Arvin didn't sleep that night.
Even after he reached home, after forcing himself through dinner and curling up on his bed, his body trembled. His chest still carried the ghostly imprint of Bhagya's grip, as though fingers of ice were pressed into his throat. Every time he blinked, the memory replayed—the sudden cold shift in Bhagya's eyes, the voice that didn't sound like him, and the sharp warning: "Don't lie to me. Don't speak a word."
He had wanted to believe it was some prank, that Bhagya was just testing him, but no matter how he tried to convince himself, the fear refused to fade. Even the late-night call haunted him. Bhagya's tone on the phone had been perfectly normal, casual, almost kind: asking for the assignment as if nothing had happened. That contradiction dug into Arvin's skull like claws.
So, he didn't sleep. His phone stayed in his hand. His body remained tense, waiting for another call.
The next morning, when the three met outside their lecture hall, Bhagya greeted both with the same lopsided grin he always carried. "Morning," he said lightly, adjusting his bag.
But Arvin couldn't look him in the eye. His throat tightened, and when he tried to reply, it came out rough, "Yeah. Morning."
Anaya noticed. She always noticed.
She glanced between them, frowning. "What's with you two? Did something happen yesterday?"
Arvin waved his hand too quickly, a smile that didn't reach his eyes plastered on his face. "Nothing. Just… little cold, that's all. I barely slept."
Anaya tilted her head, studying him with worry, but before she could probe further, Bhagya's gaze shifted. For a fleeting second, his smile faltered.
Behind Anaya, hovering faint and formless, he saw it—something dark, a blur of shadow clinging like smoke to her shoulders. His heart clenched. The laughter around him, the bustle of students, the brightness of the morning—all of it blurred as that shape whispered in silence only he could hear.
He clenched his fists and looked away, forcing the vision down. But it didn't go away.
Midway through the day, during a lecture he couldn't focus on, Bhagya's head sank to the desk. He closed his eyes, hoping to slip into shallow sleep—and inevitably, he was pulled back to the mirror.
The man who shared his face stood waiting. Not smiling. Not mocking. Just watching with that calm, sharp weight in his eyes.
"You saw it, didn't you?" the man asked, tilting his head.
Bhagya scowled. "That… dark thing on Anaya? What is it?"
The mirror's surface rippled, the figure's voice growing lower. "That is an omen. It clings only to those whose deaths are near. It marks the soul for collection. Soon, a Yamadoot will come for her."
Bhagya's chest burned. His fists pressed into the desk even inside this dreamscape. "No. I won't let that happen."
For the first time, the man in the mirror did not sneer or laugh. He simply leaned closer, his voice steady and cold. "You dare defy what's written? Every soul has its time. Every act has its cost. Do something, and you will only twist the threads tighter. We all accumulate karma, Bhagya."
Bhagya's jaw trembled. His throat ached with words he couldn't push out. He hated the man's certainty, hated the calmness with which he said it. "I don't care. I won't let her die."
The mirror self's lips curved faintly, but his eyes remained void of humor. "Then go on. Break the order. But remember—you will pay."
Before Bhagya could reply, his eyes flew open. The lecture hall came back into focus. His chest heaved as if he had been running, but no one noticed. Around him, students were half-asleep, the professor droning at the board. Only Arvin, seated a few desks away, stared at him with quiet unease.
Bhagya endured the rest of the day with his nerves wired tight. Every laugh from Anaya felt borrowed, every glance at the clock too slow. The shadow never left her shoulders. He could barely hear his own thoughts over the pounding in his ears.
When university finally ended, students spilled out in groups, chatting, heading to buses and bikes. The sun had already begun its descent, beaming orange over the rooftops. Anaya stood with them for a moment, stretching her arms.
Bhagya forced a smile. "Anaya, you should head home early today. It's late already."
She blinked at him, surprised, but then only nodded. Maybe it was because of Arvin's odd behavior earlier, or maybe because she trusted Bhagya more than she should. "Alright. See you tomorrow."
She didn't ask questions. She simply waved and left.
Bhagya watched her until she disappeared from sight, his chest tight. Then he turned sharply, his feet already moving. He didn't stop running until he caught up with Arvin near the gates.
Grabbing his shoulder, Bhagya leaned close, voice urgent, trembling with something that wasn't just fear. "Arvin—listen to me. Anaya is going to die soon. Stay with her, no matter what. Don't leave her side until she reaches home. Do you understand?"
Arvin froze, his blood turning to ice. His eyes widened as he stared at Bhagya, searching his face for a hint of a joke, anything that could make sense of the words. But there was nothing—only that cold, desperate seriousness.
The evening air seemed to tighten around them, suffocating. Bhagya's warning didn't feel like a plea. It felt like the toll of a bell, a sound that bent the path of everything to come.
Arvin swallowed hard, nodding without a word.
Neither of them realized, in that moment, that it was this conversation—this choice—that would twist their fates beyond return.