The next morning, Aarav woke in his flat, the sketchbook lying open beside him. He didn't remember falling asleep. His body ached like he'd been run over, but there were no bruises. No blood. No proof.
For a few fragile minutes, it was almost possible to believe it had all been a dream. The sunlight cut through the curtains, the sounds of rickshaw horns and vegetable sellers filled the street, and the city carried on as if gods and demons weren't tearing through its shadows.
Aarav brewed tea, scrolling half-heartedly through his phone. A recruiter had rejected him again. Another polite "We've decided to move forward with other candidates." His chest tightened.
"Warrior of the devas," he muttered bitterly. "Can't even get an interview."
The sketchbook's pages fluttered. Aarav froze. The windows were closed; no wind. Slowly, he reached for it, heart thudding.
A new drawing sprawled across the page — his own building, sketched in sharp, hurried lines. And in the stairwell, eyes. Dozens of them.
A sound followed — faint at first, then heavier. Footsteps. Too many, too fast, climbing up toward his door.
Aarav's breath caught. "No. Not here…"
The front door rattled. Once. Twice. Then it burst inward.
Rakshasas spilled in, their forms warped and snarling. One had the body of a man but the face of a vulture. Another's arms dragged like molten tar across the floor. Their eyes locked on him, burning with recognition.
Aarav stumbled back, knocking over his teacup, the hot liquid splattering across the floor. His hand flew to the sketchbook, pencil trembling. He tried to draw, but his fingers shook too hard. The line broke, jagged, useless.
The first rakshasa lunged—
A streak of fire slammed through the window, blasting it back. Agnivesh strode into the smoke, staff blazing. Behind him, the delivery woman and the tailor followed, weapons already drawn.
"You thought you could hide?" Agnivesh snapped at Aarav, deflecting a claw strike with his staff. "The war doesn't respect walls. It finds you."
The tailor lashed his glowing tape, pulling a beast off Aarav's table and slamming it against the wall. The delivery woman's chakram spun, slicing through another before it could reach the kitchen.
Aarav's chest heaved, terror mixing with fury. His pencil finally steadied. He dragged it across the page in a single, angry stroke — a shield. Crude, uneven, but glowing as it rose in front of him. A rakshasa's claws scraped uselessly against it.
For the first time, his own room didn't feel like his. His bed, his sketches, his cracked mug on the counter — all background to a battlefield.
When the last rakshasa dissolved into ash, silence fell heavy. His door was splintered. His window shattered. His home ruined.
Agnivesh turned to him, eyes fierce but not unkind.
"Now you understand. There is no going back. The life you knew is gone. Come with us. Train. Or die here when they return."
Aarav looked at the ash scattered across his floor, mixing with spilled tea and broken glass. His hand clenched the sketchbook.
For the first time, he didn't argue. He just whispered, hoarse:
"Take me with you."