en Cuevana 3. In the dead of night, a lone mosquito prowls, hungry for blood. It moves like a phantom, lurking in the shadows, striking with precision. Yash, its restless prey, tosses and turns, swatting at the air, frustration boiling into obsession. he hunts through the dim-lit room, eyes darting, breath shallow. The mosquito stays just out of reach, its eerie buzz echoing like a cruel laugh.Minutes drag, paranoia creeps in. Who is truly the hunter? Who is the hunted? Then-BZZZZ-one final move. A slap. Silence. But in the darkness... something still lingers.