A man named Laksh walks briskly along the edge of the bridge. He wears a black jacket, one hand stuffed in his pocket, the other glued to his phone. The wind tugs at his coat, fluttering the edges wildly, but his eyes remain locked to the screen.
Suddenly— A car screeches, zigzagging out of control and swerves into his path.
CRASH.
Laksh is struck. His phone flies from his hand. His body lifts into the air, limbs flailing—time slowing.
A streak of blood glistens in the air like red mist. Laksh's eyes catch the floating blood, pupils flickering crimson.
He begins to gloat upward, weightless for a moment. His coat spirals around him like torn wings. Then— Debris slices across his cheek like a blade. Blood drips, red and raw.
For a second, Laksh felt his body separate—like a puppet cut loose from strings. But something watched still tethered him.
He spins midair, and for the briefest moment— His eyes widen.
Below him, a black luxury car hurtles through the chaos, its front windshield shattered. Through the broken glass, he sees her— An ethereal girl, face frozen in horror, eyes locked with his as they both descend.
EXT. BRIDGE - At same time,
A figure skids across the pavement, rubbing against the asphalt as he scrambles away from the wreckage. Behind him, another car swerves and drifts, tires shrieking, debris flying everywhere.
INT. WATER – CONTINUOUS
Laksh hits the surface—water slaps his back, a brief shock of resistance—then he plunges beneath.
Moments later, the car crashes into the water, sending a column of spray into the air. Water begins to flood in through the shattered windshield, crawling over the leather seats, inching closer.
The pressure tightens— Bubbles rise— And as they ascend, all that remains is silence.
FADE IN:
Darkness.
Then— A harsh SPLASH of cold water across his face.
The world comes alive in blurs. Light floods in from a narrow window—dust dancing in the golden beams.
Laksh coughs. Gasping. His head pounds like a war drum. The sharp sting of air fills his lungs for the first time.
He opens his eyes.
White walls. Strange architecture. A smell of ink, leather, and something sour.
Blurred faces hover above—white-skinned, dressed in foreign wool and polished boots, faces twisted in boredom.
"Is this low race important?" one of them murmurs, brushing his mustache aside like the presence of Laksh offended his vision.
The other, tall, with silver spectacles and eyes like frost, steps forward.
He studies Laksh—not with pity, but with calculation. His blue eyes catch the water droplets still clinging to Laksh's cheekbones.
"Yup. He's our translator." Ford squints at a stained file, then flips it closed with a snap. "And the new clerk of this district. At least until the next one dies."
Laksh blinks. A droplet of water slides down his temple, joining the others in a slow descent.
His mind stirs.
Memories clash—a crash… a girl… golden pens… red mist… And now—this?
He looks down. A cotton shirt, native-made. Brown-stained trousers. His fingers—slimmer, younger.
His reflection flickers in a polished brass tray beside him.
Not his old face. A thinner one. Sharper cheekbones. Hair oiled back. A new body.
Reincarnation. But not as a king. Not as a warrior. As a clerk.
A pawn.
The other one scoffs.
"Just hope this brown monkey can hold a pen straight."
Laksh says nothing. But his eyes narrow. His breathing slows.
The air changes. Something ancient curls in his chest.
And in that silence, his fingers gently trace the spine of the ledger—like reacquainting with an old weapon.
His lips curl.
"Pen?" he finally says, voice raw. "No. It's not the pen that shakes." "It's the hand of those who read what I write."
The room stills.
The British officers share a look.
Laksh doesn't flinch. Not anymore.
Because he remembers the weight of gold-trimmed pens… ...and the scent of fear behind signed surrender clauses.
The room stinks of ink, rust, and colonial power dressed as politeness.
The British officer—Captain Edward Falkner—smiles as if at a dog doing tricks. He leans in, placing a firm hand on Laksh's shoulder.
"Wow, this monkey speaks like Shakespeare."
His grip tightens slightly, enough to remind. Not to break—just enough to bruise beneath cloth.
He turns toward the other officers with mock admiration.
"Yup, brown monkey. It should be merchant Garakh's hand shaking, not yours. After all, the bastard didn't pay tax for using our land."
He gestures with the butt of his pistol, rotating it like a fine pen.
"Land we received from King Hada—graciously, generously. And even after the poor king's death... his fingerprint still held value."
He chuckles, tapping the pistol gently against the ledger.
Laksh doesn't move. He doesn't blink. Instead—his hand continues slowly turning the pages of a dusty register, the edge of the paper brushing his knuckle like wind on a blade.
Laksh (quietly, eyes on page):
"The dead have long fingers, sir. And even longer shadows."
Falkner pauses.
The smile fades—but only slightly. He watches Laksh as if seeing a cobra beneath the ledger.
A flicker of tension passes between them like smoke.
Then—Falkner steps back, clicking his boots with casual finality.
"Good. Keep speaking like that, clerk. Might make a good court jester for the East India Company."
He exits with a whistle.