly turned into seriousness, and she turned around and pulled out one of the phones lined up on the side.
"How is patient number 12 doing?" Anne could see the side of the phone, and her stomach dropped as it was labeled "ICU".
"Is he in the ICU?"
"Yes."
Anne was immediately led to room number 412, and peeking through the window, she was granted a view of Professor Stalin laid out in bed, surrounded by a myriad of medical machines and a couple of medical personnel observing and walking around the room with urgency.
Anne's questions only grew as she saw the catatonic state her father was in. Why would someone do something like this on a history professor, no less? The man won't hurt a fly, even if he had to.
She waited for what seemed like an eternity, and finally, one of the doctors came out from inside the lab.
Anne immediately pounced at the doctor, bombarding him with questions.
"How is my father doing? Is he alright? What happened? What are his injuries?"
The doctor held Anne back physically and started talking.
"Your father's current state is nothing short of miraculous considering the severity of his injuries. He sustained a traumatic injury to his skull, resulting in a fracture of the temporal bone. His right arm is also fractured, specifically the humerus, and he has multiple contusions and abrasions scattered across his body."
The doctor's words hung in the air, laden with grim gravity. Anne listened attentively, her heart aching at the clinical description of her father's injuries.
"As of now," the doctor continued, "we have stabilized his condition to the best of our abilities. He's under constant observation, and we're closely monitoring his intracranial pressure to prevent any further complications. The next 24 hours will be crucial in determining his response to treatment."
Anne's eyes welled up with tears as she absorbed the gravity of her father's situation.
She didn't know. She didn't know who did this, why, how, or what. She was left with more questions than answers. The tears didn't stop, and as she curled up in one of the chairs in a fetal position, a man approached her.
He seemed to be well-groomed, with a handlebar mustache and not a single strand of black hair, despite his age showing on his face. He was a little on the shorter side, but he had a sense of pride in his walk, as if adorning this khaki uniform was something he looked forward to every day.
"Hello ma'am, I'm Sub-Inspector S.M. Thiruvikraman from the Thousand Lights police station. I'm here to ask you a bit about the incident with Professor Stalin. We are investigating all possibilities right now, and considering that, I would like to ask some general questions about him."