The road felt too quiet.
Rohan and Vikram walked fast, trying to leave the forest behind them like a nightmare that just hadn't figured out how to end yet. But even with sunlight, the fear stuck to their skin like smoke that wouldn't wash off.
"You know we're not done," Vikram finally said.
"We never were," Rohan replied.
They walked toward the mechanic's workshop near the highway where they usually hid out after jobs. A bent iron shutter, paint peeling off, broken bike parts scattered like bones. The smell of fuel and welding sparks. Home, at least for now.
Rohan dropped onto a broken sofa outside and rubbed his eyes.
"I keep hearing something," he muttered.
"Hearing what?" Vikram asked, looking around.
"Breathing."
"Mine?"
"No. From inside me."
Vikram stared at him too long. "We need help."
"Yeah," Rohan replied. "But the kind that doesn't come with handcuffs."
Vikram laughed once, humorless. "We should have burned that box."
Rohan froze. Burn.
The word felt like a trigger.
The air around them changed.
A single spark flicked out of the mechanic's welding bench inside the shop. Just one spark — but it didn't die. It bounced onto a rag soaked in fuel. It caught flame like it had been waiting.
The fire spread fast, too fast to be normal. Heat pulsed from the shop's metal walls like the building had lungs.
"Hey!" Vikram yelled, running in to grab the fire extinguisher.
"Wait!" Rohan shouted, but Vikram was already inside.
Rohan followed, pulling his shirt over his mouth. Smoke exploded upward, devouring shelves, blackening tools stacked like soldiers ready to fall.
Vikram dragged the extinguisher toward the flames, coughing. Rohan grabbed a bucket and started splashing water. The fire hissed and then roared back — stronger.
"That's not how fire works!" Vikram shouted through coughs.
"I'm aware!" Rohan replied.
Then Rohan saw it.
In the middle of the fire, something golden glowed under an overturned stool.
The coin.
It must have followed them.
Or never left them.
Rohan's blood ran cold.
He stepped toward it without thinking. The flames parted around his shoes like they recognized him. But behind him, the fire surged toward Vikram instead — the heat swelled, angry, alive.
"Rohan, don't!" Vikram shouted.
Rohan reached down and grabbed the coin.
His palm seared. He heard a voice inside the pain.
Finally.
The fire behind him exploded upward, swallowing a table. Vikram shouted his name again, fear cracking through his voice. A burning beam snapped and fell toward Vikram.
Rohan turned too late.
The beam crashed.
Vikram hit the floor.
Rohan ran to him, dragging him away, coughing hard. The exit was only a few meters away, but the flames curled toward them like hands trying to pull them back in.
"We're dead," Vikram gasped.
"Not today," Rohan said, voice shaking.
He tried to lift Vikram again. His friend groaned in pain — leg pinned and burned, breath sharp and thin.
The fire suddenly drew back from Rohan… and surged harder toward Vikram.
Like it was choosing.
"No," Rohan whispered. "Take me. Not him."
A whisper curled behind his ear.
Payment was promised.
Rohan pressed the coin to his own chest.
"Take me," he repeated.
The flames slowed as if confused. Then they moved — rushing for Rohan.
But Vikram pulled him away, knocking the coin from his hand.
"Don't be stupid," Vikram coughed. "You don't get to be the hero. You don't get to die first."
The fire screeched — a real sound, like metal crying.
Rohan grabbed Vikram again and dragged him through the burning smoke. Heat clawed at their backs. The door was almost there —
The ground shook.
The roof groaned.
A metal rod burst downward toward them.
Rohan shoved Vikram ahead.
Something slammed into his shoulder. Pain exploded bright.
He stumbled outside with Vikram's weight dragging him down. They collapsed on the road, coughing, choking, gasping.
The fire raged behind them — furious they escaped.
People from the street ran toward them, shocked voices rising.
Rohan rolled onto his back and looked at the burning shop. The flames twisted into a shape — a face with hollow eyes — staring right at him.
Then it collapsed into smoke.
Sirens cried in the distance.
Vikram grabbed Rohan's wrist, squeezing hard.
"I told you we're not done," he said, barely breathing.
Rohan looked at the burn mark on his palm — a thin ring, like a brand of ownership.
The coin lay next to him on the ground, glowing soft, like it was amused.
He picked it up again.
"You want payment?" he whispered to the coin.
"Earn it."
His phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
Four words:
IT STILL WASN'T PAID
Rohan closed his eyes as the paramedics rushed closer.
This debt wasn't running anymore.
It was chasing.
And it had already caught him.
Rohan hated hospitals. Too bright. Too clean. Too much truth in one place.
He sat beside Vikram's stretcher as they wheeled him down the corridor. Vikram had a mask over his mouth, one leg wrapped thick in gauze. His eyes fluttered open and closed, fighting consciousness like it was another enemy.
"You'll be fine," Rohan kept saying.
It wasn't a promise.Just a hope shaped like words.
A doctor pushed him aside. "Wait outside, please."
Rohan didn't move.
Then Vikram grabbed his wrist weakly.
"Don't lose yourself," Vikram whispered.
Rohan forced a smile. "Me? I'm bulletproof."
"You're not." Vikram's voice cracked. "And if something happens to you… who's supposed to drag me out next time?"
Rohan laughed once. It came out wrong, like a choke.
The doctors took Vikram away.Rohan stood alone in the hallway.
Outside, the evening stormed in without asking.
Grey clouds. Wind like a warning.
Rohan stepped through the hospital doors. His shirt smelled like smoke and fear. He looked at the coin in his fist, veins tight around it.
"You're not leading me anywhere," he said.
The coin warmed.
A single voice curled out of it — soft, young, and too close:
"Promise…"
Rohan stumbled back, breath short.
"No," he said. "I don't owe you anything."
But his heartbeat disagreed. It hammered against the burn mark like it wanted to speak through his skin.
He shoved the coin into his pocket and walked.
He didn't know where he was going until he was already there — the burned-out mechanic shop. Firefighters had left. Police tape fluttered like yellow warnings from ghosts.
Rohan ducked under the tape.
The inside was a grave of melted tools and black walls. But in the soot-covered center, the remains of the table still stood… and on it, the imprint of the coin glowed faintly.
A mark.A reminder.A curse.
"Why me?" he said quietly.
The air answered with a sigh — like a child crying into a pillow.
Metal scraped to his right.
Rohan spun.
There, barely visible through the smoke haze, a figure stood near the charred locker — a girl, head bowed, hair tangled like vines. Bare feet. White dress greyed by ash.
Rohan's throat closed.
He stepped forward slowly.
"Are you… stuck here?" he asked.
The girl's head tilted, but she didn't face him.
"Do you need help?" he tried.
The girl's shoulders trembled. One hand rose — pointing behind him.
He turned.
A second figure.Tall.Crooked.Limbs all wrong — like bones assembled by someone who didn't know how humans worked.
Rohan stepped back, heartbeat glitching.
"Okay okay okay," he whispered, palms up.
The crooked figure leaned forward, neck bending too far, face lost behind darkness.
Then a voice shattered the silence:
"HEY! You! Stop!"
A flashlight hit Rohan's eyes. Police officer.
Rohan blinked. The figures were gone. The room was empty.
He looked at the officer.
"I… thought someone was here."
The officer pointed to the door. "You shouldn't be here, kid. You're lucky you got out alive. Don't push it."
Rohan nodded and left, pulse still confused by ghosts that didn't care about police rules.
Rain started pouring as he reached the main road. Drops turned his ash-covered shirt into streaks of gray.
The coin began to burn again.
He took it out. It glowed soft, blue-gold in the rainlight.
"What do you want?" Rohan whispered.
The voice answered instantly:
"Return what was stolen."
Rohan's breath hitched.
"You mean the box?" he asked.
Silence.
"You mean… more?"
A pair of headlights flashed. A car rushed past, horn blaring through his thoughts.
His phone vibrated again.
Unknown number.
A new message.
Three words:
YOUR TURN NOW
Lightning slashed the sky.
Rohan stared straight ahead — down the road leading back to the forest. The storm winds pushed at his back like a shove toward destiny.
Vikram was lying in a hospital bed because of him.The hunters disappeared because of this vow.Uncle Ash vanished without a scream.The forest wasn't done.
Rohan clenched his fists.
He wasn't running anymore.
He walked straight into the storm.
Not because he was brave.But because he was terrified -and fear, in his hands, had always been grit.
Somewhere ahead, in the trees, something waited.
Something unpaid.
Something that knew his name better than he did.
The rain swallowed the road behind him until he was alone.
Just him.
And the vow walking beside his heartbeat.