VIHAAN OPENED HIS EYES and immediately felt that something was wrong.
The ceiling was too far away.
It wasn't supposed to be like this. He had seen this ceiling every night. It was low, close, and familiar. But now it stretched upward, disappearing into shadow, as if the room had grown while he slept.
He blinked once. Then again.
The room didn't shrink back.
His blanket was twisted around his legs, tight and uncomfortable. He tried to pull it up to his chest—the way he always did when he felt scared—but his hands barely moved. They felt heavy and slow, like someone else had tied invisible strings to them.
"Maa…?" he whispered.
The sound came out thin and weak, barely louder than his breathing. No one answered. The house was quiet, but not the good kind of quiet. Not the soft, sleepy silence of night. This quiet pressed against his ears until they hurt, until he became too aware of every small sound—his breath, the faint rustle of fabric, and the thudding beat inside his chest.
Then—
Scrrrrk.
Vihaan froze. The sound came from somewhere ahead. From the corridor. Something was being dragged. Slowly. Not dropped. Not pushed.
Dragged.
His stomach tightened. He didn't know what the sound was, but he knew it wasn't supposed to be there. It made his chest feel hollow, the way it did when he cried for too long and couldn't stop.
The sound stopped. Vihaan squeezed his eyes shut, pressing them tight.
Please go away, he thought. Please go away.
For a moment, there was nothing.
Then—
Scrrrrk.
It came again. Closer.
"Maa…" he tried once more, forcing the word out. His throat felt tight, like it was closing. His voice refused to grow louder no matter how hard he pushed. It stayed small, trapped inside the room.
From the corridor, his mother's voice answered. She wasn't screaming. She called his father's name. Softly. Carefully. Like when she told him the doctor wouldn't hurt him. Like she was trying to keep fear from leaking into her voice.
Vihaan wanted to sit up. To run to her. To hide behind her legs the way he always did when strangers came to the house. His body didn't listen.
A shadow moved at the end of the corridor. It didn't step forward all at once. It slid into view, piece by piece, as if the light itself was unsure how to touch it. It was tall. Too tall.
Vihaan had to tilt his head back to look at it, and even then, he couldn't see its face properly. The lights flickered weakly, stretching the shadow along the walls and ceiling until it looked bigger than the hallway itself.
On its chest, something glowed.
Red.
Not bright like firecrackers. Not warm like the diya his mother lit every evening. This red was dull and sick, like the color of a wound that refused to heal.
The glow pulsed.
Thump. Thump.
Each pulse made Vihaan's chest tighten, as if his heart was trying to copy the rhythm. The thing held something in its hand. Vihaan didn't know what it was called. He only knew it was heavy. Sharp. And very wrong.
The metal edge caught the light as it moved, and he thought—without knowing why—that it looked angry. Like it wanted to break something.
His father stepped into the hallway. He placed himself between the thing and Vihaan's mother.
"Don't look," his father said.
Vihaan wanted to obey. He really did. But his eyes wouldn't move away. The thing raised its arm. Slowly. So slowly that Vihaan had time to feel his chest hurt, his eyes burn, his mouth open without sound.
The metal came down.
The sound wasn't loud like in the cartoons his father sometimes let him watch. It was dull. Heavy. Like when something falls that isn't supposed to fall. His father collapsed. He didn't shout. He didn't move.
"Maa!" Vihaan screamed.
This time, the sound came out. His mother ran. She slipped on the floor, nearly falling, then dropped to her knees. She crawled instead, hands shaking as she tried to reach him.
She was crying now. Not loudly. Her breath broke between sobs as she stretched her hand toward him. She was close. So close.
The red mark on the thing's chest burned brighter. The light flared. Something invisible slammed into his mother, throwing her backward like she weighed nothing at all. She hit the floor hard, the sound sharp enough to make Vihaan flinch.
She tried to get up. She couldn't.
She turned her head. She looked at Vihaan. Her eyes were wide and wet and terrified. But there was something else there too. Something that made his chest hurt more than fear.
