The wall calendar at Synapse's Indiranagar office still carried a May theme—sunflowers sketched against pale blue—but Arjun had drawn his own red circle around 26th June. It wasn't an official deadline or company milestone. It was his personal countdown: five days until salary day.
For most of his colleagues, payday was a line item in life's rhythm—rent transfers, weekend splurges, credit card bills. For Arjun, it was proof of survival. Proof that he had built something with his own two hands, far from his father's iron grip.
It had been a year since he'd walked out of the Malhotra mansion with nothing but a suitcase and his IIM certificate rolled in ribbon. A year since he'd taken that PG room overlooking a peepal tree that shed leaves like old advice. A year since he'd made rules in a notebook and lived by them like commandments.
Now, he wasn't just the awkward fresher in the corner. He'd climbed. He had delivered projects, reduced drop-offs, won Karthik's grudging respect. And just last month, he had been promoted to Associate Product Manager. The raise wasn't massive, but the title was oxygen. His name carried weight on emails. His voice was heard in standups.
And there was Riya.
They had started with umbrella jokes at a bus stop, and somewhere between filter coffees, broken code deployments, and stolen weekends, she had become a part of his life. Not just company. A constant.
She had a way of grounding him, teasing him out of his intensity. When he stressed over numbers, she reminded him that not everything could be graphed. When he underplayed his promotion, she celebrated with samosas and sparklers on her balcony. She had even added rules to his sacred notebook—rules that felt like stitches he hadn't realized he needed.
Rule #7: Don't confuse exhaustion with meaning.Rule #8: Celebrate small wins, or you'll only ever meet grief.Rule #9: Trust slowly, but when you do, trust fully.
He had laughed at that last one. She'd tapped his cheek and said, "You'll understand one day."
They were talking more openly about a future. "Once your flat fund hits halfway, let's pool in," she'd said one night, lying on the floor beside him, head resting against his arm. "Why wait until 2027? We could buy a place sooner."
He had smiled. "I'd like that."
But in private, he noticed things. Little things.
The late-night calls she brushed off as "work emergencies." The sudden silences when he walked into the room. The way she'd sometimes suggest "faster" money routes—investments, shortcuts, things that reminded him too much of the world he had left behind.
He wanted to ask, but love is strange: it can make you both fearless and afraid at once. So he buried the doubts under small joys.
On the morning of the 26th, he checked his accounts before leaving for work. Savings looked healthy—months of careful deposits, the Key spreadsheet inching closer to his goal of owning a flat. His PG rent was due on the 1st, but his salary would cover it comfortably.
He closed the laptop and smiled, feeling the kind of pride that comes from small stability. He even allowed himself a rare indulgence that day: a cappuccino from the overpriced café near office, just because he could.
That evening, Riya messaged:
Riya: Dinner at mine? I'll cook.
He went, carrying a packet of Mysore pak as a surprise.
She welcomed him with a smile, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. They cooked together—she chopping vegetables with practiced speed, he clumsily burning the onions until she shooed him away. They ate cross-legged on the floor, sharing food and silence.
After dinner, she leaned against him, tracing circles on his arm. "Arjun," she said softly, "have you ever thought about… multiplying your savings faster? Not this slow crawl toward 2027. You're smart. You could invest. We could… accelerate things."
He chuckled. "I've seen where shortcuts lead. I'd rather wait and build slowly. One brick at a time."
Her hand stilled. For a second, her eyes hardened—then she smiled again. "Of course. Mr. Rules. I'm only teasing."
But the unease stayed with him, like a shadow under a lamp.
The morning of the 27th began like any other. A run through Cubbon Park. Idlis at the darshini near the office. A quick check of emails before standup.
And then—on impulse—he opened his bank app.
The screen loaded. He frowned. Refreshed. Refreshed again.
Balance: ₹742.00
He froze. His throat went dry. He clicked into transaction history.
Several transfers. Large amounts. All in the past week.Authorized. From his login.
He scrolled frantically, heart pounding.His savings—emptied.His emergency fund—gone.Even the PG deposit cushion—wiped clean.
