The bus tilted slightly on its busted tires, people scrambling to get out through the jammed door. Shouts filled the air, curses hurled at the driver, the smell of burned rubber heavy in the cabin.
But Aarav couldn't move.
The horned creature glared at him, hissing, skin rippling like smoke trying to stay in a human shape. One claw twitched toward Aarav, but every time it tried to step closer, the man in saffron robes tapped his glowing staff against the floor. Sparks hissed across the metal like lightning chasing shadows.
"Leave," the robed man said, calm but commanding. "You've lingered too long in sight of mortals."
The creature's jaw cracked unnaturally wide. "He sees. He remembers. He belongs to us."
Then it melted back into the crowd — no, into the shadows beneath the seats — twisting itself smaller and smaller until there was nothing left but the stink of sulfur.
Aarav gasped. The passengers around him moved as if nothing had happened. They were yelling about compensation, about hospitals, about being late to work. Nobody noticed a monster vanish into smoke. Nobody noticed the man with the fire staff standing right there.
Except Aarav.
He clutched his sketchbook off the floor, holding it against his chest like it could protect him.
"Wh-what the hell was that?"
The man stepped closer, staff dimming until it looked like plain wood. He had lean features, sharp eyes, and a calmness that felt… old. Like he'd been calm for centuries.
"That," he said, "was a rakshasa."
Aarav stared at him. "A… what? No, listen, I—I hit my head. This is just—just concussion hallucinations, right?"
The man tilted his head. "And yet you saw it before you hit your head."
Aarav swallowed hard. His hand shook as he flipped open his sketchbook, showing the fresh drawing from yesterday. The same horned grin stared up at him from the page.
"I've been… I don't know. Seeing things. Drawing them. For years."
The man studied the sketch. His expression didn't change, but his grip on the staff tightened.
"You've seen before," he repeated softly. "That means your time is coming."
"My time?!" Aarav snapped. "I don't even have a job! I don't—" He cut himself off when he realized passengers were squeezing past him, muttering, brushing shoulders, acting like the robed man wasn't even there. Nobody glanced at him.
Aarav whispered, voice breaking: "Why can't they see you?"
"Because they are not meant to," the man said. His gaze locked with Aarav's. "But you… you are remembering."
The words sank into Aarav's bones like ice.
Before he could argue again, the man lifted his staff. The wood flared briefly, the faintest hum of fire in the air. "Go home tonight. Do not draw. Do not dream. Resist, if you can."
Then, as if the smoke from the crash swallowed him, the man was gone.
The conductor shouted for people to get out before the police arrived. Aarav stumbled onto the street with the rest of the crowd, clutching his sketchbook so tightly it bent in his hands.
The horns of traffic wailed around him, the city going about its chaos like nothing had changed.
But something had.
For the first time, Aarav was terrified of what he might draw next.