It looked like an apology.
The metal came down again. Vihaan shut his eyes. The house shook. Dust fell onto his face and into his mouth, tasting bitter and dry. The walls groaned, like they were alive and in pain.
Then—
Nothing.
No sound. No light.
Vihaan screamed.
• ◦ ❖ ◦ •
He woke up gasping.
His heart hammered against his ribs, so fast it hurt. His hands were shaking. His face felt wet, and when he wiped his eyes, his fingers came away damp. The room was quiet. Normal. Smaller. The ceiling was back where it belonged. Morning light slipped through the curtains, soft and pale.
For a few seconds, he couldn't move. He just sat there, breathing, waiting for the room to change again. It didn't.
A soft knock came at the door. Risa stepped inside, careful and composed as always.
"You were shouting," she said gently. "Vihaan sir."
The word "sir" grounded him. Pulled him back.
"I'm fine," he said after a moment, rubbing his face. "Just... a bad dream."
She nodded. She didn't ask what he saw. She never did.
"I'll prepare breakfast," she said and left quietly.
Downstairs, somewhere deep in the house, a clock ticked once. Then stopped.
The morning settled into routine. Water running in the bathroom. Steam fogging the mirror. Clean clothes laid out neatly. The familiar, comforting weight of control returning piece by piece.
Vihaan tied his tie with practiced precision, checking his reflection once, then twice. He looked calm. Collected. Exactly how people expected him to look.
In the kitchen, Risa moved efficiently, her actions measured and silent.
"Good morning, Vihaan sir," she said without turning. "Breakfast will be ready shortly."
"Thank you," he replied. "You don't have to be so formal in the mornings."
She paused only briefly.
"It's alright, sir."
His phone buzzed. Aryan.
"Where are you?" Aryan said the moment he answered. "She's already there."
"I'm almost ready," Vihaan replied calmly. "Pick a decent place."
Aryan laughed. "You've been on seven dates already. Today, make it work."
Vihaan smiled faintly. "We'll see."
He ended the call and slipped the phone into his pocket. Grabbing his jacket, he turned back toward the kitchen.
"Risa, I'm heading out."
"Yes, sir."
"I'll be back late. Please cook something light tonight."
She nodded. "As you wish."
Vihaan stepped outside. The air was cool. Ordinary. The city moved as it always did—cars, people, noise, life continuing without pause. He didn't know it yet, but the day had already shifted. And it would not shift back.
• ◦ ❖ ◦ •
The city had already slipped into its evening rhythm by the time Vihaan reached the first major signal. The sun was low now, not orange anymore, just pale and tired, as if it had already given up on the day. Cars stood in uneven lines, horns flaring without purpose, people leaning out of windows with the impatience of lives that were always in a hurry.
Vihaan rested one hand on the steering wheel and exhaled slowly. That was when he noticed her.
Lira stood a few steps away from the signal, phone pressed to her ear, her bag hanging loose from one shoulder. She looked irritated—not angry, just mildly annoyed in the way people do when plans refuse to cooperate. She stepped aside, scanned the road once, then again, clearly searching for something that wasn't arriving.
A taxi, most likely.
Vihaan rolled the window down slightly.
"Lira."
She turned, surprised at first, then squinted before recognition settled in.
"Oh. You."
"Stranded?" he asked.
She gestured vaguely at the road.
"Fifteen minutes. Not a single cab willing to stop. Either I look too trustworthy or too invisible."
He smiled faintly.
"Get in. I'll drop you."
She hesitated for half a second—just enough to register—then opened the door and slid into the passenger seat.
"You're unusually charitable today."
"Coincidence," he said, easing the car forward as the signal turned green.
They drove in silence for a few seconds, the kind that didn't feel uncomfortable yet. Lira adjusted her seatbelt, glanced at the dashboard, then sideways at him.
"So," she said lightly, "where are you headed with this serious face?"
"I have a date," Vihaan replied, eyes fixed on the road.
"Hmm," she murmured. "Of course you do."
