Mrs. Mishra sat behind her small tea stall on Ramkatha Marg, the scent of brewing chai mingling with the dusty afternoon air.
At 55, her face carried the marks of long years spent in quiet struggle–the faint lines etched deeply around her eyes and mouth, a tiredness that no amount of sleep could erase. Her home a few streets away was a modest one-room house where she cared for her paralyzed husband, whose steadfast presence was a silent anchor.
Her son, now grown, had long since left for Delhi, absorbed in a life far removed from hers. The distance stung, but she said little, letting the pain fold into the rhythm of her days.
Her teashop was more than a place for hot cups and quick gossip, it was her link to the world, a place where neighbors' voices created a fragile, comforting community. But lately, even this small respite felt haunted.
The past few weeks had unsettled her deeply. The Starcode AI app was everywhere now, talked about in whispers and rumors that spread faster than the morning chai steam. Mrs. Mishra had downloaded it reluctantly, mostly to keep up with the chatter, though she barely trusted those glowing promises of "data-driven fate" and "scientifically decoded destinies."
It felt invasive and strange, the way it seemed to peer into people's lives, twisting normal moments into premonitions and warnings.
She had seen the fear grow in the eyes of those who used it, the shifts in their behavior. She herself had received a few odd notifications, harmless on the surface but with a subtle edge, a creeping sense that something was watching, waiting.
Today, she busied herself making chai, hands steady but mind restless. The familiar clatter of cups and boiling water was a small comfort, but even that couldn't fully silence the knot in her chest. She stared furtively at her phone as it lay on the counter, ignoring the occasional buzz or ping.
Suddenly, the screen lit up sharply. Mrs. Mishra's heart jumped. She picked up the phone with a slow, wary hand.
A new notification glowed on the screen in big font size, one she could hardly believe:
"Throw a cup of tea on Sai Malhotra. Warn him."
Mrs. Mishra sat frozen for a long while after reading the message. Her fingers tightened around her chai cup as a storm of emotions churned inside her–fear, confusion, anger. Throw a cup of tea on Sai Malhotra?
What twisted game was this? She hated the idea with every fiber of her being. Sai was one of the few bright spots in her days, him and his two friends often stopped by her stall after classes, chattering away in bursts of laughter, sharing bits of gossip and stories.
The boys were like the family she wished she had, filling the silence left by her absent son.
She knew Sai well, his quiet kindness, his patience with her slow steps, the way he sometimes helped her carry boxes or fetch supplies. The thought of hurting him, even in some small way, made her heart ache. It felt utterly wrong.
But the message hung over her mind like a heavy cloud, compelling, insistent. It wasn't just a suggestion; it felt like a command. As if the app, this unseen force that had crept into the town's life, was reaching through her, bending her will.
Mrs. Mishra blinked back tears, pushing away from the stall as if to shake off the weight pressing down her shoulders.
She told herself it had to be a mistake, some cruel glitch or prank. Yet a small voice inside whispered otherwise, stirring a strange unease that refused to fade.
Her eyes drifted toward the street, hoping for distraction in the passing townspeople. But every group seemed layered with secrets and shadows, as though all of Vishrampur were caught in the same invisible web.
She took a shaky breath, wrapping her hands around the chai, the warmth grounding her for just a moment.
Unable to ignore the pull completely, a dark thought crept forward: what if this was a warning? What if refusing to act had consequences far worse than a cup of steaming tea spilled in anger?
…
Sai and Veer paced outside his street, the heat of the afternoon pressing down as frustration and fear tangled between them. They weren't talking much, anger and helplessness simmering just under the surface. The terse dismissal by Meena still stung sharp.
Veer finally broke the tension. "We need a break. Let's grab some chai, clear our heads."
Sai rubbed his neck, voice tight. "Fine. I need something normal."
They didn't waste time. The walk to Ramkatha Marg was slow, each step weighed down by the recent upheavals.
When they arrived at Mrs. Mishra's tea stall, she was there behind the counter, but something was off. She gripped a steaming cup so tightly her knuckles went white. Her face, when it caught sight of Sai, drained pale, panic flashing in her eyes.
Before either boy could speak, she abruptly threw the cup down. Tea exploded on the dirty stones, shattering the tense silence like glass.
Sai stood frozen while Veer's eyes narrowed sharply. Mrs. Mishra's hands trembled as tears welled and spilled down her cheeks.
"I…" she gasped, voice breaking, "the app… it told me… to throw tea on you, Sai. Said it's a warning."
Sai's mouth twitched with disbelief and rage. "You let it? Why would you even consider—"
She cut him off with a shaky breath. "I didn't want to. My test is coming. I'm scared. I thought maybe it was a bad sign, a warning I shouldn't ignore. It felt like a command."
Veer's jaw tightened, eyes flashing fire. "Both of you, enough of this nonsense!"
He stepped forward, voice sharp and angry. "Uninstall the app. Right now. And report it. Go to the app store and make sure everyone knows what this thing really is."
Without waiting for a reply, Veer pulled out Sai's phone, and started uninstalling it already.
Mrs. Mishra wiped her face, nodding shakily while Sai hesitated, anger still burning in his chest. Resentment for the controlling app, resentment for what it had made her do.
The three of them sat side by side behind the closed tea stall, their phones restless in their hands. Attempts to uninstall Starcode AI turned into frustrating dead ends. Veer's phone flashed repeated error messages-"Uninstallation failed" or "Permissions prevent removal."
Mrs. Mishra's eyes darted nervously between their devices and the street. "I thought once it's off, it would stop. But I… I just got something."
Sai's head snapped up. "What?"
She held out her phone, the screen lit with the Starcode AI app–not open, but sending push notifications like a shadow lurking in the background.
The message glared in bold letters under the daily horoscope heading:
"Fatal injury: caution advised."
A chill spread through all three.
Veer growled, "This app isn't just on our phones. It's clinging like some parasite."
Mrs. Mishra shook her head wearily, her eyes heavy with exhaustion and frustration. "Enough of this madness," she said firmly, her voice carrying the weight of years spent bearing burdens. "I'm done."
She snapped her phone shut and slipped it deep into her purse. Slowly and deliberately, she switched it off, pushing the device away as if removing it from her life might break the invisible chains.
"No more notifications, no more messages," she declared. "If this thing wants to control me, it won't do it through this anymore."
Sai and Veer exchanged a look. The defiance sparked hope, but also underscored how deeply the app's reach had extended.
As she settled back behind her stall, Mrs. Mishra's hands folded in her lap. The phone was silent now, but the tension hovering around them remained as thick as ever.