The safe house wasn't safe anymore.
Arav knew this the moment he saw the black hovercar parked outside his usual noodle shop. It wasn't police—CIB vehicles had distinct blue stripes. This was something else. Something private.
He ducked into an alley, his heart hammering. Two days had passed since the Mehra job, and he'd been lying low, surviving on cheap nutrition bars and anxiety. But someone had found him.
His wrist comm vibrated with an unknown ID. The message was simple:
"The Golden Dragon restaurant. 8 PM. Come alone. We know about the library."
Arav's blood ran cold. The library. Only two people knew about that encounter—him and the woman from the dream. The CIB officer.
7:45 PM - The Golden Dragon
The restaurant was the kind of place Arav normally only saw in dreams—all polished dark wood and soft lighting. A hostess led him to a private booth where a man in an impeccably tailored suit sat sipping tea.
"Mr. Arav," the man said, his voice smooth as silk. "I'm Mr. Verma. Please, sit."
Arav remained standing. "How did you find me?"
Verma smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "When one seeks the best dream thief in Mumbai, one finds ways. Your work with Rajesh Mehra was... impressive."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Come now." Verma pushed a tablet across the table. Security footage from Mehra's building showed Arav entering the service entrance. "The CIB has this too. They just don't know who you are yet. But they will soon."
Arav's mouth went dry. "What do you want?"
"A job. One that pays ten times your usual rate."
The number Verma named made Arav's head spin. It was more money than he'd seen in his entire life. Enough to disappear forever.
Meanwhile, at CIB Headquarters
Riya stared at the evidence board, trying to connect dots that refused to line up. The dream thief's pattern was consistent, but his technology was unlike anything on the market.
"Custom-built neuro-link," the lab tech had said. "Whoever he is, he's a genius."
Ankit burst into her office, holding a data chip. "We got a break! Security footage from Mehra Towers."
The grainy video showed a young man slipping through a service entrance. The quality was too poor for facial recognition, but Riya didn't need it. She'd know that walk anywhere—the same confident stride she'd seen in the dream.
"His name is Arav," Ankit said, pulling up a file. "24. Orphan. Technical school dropout. Freelance programmer."
Riya studied the photo—a young man with intense eyes and a guarded expression. He looked younger than she expected. And alone.
"Any known associates?" she asked.
"None. He's a ghost." Ankit hesitated. "There's something else. Our systems picked up chatter about a new player in the black market—someone called 'The Architect.' They're hiring dream hackers for a big job."
Riya's instincts went on high alert. "Find out everything you can about this Architect. And put surveillance on Arav. I want to know everywhere he goes, everyone he talks to."
9:15 PM - Back at the Restaurant
"...and if you refuse," Verma was saying, "I'm afraid I'll have to send this footage to the CIB. Officer Sharma seems quite determined to find you."
Arav felt trapped. The money was life-changing, but the risk... Verma was asking him to break into the most secure dream server in Mumbai—the National Dream Archive.
"It's impossible," Arav said. "The NDA has military-grade firewalls."
"Nothing is impossible for the right talent." Verma leaned forward. "Three days, Arav. Steal Project Chimera's blueprints from Director Kapoor's dreams, and you'll be a rich man. Refuse, and you'll spend the rest of your life in prison."
As Arav left the restaurant, the weight of the decision crushed him. He'd become a dream thief to survive, not to become a corporate spy. But Verma had backed him into a corner.
His wrist comm buzzed. An alert he'd programmed himself—a warning when someone accessed his apartment. The CIB was moving faster than he'd expected.
He melted into the crowded streets, his mind racing. He had nowhere to go, no one to turn to. Except...
Maybe he didn't need to run. Maybe he needed to change the game.
Pulling up a secure interface, he typed a message to the only person who might understand his dilemma:
"Officer Sharma. We need to talk. About Verma. About what he's really planning."
He hit send before he could lose his nerve. It was a risk—she could trace this back to him. But if Verma was telling the truth about Project Chimera, this was bigger than either of them.
Somewhere across the city, Riya's console chimed with an incoming message from an unknown sender. The game was about to change.