Arjun stumbled down winding alleys, heart slamming at his ribs like a wild drum. Suryanagar's morning was in full bloom above him—vendors hollering, steam rising from breakfast stalls, kids in school uniforms kicking puddles. It all felt impossibly normal, as if the last hour hadn't torn reality wide open.
He ducked behind a battered auto-rickshaw, stealing glances over his shoulder. Were those black-clad men still following him? Every face in the crowd suddenly seemed suspicious—every hand, every fleeting glance.
His phone buzzed. Unknown number. He hesitated, then answered.
"You're alive. Good," hissed a woman's voice—a blend of annoyance and relief. "Don't hang up. Listen carefully."
Arjun's grip tightened. "Who is this?"
"Someone who just saved your life, idiot. I disabled their tracker at the shrine, but they'll regroup fast. You need to move." A pause, then, softer: "Name's Ishani. Meet me at the old djinn market. And don't trust anyone."
Before he could answer, the line went dead.
Arjun stared at the screen. The relic chip still burned against his palm, a secret weight. A cold drizzle had started, soaking his shirt and nerves alike.
His thoughts spiraled: Why me? What did the relic want? Am I going mad?
He recalled the words in that haunted, digital chant:
"You are not alone, Arjun. The story begins again."
He wiped rain from his brow and started down the street, head down, blending with students and vendors—trying, hopelessly, to look invisible. At every crossing, he felt eyes on him, real or not. He slipped past the corner shrine, its plastic deity now glitching in the downpour. A stray dog sniffed his ankle and whined—a city omen, his grandmother would say.
Passing a noodle shop, Arjun froze when he spotted Mrs. Menon—his neighbor—arguing with a local policeman. The officer had a tablet displaying a surveillance still…Arjun's face, caught in the shine of altar light.
He pulled his hoodie up, pulse racing, and wove into a weaving stream of commuters until Suryanagar's oldest market loomed ahead. The "djinn market"—so called for its myth-thick air, its tangled stalls selling oddities no rational soul believed in.
He ducked inside the canopy of mismatched awnings, greeted by a churning storm of scents: saffron, biotech grease, spilled spirits. Merchants hawked relics and pills, old men sold dreams for pennies, and neon-runed signs flickered promises in every script.
From deep in the maze, a voice called, bold and impatient:
"Heads up, Arjun."
Ishani emerged—a blur of green hair, piercings, eyes sharp as obsidian. She shoved a packet into his hands.
"Put these in your pocket. Jammers—so their tech doesn't trace you. And don't gape. You're not in a movie."
Arjun managed a shaky half-smile, voice barely above a whisper:
"I have no idea what's happening to me. Or you."
She sighed, rolling her eyes.
"Welcome to the real Suryanagar. Myth's not just stories, and you just picked up a ticket to every power struggle in the city."
Arjun glanced at the relic chip.
"What's so special about this thing?"
She looked at him a long moment, as if weighing some invisible scale—then leaned in close.
"It's a key. Not to money, or tech, but to the oldest story there is. The one your ancestors left in pieces, for people desperate or foolish enough to find. And now everyone wants it."
Footsteps thundered from the alley entrance. "There! With the green hair! That's the one."
Ishani shoved Arjun behind her, pulling a slender baton from her coat.
"Stay close. And for gods' sakes, try not to die. I just risked my skin for you."
As they darted into the market's labyrinth, the world Arjun thought he knew faded into chaos and color and myth.
But as the mob of faceless pursuers closed in, and Ishani's grip steadied him, one thought blazed brighter than fear:
I am not alone.
**End of Chapter 2**
Would you like to continue directly into Chapter 3, explore Ishani's perspective, or unfold more about the relic's power in the next scenes? Just say the word!