The Mansion's Heartbeat
The snow was nearly gone by late March, leaving behind damp earth and soft moss across the valley. Spring winds carried a faint smell of pine resin and wet soil. The construction site buzzed like a hive—cement mixers grumbling, steel beams lifted into position, and the rhythmic clatter of chisels against stone.
From the upper slope of the estate, the skeleton of the mansion now had visible bones—pillars of reinforced concrete, girders forming the ribs of the roof. The air was filled with sawdust and sparks. Workers in bright vests moved like ants across scaffolding, their calls echoing against the silent forest.
Amid all this chaos, the MC walked slowly, his boots crunching over gravel. To others, he was an investor quietly overseeing a personal retreat. In truth, each detail of this estate was tied to something deeper—memory, concealment, and power.
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Designing a Home, Not Just a Fortress
He had already decided: the estate would not be a sterile billionaire's showpiece, all marble and chandeliers. It would be alive.
The walls would be paneled with Himalayan cedar, their fragrance lasting decades. Windows would stretch from floor to ceiling, opening directly into the forest—so that no matter where one stood, nature was a companion. He sketched layouts late at night inside his hidden dimension, Aarya's holographic systems projecting floating models of walls and furniture.
"Glass for the east-facing wall," he murmured one evening, tracing a luminous blueprint in the air. "Let the sun flood in every morning."
Aarya's voice hummed softly in his mind. "Structural reinforcement adjusted. Triple-layered glass with energy absorption. Thermal regulation engaged. Do you wish me to mask it as ordinary?"
"Yes. Always."
He was careful—every extraordinary thing had to wear a mask of the ordinary. To the outside world, the estate would be an extravagant eco-mansion. To him, it was a sanctuary, an underground command center, and a memory palace.
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The Hidden Heart – Underground
Beneath the construction site, machines already carved out chambers invisible to outsiders. A stealth drilling unit—derived from his modified tech—was hollowing a cavern under the foundation. There, an underground control center would rise.
Banks of servers, reinforced shielding, independent oxygen filtration, water recycling systems—all designed to let him retreat below for weeks if necessary. From there, he could monitor financial markets, control his humanoid androids, or even launch new projects without ever being seen.
Standing inside the half-complete chamber one afternoon, he ran his hand along raw stone walls. His flashlight beam caught veins of quartz glinting faintly.
"This," he whispered, "is where I will disappear when the world looks too closely."
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Nostalgia – The Kitchen of Memories
Yet amid all this futuristic planning, one detail tugged at his heart: the kitchen.
He told no one except Aarya, but he wanted it to be identical to his parents' old home in the village—a modest, sunlit room with clay-tiled walls, a heavy wooden dining table, and brass utensils stacked neatly in shelves. He remembered his mother humming as she cooked, his father reading the newspaper at the corner.
He gave exact specifications: the old spice cabinet with carved elephant handles, the uneven stone floor polished smooth by decades of footsteps, even the low window through which the morning light once poured.
When workers raised questions—why such an outdated design in a modern estate?—he smiled vaguely and said, "It's a sentimental request. Don't change a single measurement."
Later, Aarya projected a hologram of the finished room. For a moment, he closed his eyes and could almost smell turmeric, hear the clatter of utensils, and feel the warmth of childhood again.
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Side POV – A Young Architect
Ritika, a junior architect fresh out of Delhi School of Planning, had been assigned to assist with interior work. She was both confused and fascinated by her employer's tastes.
In her diary she scribbled:
March 29, 2015
> This client is strange. He asks for walls of glass, underground halls, and hyper-modern systems—but then demands a kitchen that looks like something from the 1970s. Who builds nostalgia into a billion-dollar estate? Still, when he describes it, his eyes soften. Almost like… this house isn't for him alone.
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Small Town Whispers
Meanwhile, outside the gates, rumors grew thicker. The villagers spoke of convoys of trucks that came at night carrying polished wood and rare stone. A shopkeeper whispered that he saw imported Italian marble offloaded under tarps. Another swore the glass panels were unlike anything made in India.
"Whoever this man is," one villager told another, "he's building not just a house, but a palace."
And yet, when the MC visited the village tea stall, he remained unassuming—wearing plain clothes, asking after crops, even buying sweets for children.
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The Inner Conflict
One evening in late March, after hours of reviewing holograms and site inspections, he stood on the rising balcony framework. The valley below glowed faintly under the moon, trees whispering in the wind.
He thought of what he was building. A fortress? A mask? Or a home?
Aarya interrupted softly. "Your pulse rate is elevated. Emotional turbulence detected."
He smiled faintly. "I'm building for the future, Aarya. But some parts of me… they still belong to the past."
And with that, he finalized the decision: the mansion would be both—the command center of a hidden empire and the warm home where his family would live in peace.