The Last Location

By Subasree

Society never tires of speaking about women’s safety. Yet, when the night grows quiet, that safety is nowhere to be found. 

Anjana Murali was a team lead at one of the city’s top MNCs. On paper, she was doing well—earning enough to live like a princess. But the job came at a cost. The endless night shifts gnawed at her health, leaving her exhausted. Still, money had its own grip, and she couldn’t let go. 

That night, like every other, she was on her way home at 3 a.m. The streets stretched out empty, lit only by the tired glow of streetlamps. She sat alone in the backseat, the driver silent up front. Out of habit, she sent her brother her location before lowering the window. The night air rushed in—cold, sharp—and the chill met the heaviness inside her chest. Tears slipped free. She laced her fingers together tightly, as if that was the only way to keep herself from unravelling. 

The silence shattered. Her phone lit up suddenly with a flash, followed by the shrill ring of a call. She flinched—her heart racing. At this hour, even the smallest sound felt louder, stranger, dangerous. 

On the screen, the words My Lil Boy glowed. 

She answered quickly, her voice tired, her soul hollow. 

“Yeah.” 

“Anjana,” her brother’s voice came, sharp but worried, “you sent me the current location, not the live one. Share the live location.” 

She glanced at WhatsApp and saw the mistake. A sigh escaped her lips. 

“Sorry. Will do. Bye.” 

With a few taps, she deleted the current pin and sent him the live location—the one that would trace her every move. 

The car rolled on through the silence, the city asleep around her. 

Her thoughts began to circle, restless and heavy, until She found a voice of her own. 

“The fear inside me never leaves. The fear of everything around me—my job, my brother, my health. It haunts me every day, every night.” 

Anjana closed her eyes. The words echoed in her head like whispers in a dark room. Her phone slid from her hand and fell into her lap with a dull thud. Her fingers slackened, her grip on herself loosening just as much as her grip on the world. 

Then her body tilted, collapsed against the seat, motionless. 

The driver caught the sudden shift through the rearview mirror. Panic flared in his eyes. 

“Madam! Anjana! Are you okay?” 

No answer. Only silence, broken by the low hum of the car engine and the distant emptiness of the 3 a.m. streets. 

The driver swerved the car toward the curb and stopped on a deserted stretch of road. Without wasting a second, he jumped out, yanked open the back door, and tried to shake Anjana awake. 

“Madam… Madam, can you hear me?” 

But she didn’t stir. Her body remained slumped against the seat, her breath shallow, her fingers growing colder in the bite of the night air drifting through the open window. 

Panic flickered across his face. He pulled out his phone, hands trembling—but instead of dialling 108, he scrolled and made a quick call to a few of his fellow drivers who were working nearby. 

It was strange—suspicious even—that he chose to call his peers first, not the ambulance.

Within minutes, the driver wasn’t alone. About five men appeared out of the shadows, their footsteps quick and deliberate. Together, they lifted Anjana out of the car and carried her toward a large traveller van waiting by the roadside. 

Her body was limp, but her mind fought to surface. Through half-closed eyes, she caught blurred shapes and muffled voices. A whisper escaped her lips— “Help…”—before one of the men slapped her cheek, forcing her back into the fog of unconsciousness. 

Their laughter carried in the cold night air. 

“Who’s first? Who’s next?” one of them mocked, as if deciding turns in a game. 

But this wasn’t a game. Not for her. For them, it was just another night. For Anjana, it was the beginning of something terrifyingly real. 

The van’s engine rumbled to life as one of the men took the driver’s seat. The others crowded around Anjana, who lay half-conscious on the cold metal floor. 

Their laughter filled the space, harsh and ugly. 

“Finally,” one of them sneered, “our long-time wish has come true.” 

Another leaned closer, his breath sour as he whispered, “It’s her fault… her fault for ending up here.” His words dripped with mockery, as if she had chosen this fate. 

He reached out, his fingers brushing against her face. The others roared with laughter, the van shaking with their crude amusement. 

Anjana stirred faintly, her mind trapped between fear and darkness. The sound of their voices pressed on her like chains. 

On the other end of the city, Anjana’s brother stared at his phone, unease tightening in his chest. Her live location had frozen on the screen, unmoving for too long. Worse—her number was now unreachable. The line was dead. 

Inside the van, the men circled her like predators. One of them pulled out his phone, angling it to record what they were about to do. The others jeered, feeding on each other’s cruelty. 

But then, a voice cut through the noise. 