The word should have ended there. But a moment later, he added, more firmly this time,
"I'm already late."
Something shifted. Not in the air. Not visibly. Just in the way Lira's fingers paused mid-motion as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Again?" she said, forcing a smirk. "How many is this now? Seventh? Eighth?"
"Something like that."
She laughed once. It was short, clean, practiced.
"At this point, you should start calling them research interviews."
Vihaan didn't smile this time. The silence that followed was small, but noticeable. Lira glanced at him again, her expression unreadable now. She leaned back, folding her arms loosely.
"Well," she said, after a moment, "good luck. Someone has to survive your consistency."
He nodded. "Someone might."
That was when it happened.
A sudden flash of headlights cut across his peripheral vision. A car swerved sharply into their lane, far too close, far too fast. Vihaan reacted on instinct—brakes slammed, tires screeched, the world jolted violently forward.
Lira grabbed the side handle as the car lurched. The vehicles stopped inches apart. For a second, there was nothing but the echo of rubber against asphalt and Vihaan's heartbeat roaring in his ears.
Then the feeling hit him. Not fear. Something deeper. Cold.
The air inside the car felt heavier, like it had thickened without permission. His chest tightened, breath stalling halfway in. It was the same sensation—muted but unmistakable—the same pressure he had felt long ago, before he even had words for it.
His hand trembled on the steering wheel. Across from him, through the windshield of the other car, a pair of eyes met his.
Rei.
He looked calm. Too calm. One hand rested casually on his window frame, posture relaxed, expression unreadable. But something around him felt wrong—like a shadow that didn't align with the light.
Lira noticed Vihaan's stillness. She forced a laugh, trying to dissolve the tension.
"Wow," she said. "That was… dramatic. You planning to traumatize me before dropping me off?"
He didn't answer. His gaze stayed locked on Rei's for a second too long.
Rei stepped out of his car.
"So that's how you drive," Rei said coolly. "No wonder the city's a mess."
Vihaan opened his door and stepped out as well. The street noise rushed back in, loud and intrusive.
"You swerved into my lane," Vihaan replied evenly. "Learn how to stay in yours."
Rei's eyes flickered—just once. Not anger. Recognition.
"Funny," he said. "I was thinking the same."
Something passed between them. Unspoken. Unidentified. Heavy.
Lira leaned out slightly from her seat.
"Hey," she called, trying to sound casual. "Both cars still alive. Let's not make this a street performance."
Rei glanced at her briefly, then back at Vihaan.
"Careful," he said. "Some encounters don't end with brakes."
Vihaan met his stare.
"Then don't start them."
Rei's lips curved faintly—not a smile. More like acknowledgment. He stepped back, returned to his car, and drove off without another word.
The pressure lifted the moment he disappeared. Vihaan exhaled, only then realizing he'd been holding his breath. He got back into the car.
Lira watched him closely now, no humor left in her expression.
"You okay?" she asked quietly.
"Yeah," he said after a beat. "Just… close call."
She nodded, but didn't look convinced. Still, she didn't press. Instead, she glanced out the window and said lightly,
"Guess I should be grateful. Almost got an action scene for free."
He managed a small smile this time. They drove the rest of the way in a calmer silence. When he dropped her off, she paused before opening the door.
"Good luck," she said again. Softer now. "On the date."
"Thanks."
She stepped out, closed the door, then stopped.
"And, Vihaan?"
"Yes?"
"Try not to disappear," she said, half-smiling. "People do that a lot."
Then she walked away.
• ◦ ❖ ◦ •
Vihaan watched her go for a moment before pulling back into traffic. By the time he reached the café, the sky had darkened fully. Warm lights glowed behind the glass windows, reflections blurring the world outside into streaks of gold and shadow.
Inside, Rei was already there.
Zia sat across from him, fingers wrapped around her cup, nervous energy radiating through every small movement. Sumi leaned beside her, whispering something that earned a reluctant exhale from Zia.
