A few days passed.
Varunath's restaurant, The Spotlight, thrummed with life. Locals spilled in, as did travelers from distant lands.
Some came with curiosity, others with indifference, even disdain.
Surabhan was rarely loved by outsiders—but in here, none of that mattered.
All that mattered was the food: rich, hearty, unforgettable.
Waiters wove between tables, carrying plates and drinks with practiced ease.
Orders were taken, bills managed, fires tended.
And in the center of it all, Varunath moved like a storm contained: cooking, chopping, tasting, commanding.
Amid the chaos, a small presence drew quiet notice.
On the counter, in a simple cradle, an infant blinked at the world.
Rudrasar.
Eyes wide, darting from table to table, absorbing every movement, every sound.
He was not alone. Varunath's friend and co-worker—Sahana, sprightly and quick-witted, with a laugh that could soften even Varunath's scowl—watched over him.
She hummed softly, rocking the cradle as she went about her work.
For her, the child was company in a place that rarely offered it.
Elder patrons whispered behind hands, staring with curiosity.
Some left food, coins, or small trinkets—a gesture for the child they had never asked about.
Some brought clothes, handwoven or freshly stitched.
The boy was quickly gathering a small collection of tokens from a village that already felt like an extended family.
Varunath's fame, however, was more than food.
He was the man who had survived battles the village spoke of in hushed tones.
Men with scars, fire in their eyes, or knives in their hands had crossed him—and left with nothing but bruised pride.
That reputation carried more weight than any chef's skill.
A newcomer, leaning toward his local friend, nodded toward the counter.
"Hey…who's the guy with the scars?" he asked.
"oh, that's varunath." came the reply.
The newcomer glanced at the infant in the cradle. "And the kid?"
"Picked him up from the sewers, he said."
"...no way." the newcomer murmured, incredulous.
"wanna go ask him?" his friend dared.
"...Nope." he said after a pause, eyes flicking once more to the counter.
Indeed, no one meddled with Varunath.
A single glare could calm a brawl before it began.
Even the fiercest troublemakers of the village learned quickly that the man behind the counter was more dangerous than the knives he used to carve meat.
And yet, as well-known as Varunath was in this unusually large village, it wasn't only his food that earned him renown.
It was what he had endured. The things he had lived through—and survived alone.
That evening, as the rain softened outside and lanterns cast warm light across the wooden beams, Varunath wiped down beer glasses over the counter.
His eyes lingered on a particular scar on his wrist, tracing the jagged line almost unconsciously.
Something about it stirred memory. Something he always tries to ignore..
And tonight…there was a quiet weight in the air, heavier than even the simmering of the kitchen fires.
A shadow moved at the edge of the doorway. Once. Twice. And then repeatedly as if multiple ones were surrounding him.
Varunath stiffened.
His hand clenched around the glass, knuckles white. he closes his eyes, his arms clenching as the memories of his past flood his mind, yet again.
The words...the shameless titles he was given..they kept on echoing through his mind...
"Monster.."