The rusted hinges of the hostel rooftop door squealed as Bhumika pushed it open. She glanced over her shoulder, making sure no one was following. The evening air hit her face, carrying Delhi's dust and the faint stink of exhaust.
For anyone else it was just a storage shed on the roof, half-forgotten, stuffed with broken chairs and discarded buckets. For her, it had become something else, a workshop, a secret nest of cables, bolts, and stubborn dreams.
She wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her sleeve. Her nose still felt raw from the last time it bled, and a dull ache sat heavy in her chest. The doctor had called it "idiopathic cell deterioration" during her last checkup, medical jargon for we don't know what's wrong with you. Not fatal tomorrow. Not even next month. But the shadow of it stretched ahead, years maybe, tightening every day.
She knelt on the floor, pushing aside a pile of old copper wires she had scavenged from the junkyard the day before. Her fingers shook as she fit two stripped cables together, twisting until the metal bit into her skin. The sting calmed her, it was something real, unlike the visions that came like waves in her sleep.
Those visions always began the same way: fragments of a vast, unfinished machine humming in the dark, arcs of blue and orange light spilling across its frame. Navik's machine. The ripper that had cracked their worlds together. And always, the same pull, like it wanted her to finish what he started.
A cough bent her double. She pressed a handkerchief to her mouth until it passed, then folded it away quickly before she could look at the faint stain.
Her roommate had asked that morning why she skipped two lectures. "Caught a bug," Bhumika had lied, flashing a smile that didn't reach her eyes. She'd made excuses before, library work, a tutoring gig, anything that explained her absences and the way she smelled faintly of grease and rust.
The truth was uglier: she spent her days at junkyards, haggling with scrap dealers for broken circuit boards, stripped screws, and dented rotors. In the evenings, she sorted through them like puzzle pieces here on the roof.
Her stomach growled. She hadn't eaten since noon. Instead of heading downstairs, she dragged a battered notebook from under the tarp. Every page was covered in hurried sketches, wheels inside wheels, loops of equations she barely understood, scribbled annotations from her dreams.
She whispered to herself as she studied the lines. "If I reroute the current through a stabilizer… maybe it'll hold." Her pen tapped against the page, her lips moving as if the act of saying it aloud anchored her.
Her hands trembled again when she reached for the soldering iron. She steadied them with a long breath, just like her yoga instructor once taught her. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. The shake eased, and she bent over the half-assembled frame of the machine.
The iron hissed when it touched metal. Sparks spat, briefly illuminating her tired face. She smiled faintly, almost in defiance of her own body.
A gust of wind rattled the loose tin on the roof. She paused, listening, then shook her head. No one was there. No one would be foolish enough to follow her up here.
Her phone buzzed once in her pocket. A reminder from her day-job manager: Shift tomorrow. Don't be late. She ignored it. The job paid barely enough to cover her food and the occasional part she couldn't scavenge. But it was cover. No one would ask where she got the money.
She leaned back on her heels, studying the skeleton of wires and scrap before her. It looked absurd, half-formed, like a child's science project gone wrong. And yet, in her head, she could see the finished thing clearly, pulsing, humming, alive.
Her lips twisted into a small, tired smile. "One piece at a time."
Another cough scraped at her lungs, forcing her to steady herself on the floor. When it passed, she tucked the notebook back under the tarp and stood. Her legs wobbled, but she forced them straight.
Tomorrow she'd go back to the junkyard. Tomorrow she'd find what she needed. Because the visions weren't stopping. Because every day she ignored them, the sickness seemed to grow heavier in her bones.
She locked the shed again and leaned against the door for a moment, eyes closed, catching her breath. The Delhi skyline burned orange in the distance, city lights flickering to life. To anyone else, it was just another sunset. To her, it looked like a countdown.
In the other part of Delhi, The gym smelled of leather and sweat, the rhythmic thuds of gloves on heavy bags echoing off the walls. Shivam tightened the tape around his wrists, tugging until his skin pinched. His phone buzzed on the bench beside him.
Mission in progress. Don't worry., Naina
He stared at the message, thumb hovering over the reply box. A second later, Aman's name popped up underneath: We'll check the Noctirum behavior. Focus on your training, champ.
Shivam let out a breath and typed back a single word: Okay. He dropped the phone onto the bench.
"Shivam!" A barked call snapped his head up. His coach, a stocky man with arms like steel cables, was leaning over the ropes of the sparring ring. Inside, Dikshant bounced lightly on his feet, gloves raised, grin flashing through the mouthguard.
"You've been dodging me long enough," the coach said. "Get in the ring with your brother. Let's see if you can focus today."
Shivam hesitated for half a second, then slipped through the ropes. Dikshant gave him a cheeky wink. "Ready to get schooled, bhai?"
"Don't get cocky," Shivam muttered, tugging down his mouthguard.
The bell clanged.
Dikshant darted forward immediately, light on his feet, jabbing quick to test range. Shivam blocked with minimal effort, but his eyes weren't on the gloves, they were somewhere else, distant.
"Eyes up, Shivam!" the coach barked.
A jab slipped through, grazing his chin. Shivam blinked, shook his head, reset. He stepped in with a right hook aimed at Dikshant's ribs, but Dikshant pivoted out smoothly, grinning.
"Too slow," Dikshant teased, tapping his glove against Shivam's shoulder as he slid away.
Shivam exhaled sharply through his nose and advanced again, heavier this time. His fists came faster, combinations sharp, but his rhythm faltered. Every third punch missed its mark by inches, his timing off.
Dikshant ducked under one cross, slipped left, and cracked a clean jab into Shivam's cheek. The smack echoed, drawing a few whistles from other fighters leaning on the ropes.
The coach's voice rose over the noise. "Stop watching ghosts! Watch him!"
Shivam's jaw tightened. He lunged, forcing Dikshant back with sheer pressure, fists hammering into guard. The ring shook under their footwork, both of them grunting with the effort. Sweat dripped into Shivam's eyes.
Then, just as Shivam pressed forward, Dikshant baited him. He leaned back against the ropes, let Shivam commit to a looping hook, then rolled under it and slipped behind, shoving Shivam square in the back.
Shivam stumbled forward, off balance, knees buckling. He tried to catch himself, but his heel caught on the canvas edge, and he crashed down hard on his side.
The bell rang, ending the round, but the sound was drowned by the coach's furious voice.
"WHAT was that?!" The coach vaulted through the ropes, glaring down at Shivam. "Your head's not in the fight! You're moving like you're carrying bricks!"
Shivam sat up, pulling out his mouthguard, sweat streaking down his face. His chest heaved. "I,"
"No excuses." The coach jabbed a finger at him. "You don't fight your brother; you fight the man in front of you. Doesn't matter if it's in this ring or out there in the world. You get sloppy, you die. Simple."
The words hit harder than the jab. Shivam lowered his gaze, nodded once.
Dikshant, bouncing in the corner, tugged his gloves off and shook his head. "You weren't even trying. What's eating you?"
Shivam didn't answer. He climbed to his feet, ducked through the ropes, and grabbed his towel. The coach's eyes followed him the whole way.