The year was 2025, Los Angeles glimmered with its usual frenzy of Hollywood premieres and flashing cameras.
Inside this dazzling world lived Vedha, a 40-year-old Indian man whose sharp eyes seemed to register every detail around him.
His mind was a vault of knowledge—high IQ, photographic memory, and a creativity that rivaled the greatest visionaries in cinema. Around his neck, always hidden beneath his shirt, hung a slender thread looped through a small crimson crystal, a keepsake he guarded with quiet reverence.
Growing up orphaned in America, Vedha's life had been a patchwork of survival. From kitchen work in grim diners to training in martial arts under forgotten masters in Detroit's Chinatown, every skill he learned was a piece of a plan he didn't know he was building.
His dream was clear—to bring Indian cinema to a truly global audience, bridging cultures through the power of storytelling. After years in the Hollywood industry directing major projects, Vedha finally decided: it was time to visit India and reconnect with the roots he had never truly known.
The Flight to MumbaiThe night sky shimmered outside the windows of Flight IX209, a passenger plane bound from Los Angeles to Mumbai.
Vedha sat in seat 14A, reviewing movie notes on his tablet. Around him, a mix of Indian families, business travelers, and tourists chatted amiably. The faint hum of the engines was almost soothing—until it wasn't.
Midway across the Pacific, chaos erupted. Three armed men, faces obscured by black scarves, stormed the aisle. They were heavily armed—AK-47s glinting under the cabin lights. The leader's voice was cold as steel:
"We are here to deliver a message to the Indian government. Comply… or people die."
Screams sliced through the air. Passengers ducked under seats as gunfire shattered the calm. Two hostesses fell, wounded. Vedha's eyes locked onto them—young, terrified, clutching each other.
The DecisionVedha's mind accelerated like lightning. Seven seconds. That's all he needed to assess. The terrorists were coordinated—left flank, center lead, and rear guard near the cockpit. The middle one was the most aggressive, constantly scanning, finger twitching near the trigger. Vedha felt the crystal on his neck shift slightly as if reacting to his racing heartbeat.
He stood.
"Sit down!" one terrorist barked, aiming his rifle.
But Vedha moved fast, pivoting sideways to grab a serving cart. With a swift kick, he sent it crashing into the man's knees. The terrorist screamed, dropping his weapon momentarily.
Vedha lunged, twisting the man's arm—a snap echoed—and disarmed him with a fluid motion from his martial arts training.
The FightThe second terrorist rushed forward. Vedha used the weapon like a staff, blocking a swing and driving the butt into his attacker's stomach, forcing him back. Passengers scattered into the aisles, ducking beneath their seats.
The cabin was chaos—metal clanging, gunshots sparking against the interior walls.
Vedha shoved one attacker against the emergency door, knocking him unconscious with a sharp elbow strike. He turned—fist and steel—against the third and last man. The fight was brutal: Vedha's shoulder was slashed by a knife; he retaliated with a forward knee, followed by a chokehold that brought the man down.
All was quiet except for sobbing and metallic drips from the shattered overhead compartments.
The ShotVedha exhaled, chest burning, but it wasn't over. One of the injured terrorists, lying on the floor, raised a trembling arm. In his hand—a small pistol.
The shot rang out.
The bullet tore through the air, grazing the crimson crystal around Vedha's neck. The thread snapped. The crystal spun midair before shattering into light, its shards dissolving as if made of fire—and then…the impossible.
Vedha felt an intense surge in his chest. The fragment of glowing red crystal had embedded directly into his heart. His eyes widened; an unfamiliar pulse raced through his veins, faster than adrenaline, deeper than pain.
Every sound dulled, every detail sharpened. Somewhere in the fading noise of the cabin, he heard a whisper—low, ancient, and in Sanskrit:
"The bearer is chosen."
Vedha collapsed, clutching his chest, as darkness claimed him.