Everything he had built, brick by brick for a year, reduced to less than the cost of one dinner.
"No…" he whispered.
His phone buzzed. Riya.
Don't panic. I'll explain tonight.
His hands shook so badly he nearly dropped the phone.
At work, he barely functioned. His code review was sloppy. He snapped at a junior. Karthik noticed.
"You're distracted," Karthik said bluntly after standup. "Fix it. Or the promotion will mean nothing."
Arjun nodded mutely, unable to form words.
By evening, he went straight to Riya's apartment. The doorbell rang, echoing. No answer. A neighbor popped her head out. "She left in the morning with a suitcase," the woman said casually.
His stomach dropped.
The next day, the 28th, Arjun wandered Koramangala aimlessly after office. The city felt surreal, too bright, too alive for his unraveling insides.
And then he saw her.
Through the glass of a café, Riya sat across from a man in an expensive suit, a watch on his wrist that could buy Arjun's year's salary. She was laughing—free, unburdened. A laugh he realized she had never shared with him.
The sight hit him like a physical blow.
Before he knew it, he was inside, breath ragged, voice raw. "Riya."
She turned. Surprise flickered—then vanished into irritation. "Arjun. What are you doing here?"
"What am I—?" He nearly choked. "My account. My savings. It's all gone! You—"
Her eyes narrowed. "Not here."
The man in the suit leaned back, smirking. "What's this, babe? Drama?"
Arjun's fists clenched. "Who is he?"
Riya stood, her voice low, sharp. "Enough, Arjun. Stop embarrassing yourself."
"I trusted you," he whispered. His throat burned. "I loved you."
For a moment, her face softened—then she straightened, cold. "You save like a beggar. Dream like a beggar. I wanted more. He can give me that. You can't."
The café went silent. The man chuckled, swirling his drink. "Tough luck, kid."
Arjun staggered back, humiliated. The walls seemed to tilt. He left without another word, the sound of their laughter chasing him onto the street.
The 29th was worse. His landlord demanded rent immediately. When Arjun stammered about his salary coming on the 1st, the man was unmoved. By evening, his belongings were shoved into a suitcase. His key was taken.
That night, Arjun entered a shelter near Majestic. The smell of sweat, damp mats, and despair clung to his skin. Men coughed, muttered, guarded their few belongings like treasures. Arjun lay on a thin mat, clutching his bag to his chest, staring at the ceiling fans that creaked like dying birds.
Shame burned hotter than hunger.
At work, his decline showed. He missed a deadline. Colleagues whispered. Karthik's disappointment was a blade. "You had potential," he muttered. "Don't waste it."
Arjun walked out that evening with tears blurring his vision.
On the 30th, the city mocked him with its indifference. Crowds surged, vendors shouted, buses honked. Life roared forward as if his world hadn't collapsed.
And then—he saw her.
Riya. Stepping out of a boutique, arms full of shopping bags. Beside her, the suited man, jangling car keys casually.
Arjun's blood boiled. He shouted her name. People turned. She froze, then rolled her eyes.
"Riya!" He stumbled toward her. "Why? Why did you do this to me?"
She sighed, exasperated. "Still? You don't get it? It's over, Arjun. Move on."
He grabbed her wrist, desperate. "At least tell me—why?"
Her hand cracked across his face. The slap echoed.
"Because you'll never be enough," she spat.
The words shattered him more than the slap.
She turned to leave. The man opened the car door, smirking. "Pathetic."
Arjun, wild with grief, stumbled in front of the car. "You can't just walk away! You stole my life!"
The man revved the engine. "Move. Last warning."
Arjun stood his ground. "Not until you answer me!"
The car surged forward. Metal and bone collided. Pain exploded through his body. He was flung onto the asphalt, blood pooling, lungs screaming for air.
The world blurred, fading into soundless shadow.
And then—a voice. Cold. Metallic. Alien.
"Critical injury detected. Host candidate suitable. Initializing… Equalizer System."
Darkness swallowed him whole.