Rohan sat alone on the terrace, dusk painting the sky in shades of burnt orange and violet. Below, the city simmered in a low haze of cooking fires and streetlight glow. His laptop hummed quietly beside him; Linux booted, the screen glowing softly like a quiet forge. A Python textbook lay open in one tab. Its syntax felt foreign at first, but his fingers were starting to learn its rhythm—like muscle memory born from necessity. Floating above it was a note from DL:
"Lesson 1: Write a script to detect any attempt at keylogging or screen mirroring. Trust no one. Not even your OS."
DL wasn't just teaching him to code. It was teaching him to think like a threat. To assume surveillance. To assume compromise.
He began typing—import os, from subprocess import Popen—then paused. Not from fatigue, but from the memory of a different keyboard. His father's hands once guided his over an old Toshiba, showing him how to save images from NASA's website.
His eyes drifted to the stars overhead—silent, ancient witnesses to everything he had lost and everything he had become.
Unchanged but followed by soft transition:
"I'll make you proud, Dad," he whispered.
Not loud. Not for show. Just a promise. Between one son and one ghost.
The cursor blinked on the screen. DL said nothing.
But just for a moment… the laptop's fan spun, low and steady—like a jet turbine coasting in silence.
A silent echo.
Not of power.
But of purpose.
The Next Morning, 05/10/2018.
The sky outside was pale with early morning haze. In the dining area, the silence was thick enough to spread like butter.
Rohan sat across from Veena at the modest wooden table, a half-eaten toast cooling on his plate. His eyes were bloodshot but steady. Across from him, his mother sipped her tea with a kind of distracted precision, the way she always did when something weighed on her mind.
"I need to tell you something," he said, his voice measured, picking his words carefully. "The reason I've been acting weird lately… it's because I took Ms. Saxena's advice."
Veena raised her head slightly. "Advice?"
"About college admissions. How they don't just care about marks anymore. You need projects. Innovation. Competitions."
She tilted her head, curious but quiet.
"I signed up for a DRDO-sponsored hackathon," he continued. "They asked for independent submissions—something original. If you win, there's a scholarship. A big one."
Veena set her cup down slowly. "Hackathon?" she repeated, eyes narrowing with faint confusion. "What is that, exactly?"
Rohan looked up, half-smiling. "It's like a competition, but for building stuff—apps, designs, code, anything that solves a real problem. You get a problem statement, and if your solution is strong enough, it gets noticed. Sometimes even funded."
"So, like science fairs with better branding?" she asked, curious but skeptical.
"Sort of," he nodded. "Except instead of volcano models, people build prototypes that can actually work."
Veena said then, "That's what all this midnight coding is about?"
He nodded. "I've been working on something intense. But it's done now. I submitted the design last night. I'll get back to schoolwork and a normal schedule."
She studied his face—deeply this time, not just out of motherly habit, but out of concern.
"Ms. Saxena called me last week," she said after a pause.
Rohan froze mid-chew. "She did?"
"She said you've been… different. Not disrespectful, just withdrawn. Scribbling during class. Barely looking up. And sometimes… talking to yourself."
Rohan's stomach tightened. DL's name hovered at the back of his mind like a ghost. "She's exaggerating."
"Maybe," Veena said gently. "But she also said she sees this a lot. After loss. After trauma. She thinks it might help if you spoke to someone. A counselor."
There was no accusation in her tone, only a quiet plea.
He looked down at his plate; the toast blurred in his vision. "I'm not broken, Maa."
"I know," she said. "But even strong people drown quietly."
There was silence. Then Rohan reached out and held her hand, calloused fingers curling over hers.
"I'm okay," he whispered. "But you know who's not. Arya."
Veena's brows rose, surprised.
"She's trying to hold it together, but I see it. She's distracted. Skipping assignments. Pretending like it's nothing, but she cries some nights. She thinks I don't see her, but I do."
Veena's lips parted slightly, and she nodded with a slow exhale. "I'll… talk to her."
"Maybe she should be the one to see someone," Rohan added. "Not me."
"Maybe both of you should," Veena replied quietly. "There's no harm in healing properly."
For a few seconds, neither said anything. The fan above buzzed softly, circulating old memories.
Then Veena squeezed his hand. "Whatever this hackathon is, I hope you win. Not for the prize. Just so you feel proud again."
"I already do, Mom," he said, smiling faintly.
Later That Day
In the quiet of his classroom, focused on his teacher, DL's voice echoed from the screen, dry and amused as if mocking him.
"You're pretending to be a normal kid. While possessing knowledge that could destabilize entire economies. Your classmates are worried about Snapchat. You're worried about missile-grade turbine cores. Just like those superheroes you worship—still a little boy who believes in make-believe."
Rohan smirked. "What's wrong with a little make-believe?"
Later, Rohan's class had PE class, as the school balanced academics with outdoor activities to boost students' productivity.
It was supposed to be another mindless PE lesson. But when Kunal called out, "Hey Rohan, you are on our side." Something inside him shifted.
He nodded. "Yeah, sure."
What followed was nothing short of electric.
Rohan flew across the field like he belonged there—cutting through defenders, making clean passes, and scoring twice. His stamina, his agility, and his sharp instincts—they weren't just learned. DL had been training him in reaction time, muscle memory, and movement prediction. It was like a dance his body already knew.
On the sidelines, every girl was watching him now. He had his father's strong jawline andS Michael's height—nearly six feet tall at just sixteen. A tousled mess of hair, piercing eyes, and a smile that could disarm anyone. If someone said he was a rising teen actor, no one would've questioned it.
For the first time in a long while—he felt… alive.
The day wound down. It was nearly the last bell when Ritika—his seatmate, the girl who always made his heart race—turned toward him. In his last life he only watched from a distance, never approached her, at first still in grief and then feeling out of place.
"You're good with computers, right? You got a 97 in midterms," she said casually.
Rohan cleared his throat. "I… uh… I'm okay."
She leaned a bit closer. "My PC's been hanging a lot lately. Mind checking it out after school?"
His mind went blank. Then—
"Say yes."
DL's voice, smooth and immediate.
Rohan, startled, blurted, "YES!"
Ritika blinked at the intensity.
He coughed, composing himself. "I mean… yeah, sure. I can take a look."
She smiled. "Cool. Meet me at the school gate after class."
The bell rang. Rohan watched her walk away, every footstep echoing like a countdown. In his last life, he never said yes. Always watching from the edge, waiting for the 'right time' that never came. Not this time.
DL's chuckle echoed in his ear.
"Smooth."
The bell had long rung. The schoolyard was emptying, voices fading into the distance, as students scattered toward their buses, cycles, and parents waiting at the curb.
Rohan stood alone in front of the towering yellow-painted iron gates of Cathedral Senior Secondary School, the arched signage casting a long shadow in the amber of the setting sun.
His bag slung over one shoulder, laptop safely zipped inside, he checked his phone again.
No message from Ritika yet.
Earlier he had told Arya, "I'll be late. Going to a friend's place."
Arya, grinning wickedly, raised a brow and chirped, "Oho… is it a girl?"
Rohan had rolled his eyes, flushed and defensive. "Shut up."
"Enjoy the crush while it lasts," DL murmured. "The world doesn't wait for teenagers in love."
Now, standing there, heart thudding with that awkward mix of nervousness and excitement, he could still hear her teasing voice in his head. But that bubble of adolescent charm was about to be pierced.
A black sedan pulled up quietly in front of him.
It didn't honk. It didn't roll down a window.
It just stopped.