It was raining when they arrived at Vihan's house.
The lane was narrow. The apartments stacked like bricks, painted in layers of rich green and blue. Iravan parked the vehicle just across the street, its wipers still ticking when the engine cut off.
Neither of them moved at first.
Meher stared at the building.Fourth floor. Apartment 407.The home of an eleven-year-old boy who had once kicked his shin and called him a "handsome lizard uncle."
Now, just a void.
"I can go in alone," Iravan offered gently.
Meher didn't reply. He unbuckled his seatbelt and stepped out into the drizzle.
They walked in silence, shoes tapping on cracked tiles, the building's staircase smelling like old water, incense, and grief. Each step felt heavier. Slower.
When they reached the door, it was already open.
A man stood there in a white kurta, face puffy from crying. His hand was gripped tightly by another man—taller, broader, with stubble and tired eyes, still wearing scrubs beneath his overcoat.
"Thank you for coming," the first man said in a broken voice.
Iravan bowed his head slightly. "We're sorry for your loss."
Meher looked at them both.Two fathers.One child.
No women.
None.
The realization was slow and strange. Like something he'd missed for too long. At work, in the hospital, in public—no women. Not a single one. He thought maybe he'd just overlooked them, but now—
It clicked like a blade catching light.
This world didn't have women.
Only men.And all of them had… the ability to carry children?
He swallowed the thought. Filed it away. For now.
They entered the apartment.
The living room was dim, filled with the smell of jasmine and burnt wick. Black-and-white photos had been laid out across a table with marigold garlands. A candle burned in front of a small portrait of Vihan—smiling wide, his hair mussed, a cricket bat slung over his shoulder.
Several family members were gathered. Most were quiet. Mourning. A few exchanged hugs, some sat silently in the corners, dazed and distant.
Then, the quiet shattered.
"It's his fault."
A voice. Slurred. Loud.
From the left, a man stumbled forward—late 30s, sweat-stained shirt half untucked, holding a half-empty bottle of local liquor. His face was sallow, scruffed. Eyes red. He pointed a shaky finger.
"Him. That one."
Everyone looked up.
He was pointing at Meher.
Iravan stepped forward instantly. "Sir, I'll ask you to calm down—"
The man ignored him. Staggered closer.He stopped just inches away from Meher, and before anyone could pull him back, his hand grabbed Meher by the collar.
Cold breath against his ear.
He whispered:
"तस्मात् स्मर… प्रतिबिंबं रक्तस्य अन्तर्मुखे""Therefore remember… the reflection of blood within…"
Then he let go, eyes wide as if he had just been possessed—then turned and bolted out the apartment, pushing past family and vanishing into the stairwell before anyone could catch him.
Everyone froze.
The silence was oppressive.
Iravan immediately turned to Meher. "Are you okay? Did he hurt you?"
Meher shook his head slowly. His hands were clenched tight. His breath uneven.
"Fucking bastard," he muttered.
Iravan stepped closer, trying to meet his eyes. "Hey. Breathe. Don't spiral."
"I'm not—" Meher stopped, jaw tightening. His vision was too sharp. His skin too hot.
That whisper still echoed in his skull.
"Reflection of blood within…"
"I need a minute," he muttered.
Iravan reached for his wrist. "Meher—"
"I'll be right back."
He moved through the apartment like a shadow. Past the kitchen. Past the bathroom. The lights were dimmer here. The hall led into a small room—door slightly ajar.
Vihan's room.
He stepped inside.
It was eerily clean. Uncanny.
Like someone had tried to preserve it, not clean it.
Toys still on the shelf. A set of neatly folded clothes on the bed. A small cricket bat leaned against the corner.
The air was thick. Still.
Meher's eyes scanned the space.
There—by the window.
A school box. Blue plastic. Stickers peeling.
He knelt. Popped it open.
Old notebooks. A folded lunch menu. A math test.
And tucked under it all—a piece of folded paper.
He opened it.
The handwriting was rushed. Childish. Uneven.
"Restricted Section. Do not enter. It is watching. It is always watching. Even now. Even when you think it isn't."
A chill clawed down Meher's spine.
He read the line again. And again.
"It is watching."
Suddenly, a voice echoed faintly from the front room.
"Mr. Raisinghania?"
Meher's blood went cold.
That voice.
Agrasen.
He stood so fast the box toppled. He pocketed the note and moved toward the hall.
From the shadows of the corridor, he watched the main door.
There he was.
Agrasen Raisinghania.Dark bronze hair combed back. Tailored grey three-piece suit. Brown eyes that didn't blink much. Tall, still, and perfectly composed.
He was speaking softly to one of the grieving fathers, offering condolences with the mechanical precision of someone who had done this many times before.
His voice was warm. Sincere. Gentle.
It didn't match the one Meher had heard in the dream.
But somehow, it was the same.
Meher stepped forward—hesitating—just as Agrasen's eyes flicked to him.
Their gazes met.
Something passed between them.
Something not so sane.
And then—A whisper again.
But this time, right next to his ear.
"Restricted section."
Meher spun.
No one there.
Iravan stepped toward him from the side. "Meher?"
He turned back.
Agrasen was gone.
Like he'd never been there.