Chapter 1: The Ghost in My Phone

The notification chimed at exactly 11:47 PM, cutting through the silence of my cramped dorm room like a digital scythe. I glanced at the screen of my brand-new phone—my first real smartphone, purchased with the prize money from winning the regional coding competition. The display showed an unknown number, and my thumb hovered over the decline button.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Against my better judgment, I answered.

"Hello?"

"Is this Bitsah? Listen, you son of a bitch, you owe me twelve thousand rupees and I'm done playing games—"

I hung up immediately, my heart hammering. Wrong number, obviously. But the caller's fury had been so raw, so personal, that it left me unsettled. I stared at the phone's sleek surface, suddenly feeling like I'd purchased someone else's nightmare along with my dream device.

The next morning brought three more calls. Then five the day after. By the end of the week, my phone was buzzing every few hours with increasingly creative death threats, all directed at someone named Bitsah.

"Bitsah Verma, you scamming piece of shit!"

"Tell that bastard Bitsah his time is up!"

"I know where Bitsah's parents live—"

Each call was a window into someone's personal hell, and apparently, this Bitsah character was the architect of their misery. Money lenders, small business owners, even what sounded like heartbroken elderly people—all hunting for a ghost who had vanished with their cash.

I should have changed my number immediately. Any rational person would have. But there was something oddly fascinating about being the accidental curator of someone else's sins. Plus, I was a broke college student, and changing numbers meant paperwork, fees, and hassle I couldn't afford.

Instead, I developed a system.

Every time a call came in, I'd note the number in a small black notebook—the same one I used for coding algorithms and project deadlines. Beside each number, I'd jot down whatever details I could glean: "Delhi moneylender," "Wedding caterer," "Electronics shop owner," "Bitsah's college friend (??)."

The notebook grew thick with entries. Page after page of numbers, each representing someone's anger, someone's financial ruin. It became a strange ritual—answer, listen to the vitriol for thirty seconds, then add the contact to my ever-expanding "Bitsah's Creditors" list before blocking the number.

Some callers were more informative than others. I learned that Bitsah was from somewhere in North India, probably in his thirties, and had a talent for elaborate financial schemes. One particularly eloquent caller mentioned he'd borrowed money for a "revolutionary app idea" that never materialized. Another spoke of wedding jewelry that was never delivered, despite full payment upfront.

"That Bitsah Verma thinks he can hide forever," one woman sobbed into the phone. "But karma finds everyone eventually."

Verma. I made a note of the surname, though I wasn't sure why. It's not like I was planning to track down this mysterious scammer myself.

Years passed. College became a career in software development. The calls continued—less frequent now, but persistent. My notebook became notebooks, plural. I'd upgraded phones twice, but I kept the same number out of some perverse loyalty to my strange collection.

By my count, I'd logged over 150 unique contacts, all seeking the same man. Bitsah Verma had apparently left quite the trail of destruction in his wake.

The ritual became automatic: Ring. Answer. Listen. Note. Block. Repeat.

"You tell Bitsah that Sharma Electronics remembers! He can't hide behind that fake number forever!"

Block.

"This is regarding the outstanding loan of forty-five thousand to one Bitsah Verma. Legal action will be—"

Block.

"Beta, I'm an old woman, and that boy Bitsah promised to help with my son's medical bills. Please, if you know him—"

Block. That one stung a little.

I often wondered what had become of him. Was he still running cons somewhere, racking up new enemies? Had he changed his ways? Was he even alive? The calls suggested he was a master at disappearing, but debts have long memories, and creditors are relentless.

My friends thought I was crazy for not changing my number.

"Just get a new phone plan, Alex," my roommate had suggested for the hundredth time. "This is insane."

But by then, the notebook had become something more than a collection of wrong numbers. It was a testament to human persistence, a catalog of consequences. Every entry represented someone who refused to let injustice slide, who kept dialing in hope of finding their tormentor.

Besides, the calls had slowed to maybe once a month. I could handle once a month.

I graduated, landed a job at a mid-sized tech company, and moved to a decent apartment. The notebook—now three notebooks—came with me, tucked away in a desk drawer like a bizarre trophy. The calls still came occasionally, but they'd become background noise in my life.

Until I started working for him.

I didn't know it at the time, of course. When I interviewed for the senior developer position, my new project manager introduced himself simply as "Bits." He was a slick-talking guy in an expensive suit that seemed a size too small, with the kind of aggressive confidence that made you question your own competence within minutes of meeting him.

"I run a tight ship here," he'd said during my first team meeting, his accent carrying hints of the same North Indian inflection I'd heard in some of those angry phone calls. "I don't tolerate mediocrity, and I don't accept excuses. You deliver results, or you find another job. Simple as that."

The team had exchanged nervous glances. I'd chalked it up to typical corporate intimidation tactics.

I should have paid more attention to the accent.

Now, sitting in my cubicle at 11:30 PM, staring at the latest passive-aggressive email from Bits demanding an explanation for why the client presentation wasn't "absolutely perfect," I felt that familiar knot of frustration in my chest. The same knot I'd felt during those early phone calls, listening to strangers vent their rage at a ghost named Bitsah.

"Alex, your work today was substandard. See me first thing tomorrow morning. We need to discuss your commitment to this team. —B.V."

B.V.

I'd never noticed the initials before. Bits had always just been... Bits.

My hand unconsciously reached for the drawer where my notebooks lay hidden. Three volumes of rage, all directed at someone who'd made a career of disappointing people, of taking their money and vanishing like smoke.

Someone with the initials B.V.

Someone whose victims had been calling my phone for nearly a decade.

Someone who might not be a ghost after all.

The email notification chimed again, making me jump. Another message from Bits, probably with more threats disguised as performance feedback. But for the first time in months, I found myself smiling as I reached for my phone.

After all these years of collecting other people's anger, I was finally starting to understand what it felt like to have some of my own.

And unlike those voices from the past, I knew exactly where to find my target.