"You look like you want to punch a wall," Sumi said to Rei. "Or a person."
Rei didn't answer immediately. His jaw tightened slightly.
"Something happened," Zia said gently.
"A near-accident," he replied. "With someone irritating."
Sumi raised an eyebrow. "That narrows it down to half the city."
Zia smiled faintly, but her eyes stayed concerned. Then the café door opened. Vihaan stepped inside.
The moment stretched. Rei turned. Their eyes met again.
The air shifted—not visibly, but sharply enough for Zia to notice. Her gaze moved from Rei to Vihaan, confusion flickering across her face before recognition struck.
"…You?" she said.
Vihaan froze.
"Zia?"
Silence. Then realization landed—hard.
"This is the date?" Zia asked, standing up. "You didn't tell me he was—"
"You didn't tell me he was—" Vihaan began at the same time.
Sumi cleared her throat quickly. "Okay. Pause. Everyone breathe."
Zia turned sharply toward Rei. "You knew?"
Rei looked away. "I didn't."
She scoffed. "You always do this."
"Zia—"
"No," she snapped. "You're leaving."
Sumi stood immediately. "Come on. Let's go."
Rei hesitated once, then nodded and walked out with her. The café felt quieter afterward, as if something unresolved had settled into the walls. Zia exhaled sharply and sat back down.
"I swear," she muttered, rubbing her temples. "This was not supposed to happen."
Vihaan took the seat across from her.
"Seems like a theme."
She looked at him properly now.
"So. This is awkward."
"Very."
They shared a small, uncertain smile.
"Should we still—?" she began.
"Yeah," he said. "Let's."
They ordered. Talked. Asked safe questions. Careers. Schedules. Habits. Nothing too deep. Nothing too close. It was fine. Not bad. Just… not inevitable.
When the date ended, both of them stood knowing the same thing.
This wasn't where anything truly began. And that, somehow, mattered more than if it had been.
• ◦ ❖ ◦ •
Far from the city, far from noise, a room breathed in darkness. The space was wide, yet the light refused to travel. It gathered weakly at the center, trembling, as if even fire understood it was not welcome here. Stone walls rose unevenly, carved long ago by hands that had no intention of being remembered.
Seven figures stood in a loose circle. They did not speak at first. Their clothes were similar—long, dark layers that swallowed their forms, blurring edges, hiding posture, erasing identity. The fabric looked old, worn thin in places, yet untouched by dust, as if time itself moved around them instead of through them.
On each of their chests burned the same mark. The curse symbol. Incomplete. Ancient. Etched deep, glowing faintly beneath cloth and skin alike, as though it was not worn—but grown.
Below it, closer to the heart, another mark pulsed on each figure. Smaller. Sharper. Different. One glowed cold blue, steady and restrained. Another flickered amber, restless and uneven. A third throbbed deep green, slow and heavy. Others shone in colors harder to name—dull violet, pale white, a red darker than blood.
Each color breathed at its own rhythm. Out of sync.
One of the figures shifted slightly.
"They felt it," a voice said, low and controlled.
A pause.
"Both of them," the voice continued. "In the same moment?"
"Yes."
Silence pressed in, heavier than before.
"That hasn't happened in this era," someone murmured.
"No," another agreed. "It was never meant to."
The symbols flickered—uneasy. A third voice spoke, slower, deliberate.
"One carries it unknowingly. The other… does not."
"Do we intervene?" someone asked. The question hung in the air.
"No," came the answer. Firm. Final. "Not yet."
Another pause.
"The meeting was small," the first voice added. "A brush. Nothing more."
"But the force recognised itself," someone replied. "That is enough."
The symbols pulsed once. Together. Then returned to their uneven rhythms.
"Let them walk," the voice concluded. "Let them collide again when the time demands it."
The light dimmed. The figures receded into shadow, their forms dissolving until only the faint glow of symbols remained—then even that disappeared.
Somewhere, far away, two lives moved on, unaware that their brief crossing had been witnessed… and judged.
The room closed its eyes.
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