The soft morning sunlight gradually slipped into Izaan's room. The alarm's shrill ring echoed in his ears, but his eyes remained drowsy. He stepped out of bed and hurriedly began putting on his clothes. Like every other day, he had to rush out and make it to work on time. He didn't have much time, yet he still tried to get everything right—this habit of his that never allowed him a moment for himself.
He stepped out of the bathroom, ruffling his hair and quickly lacing up his worn-out shoes. Glancing at the clock, he realized how little time he had. He had to catch the bus soon, and he hoped to still make it to work on time. Izaan whispered to himself again, "Something needs to go right today."
But, as usual, luck didn't favor him. Just as he was adjusting his collar and stepping outside, he saw the bus disappearing in the distance. Panic-stricken, he ran toward the road, but the bus had already gone too far.
"No!" he gasped. His eyes darted to his watch again, anxiety rising. "Now what?"
Breathing heavily, he dug into his pockets as if chasing the bus through sheer desperation. Now the fear of being late for work at the store gnawed at him again. Like every day, he'd have to face the same cycle—apologizing, once more. And he knew deep down, each sorry chipped away a little more of his spirit. He could never make it on time.
As he searched his pockets for coins, another thought struck him. He had to pay the rent. His sister's school fees were also pending. That thought made his fists tighten. Sweat trickled from his palms, and his heart thudded with a rising sense of panic.
"What do I do?" he muttered. "Where will I get the money?" He was stuck in an endless loop of responsibilities—trying to move forward with dreams on one side and everyday survival on the other.
Izaan took a deep breath, a silent wave of helplessness washing over his eyes. He felt small and powerless. His thoughts began to shift—he no longer saw an end to anything he was doing.
Clenching his fists, he slowly stepped toward the roadside. He walked down the street, detached from the world around him. A storm of thoughts brewed in his mind—his responsibilities at home, his sister's school fees, the rent, and his own fading dreams. The weight of all of it bore down on his shoulders, dragging him down. His steps grew heavier, and the world around him faded.
He was no longer aware of the road. He was lost in his inner struggles, each step pulling him deeper into a void. His eyes stared blankly ahead, his mind entirely numb.
And then, without realizing it, Izaan found himself in the middle of the road. He was still lost in thought, unaware of his surroundings. A blaring horn shattered his trance. He looked up—and straight into the headlights of a speeding truck headed his way.
"What?" Izaan gasped, turning in shock. The truck driver blared the horn, trying to veer away, but the vehicle sped straight toward him. Everything blurred before Izaan's eyes. He couldn't register what was happening.
Still frozen in shock, it was as if Izaan relived his entire life in the second before impact.
But then—suddenly—a hand grabbed his back and yanked him away from the road. In an instant, he was flung toward the sidewalk, hitting the ground with a thud. For a moment, everything went black.
Just before slipping into unconsciousness, Izaan had felt that familiar loneliness again. But this time, someone else's hands had pulled him back from the edge. A firm, determined grip had saved him.
Minutes later, Izaan's eyes began to flutter open. His head throbbed slightly, and his breaths were short and ragged. His vision was blurry, but gradually he made out the silhouette of a boy standing before him.
The boy wasn't just standing nearby—he stood out. He wore a tailored, expensive suit, and his eyes held the quiet confidence of someone raised with power. Every detail about him—from his shoes to his wristwatch—spoke of wealth and polish. He radiated a calm control, the kind of aura that made others notice him instantly.
"You okay?" the boy asked. His voice was gentle, yet carried a certain seriousness. He knelt beside Izaan, peering at him to make sure he was conscious.
Izaan blinked up at him, startled. He knew this boy wasn't an ordinary passerby. Everything about him—his clothes, his demeanor—screamed importance. For a few moments, Izaan remained silent, trying to process the situation.
"You saved me," Izaan finally said, his voice confused and unsure. "But... who are you?"
"You don't recognize me?" the boy asked, his voice steady but grave. "First Scord Captain... Izaan Singhania?"
A wave of panic rippled across Izaan's face. "No... no, that's not possible," he whispered, fear and disbelief mingling in his voice.
To be continued...