“Wait. What about the boss? Shouldn’t he be here? Isn’t he supposed to be the first?” 

A silence fell for a moment, followed by a chorus of sighs. 

“He’s not coming,” another muttered. “Said he’s sick.” 

“Sick?” one of them scoffed. “What kind of excuse is that?” 

The man shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe he got cold feet. This is our first time pulling something like this… with a woman. Maybe he doesn’t have the guts.” 

The van filled again with nervous laughter, though a trace of doubt lingered in their eyes. 

One of the men leaned forward, reaching for Anjana. 

“Enough.” 

The voice came from the front. It was the driver. Low, sharp, commanding. 

The men froze, their laughter cut short. For a moment, the only sound was the van’s engine rumbling beneath them. 

“What’s the problem?” one of them scoffed, trying to recover his bravado. “Just drive. We’ll give you your turn.” 

But the van didn’t move. 

The driver’s hands tightened on the wheel. Slowly, he lifted his head, his gaze meeting theirs through the rearview mirror. 

Eyes sharp as blades, a stare that cut through them. The kind of look that sliced through the dark and pinned each of them where they sat. 

A shiver ran through the group. One of them swallowed hard, his voice breaking as he muttered— 

“B-b-boss?” 

The silence in the van stretched until the driver’s voice cut through it again, this time sharper, heavier. 

“Even after I’ve told you countless times—how dare you think of doing this to a girl?” His voice rose, echoing inside the cramped metal walls. “We are drivers. That’s all. We ride the night shifts; we take people home safe. That’s our job.” 

His eyes flicked to Anjana in the mirror. Her face was pale, her body limp. 

“Look at her. She’s unconscious from exhaustion—work, family, the night itself. She doesn’t need this filth. She needs a hospital. Now. Drag her there!” 

But the men didn’t move. Their smirks returned, uglier than before. 

“Boss,” one of them sneered, “don’t waste this chance. You’re the one who taught us not to fear anything. And now you want us to back out?” 

They closed in, shoulder to shoulder, no longer amused but defiant. 

The driver’s jaw tightened. He tried once more, his voice steady but urgent. 

“Walk away from this before you bury yourselves in it.” 

They laughed in his face. 

His hand went to his pocket. Calmly, deliberately, he pulled out his phone and pressed a number. 

“This ends now,” he said, his voice froze the air around them. “I’m calling the police.” 

The van fell into stunned silence. 

One of them spat on the floor, muttering curses, but none dared lunge forward. The air had shifted; their bravado cracked under his stare. 

Minutes later, flashing red-and-blue lights painted the empty road. The police sirens grew louder until they screeched to a halt beside the van. Officers poured out, their voices booming commands, their boots hammering the gravel. 

The men tried to scatter, but there was nowhere to go. Within moments, they were dragged out, wrists bound, faces shoved to the ground. Their laughter had died, replaced by shouts of denial. 

The boss stepped out of the driver’s seat, his hands raised, his voice calm. 

“She’s inside. She needs help.” 

The officers opened the van’s back doors. There lays Anjana, pale, trembling, barely conscious. An ambulance—called alongside the police—was already waiting. She was lifted gently onto a stretcher; oxygen mask pressed against her face. 

Through the haze, she stirred. Her eyes fluttered open for a heartbeat, catching the chaos around her—the men restrained, the police shouting, the night breaking open with noise. But what she clung to was the figure in the driver’s seat, his eyes still cold, unreadable, yet… protective. 

She could barely lift her head, her sight fogged, but in the chaos she felt a shadow lean close. A hand brushed gently against her hair. 

“Thank you…” she whispered, her voice weak, broken. 

The man’s palm lingered for a moment before he whispered back, “I’m sorry.” 

The sound of his voice struck her harder than the night itself. Her eyes widened, tears spilling as recognition flickered inside her. Before she could speak, the stretcher lifted, carrying her into the ambulance. The doors shut with a final metallic thud. 

Outside, the police dragged the men toward their jeeps, their shouts echoing in the night. One of them turned, eyes wild, and spat at the driver. 

“You betrayed us!” 

The boss’s cold stare didn’t waver. His words dropped like a blade. 

“The one I betrayed… was my sister.” His voice cracked the night like thunder. He stood still, watching as the ambulance’s red glow bled into the distance, swallowed by the dark. Behind him, the sirens rose—angry, mournful—dragging the guilty away. But in his chest, it was not victory he carried, only the unbearable weight of blood and betrayal. That night would not be forgotten. Not by her. Not by him. Not by the silence that followed.

By Subasree