Aarav didn't leave his flat all morning.
He sat cross-legged on the floor, sketchbook closed in front of him like it was some dangerous artifact. Every few minutes, he'd touch it, half-expecting it to burn his fingers.
"Dreams don't leave evidence," he whispered to himself. "Dreams don't… draw themselves."
He thought about calling his mother, but what would he even say? Hi Maa, I think I'm losing my mind, but also maybe I was a warrior in another life? No. She'd drag him to a temple or a psychiatrist — maybe both.
By evening, the heat in the flat felt unbearable. He decided to step out for tea, partly to clear his head, partly to feel normal again.
The streets were busy, the usual chaos: vendors frying bhajiyas, kids chasing a punctured football, traffic police blowing whistles nobody obeyed. Normal life. Solid, ordinary, human life.
Aarav clung to it like a lifeline. He ordered a cutting chai, let the steam fog his glasses, and tried to breathe.
That's when he saw the reflection.
In the steel countertop of the chai stall, behind his own tired face, stood the man in saffron robes. Calm, watchful, staff resting against his shoulder.
Aarav spun around. The man was really there. Standing casually on the opposite side of the street, as though he'd been waiting.
Aarav's stomach twisted. He grabbed his tea and crossed over, nearly getting clipped by a motorbike.
"You," Aarav hissed, voice low but sharp. "What the hell did you do to me?"
The man regarded him evenly. "I did nothing. You've always been what you are. Last night was simply the door opening."
"I don't want doors," Aarav snapped. "I want a job. Rent. A life. Not—" He lowered his voice. "—monsters and magic brushes."
The man studied him in silence for a moment, then leaned closer. His voice softened, but every word carried weight.
"You cannot hide from what you are. The rakshasas already know you've awakened. They will come again. Denial will not save you."
Aarav laughed bitterly. "Awakened? Look at me! I'm broke, hungry, and one month away from moving back in with my parents. I'm not a warrior. I'm not anyone."
The man's gaze didn't waver. "And yet you drew what no mortal should know. You fought, long before this life. You will fight again."
Aarav opened his mouth to argue, but the world answered for him.
From the alley beside the chai stall, a shadow twisted unnaturally, stretching across the ground like spilled oil. The air grew colder. Vendors stopped mid-shout, their voices dimming, their movements slowing, as though time itself had thickened.
The man's hand tightened on his staff. "Too soon," he muttered. Then, louder: "Behind me."
From the shadow, the horned grin emerged — the same creature from the bus, its molten eyes fixed on Aarav. This time it didn't bother wearing human skin. It was massive, jagged teeth bared, claws scraping sparks off the asphalt.
Aarav stumbled back. His heart pounded, throat dry. "No—no, no, no—"
The creature lunged.
And in that instant, Aarav felt the weight of something invisible in his hand. He looked down. His sketchbook was there, though he hadn't carried it with him. Pages fluttered open in the wind. His pencil slid from behind his ear into his palm like it had been waiting.
The saffron-robed man shouted, "Draw!"