A sharp, almost audible *snap* echoed in **Mihir's** mind, shattering the intensely vivid daydream. One moment, he was lost in the sensation of **Maira's** warmth, the scent of her hair, the feel of his lips on her neck... and the next, he was violently yanked back to reality.
He was still lying flat on his back on the couch. Maira was indeed on top of him, but she was propped on her elbows, her face etched with genuine fear and concern, not the passionate surrender his imagination had conjured.
**"-a black fog, Mihir! It was coming right for you!"** she was saying, her voice urgent, her eyes searching his for any sign of belief.
The stark contrast between his elaborate fantasy and her panicked reality was a bucket of ice water. He became acutely, painfully aware of his own body's very *physical* reaction to the fantasy he'd just been immersed in. Heat flooded his cheeks.
**"Fog? Right. Fog. Scary,"** he blurted out, his voice an octave higher than usual. He shifted uncomfortably beneath her, desperately trying to create some space and disguise his arousal. **"Uh. You know what? I'm suddenly... really thirsty. Parched, actually. Desert-level thirst."**
He gently but hastily moved her off him and practically vaulted off the couch, putting the furniture between them like a shield.
**"I'm just... gonna go... fetch some water. A lot of water. From very far away. Downstairs. Be right back!"** he rambled, not meeting her eyes. He practically fled the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click and leaving a very confused Maira alone.
Maira sat on the edge of the couch, staring at the closed door. His behavior was so bizarrely flustered and abrupt. *Was it something I said?* she wondered, her worry now mingling with self-consciousness. Then her thoughts returned to the swirling darkness. In the cold light of reality, with Mihir acting so strangely, the terrifying vision began to feel distant, surreal.
*Did I really see it?* she thought, pulling her knees to her chest. *Or was it just a nightmare so real it felt true?*
Alone in the room, the line between premonition and bad dream blurred terrifyingly, leaving her with a deep, unsettled dread.
The hallway was dark and cool, a stark contrast to the heated confusion raging inside **Mihir**. He leaned heavily against the wall just outside his bedroom door, pressing his forehead to the cool plaster as he took several deep, shuddering breaths.
**"Get it together, Kashyap,"** he muttered to himself, his voice a strained whisper. He glanced down in frustration at the very obvious, very inconvenient problem tenting his pajama trousers. **"Not now. Definitely not now."**
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to will the image away-the feel of Maira's skin, the scent of her hair, the fantasy of her melting against him. It had felt so real, so intense.
**"Why?"** he groaned, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. **"Why does my brain do this to me? She was having a nightmare, you idiot. She was scared, and you... you were... Bhagwan."**
He pushed off the wall and began to pace the short length of the hallway, a caged animal of his own desire.
**"It's just because she was on top of me. It's a physical reaction. Basic biology. Nothing more,"** he tried to rationalize, his internal monologue frantic. **"She's... Maira. She's frustrating and stubborn and she looks at me like I'm a circus act half the time."**
But another, quieter voice in his head whispered the truth he was trying to suppress. *She's also the bravest person you know. She just threw herself at what she thought was a demon to protect you. She's your wife.*
He stopped pacing, the word *wife* echoing in the silent hall. A fresh wave of heat, this one of guilt and confusion, washed over him.
**"This is crazy. These fantasies... they're getting crazier. First, it's just looking at her, now I'm inventing full-blown romantic scenarios because she *jumped on me*?"** He let out a shaky laugh that held no humor. **"I'm losing it. I am officially, completely losing my mind over my own wife."**
He slumped against the wall again, the fight leaving him. The physical arousal was slowly subsiding, replaced by a much more complicated and terrifying ache-the realization that his feelings for Maira were far from simple, and he was in much, much deeper than he ever wanted to admit.
The cool plaster of the wall did little to calm the storm within him. Mihir took one last, steadying breath, the phantom sensations of his fantasy finally receding. He pushed himself upright, deciding the awkwardness with Maira was a problem for a future, less-flustered version of himself. He turned to head back to his room, to face whatever strange dream or reality awaited him.
But as he moved, his eyes caught his own reflection in a dark, ornate mirror hanging in the hall.
And he froze.
His reflection had not moved with him. It stood still, staring back. And its eyes were not his own. They glowed with a familiar, sinister **crimson**.
A cold, mocking laughter echoed in the silent hallway, a sound that came from inside his own mind.
**"Pathetic,"** the reflection-**Daavansh**-spat, his voice a venomous whisper that slithered through Mihir's consciousness. **"Fantasizing about a woman you are indeed a foolish boy. Your weakness is a disease. Let me cure you of it."**
Before Mihir could fight, an invisible, icy force seized him. A spectral hand, visible only in the mirror, clamped around his neck in the reflection. In the real world, Mihir's own hands flew to his throat, choking on nothing, his eyes wide with terror.
**"No! Get out!"** Mihir tries to resist, but the words were a strangled gasp.
**"You invited me in with your fear, your desire, your confusion,"** Daavansh hissed. **"This body is as much mine as it is yours. The separation is a lie. Now, be silent."**
In the mirror, Daavansh's form dissolved into that same inky black fog and lunged *out* of the glass. In the hallway, Mihir felt an unbearable, freezing pressure against his chest. He looked down to see the fog pouring into him, merging with his very being. He fought with every ounce of his will, his body trembling, his muscles straining against the invasion, but it was like trying to hold back the tide.
The last thing he felt was a searing pain, as if his soul were being branded. Then, a terrifying calm washed over him.
His struggles ceased. His hands fell to his sides. He slowly lifted his head.
His eyes, now burning with a triumphant, unholy red light, opened. A cruel, familiar smirk twisted his lips-a expression that was all Daavansh.
He looked at his own hands, flexing them, feeling the raw power coursing through veins that were now fully his again.
"Finally," he said, his voice a deeper, darker echo of Mihir's own. "I'm back."