The door creaked as Vikram pushed it open.
The familiar smell hit him first—rice, lentils, a hint of turmeric. Home. Small. Cramped. Safe in a way no system screen could ever be.
"Papa?"
His daughter's voice came from the inner room, bright and immediate. Before he could even answer, she ran out and wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek into his stomach like she always had.
"You're late," she said, muffled. "Did traffic eat you again?"
Vikram smiled despite himself and rested a hand on her head, fingers threading through her hair. "Something like that."
His wife looked up from the stove, wiping her hands on her dupatta. There was tiredness in her eyes, but when she saw him standing there, soaked shoes and all, her shoulders relaxed.
"You're home," she said simply.
That was all. No questions. No complaints.
Just relief.
Vikram slipped off his sandals and sat down on the edge of the bed. The room felt smaller than he remembered, but warmer too. Lived in. Real. His daughter climbed beside him, swinging her legs.
"Maa made extra dal today," she announced proudly. "Because you like it."
"I do," Vikram said, voice soft. "Best cook in the city."
His wife snorted. "Liar. Eat first."
They sat together on the floor, sharing the same steel plates, the same food they'd eaten a hundred times before. Simple. Filling. Honest. For a few minutes, the Tower didn't exist. Neither did goblins or red windows or optional tasks.
His daughter talked about school—about a teacher who scolded her, about a friend who borrowed her notes and never returned them. Small problems. Normal problems.
Vikram listened. Really listened.
His wife watched him quietly, noticing things she didn't comment on—the steadiness in his hands, the way his eyes kept returning to their daughter, as if memorizing her.
"You're quiet today," she said gently.
Vikram hesitated, then smiled. "Just tired."
She didn't push.
After dinner, his daughter leaned against him, head on his shoulder, flipping through her book without reading it.
For that night, in that small room, Vikram Das was not prey.
He was not a climber.
He was just a husband.
A father.
A man sitting at home with the two people who made surviving worth it.
The knock came late.
Not loud.
Not polite either.
Just firm enough to carry intent.
Vikram felt it before anyone moved.
His wife looked up first. "Who would come this late?"
she murmured, already rising. His daughter straightened beside him, confusion flickering across her face.
"I'll see," his wife said.
Vikram stood too, but she was already at the door.
The moment it opened, the warmth in the room leaked out.
A man stood outside, smile thin and practiced. Two others lingered a step behind him, silent, eyes roaming the house like it already belonged to them.
"Good evening," the man said smoothly. "Mrs. Das, right?"
Her grip tightened on the doorframe. "Yes…?"
He nodded, as if confirming something he already knew. "I'm here about the payment."
Vikram moved into view.
The man's smile widened just a little. "Ah. Mr. Das. I did warn you."
His daughter peeked from behind Vikram's leg. The man noticed—and didn't care.
"Six months overdue," he continued calmly. "Interest doesn't wait for good intentions." His eyes drifted around the room. Small. Poor. Measured. "We were generous. Patient."
He leaned forward slightly. "That patience is ending."
Vikram felt his wife's hand brush his arm, trembling. He stepped in front of her without thinking.
"I told you," the man said, voice still mild.
The silence stretched.
Heavy.
Ugly.
Vikram met his eyes, jaw tight, heart steady in a way it hadn't been before.
"I said I'll pay," Vikram replied quietly. "I haven't forgotten."
"I told you," the man said again, voice still mild, almost bored. "Words don't count anymore, Mr. Das."
Vikram held his gaze. "Give me time," he said. "I'll arrange it. I swear."
The man sighed, as if disappointed. "Everyone swears."
He stepped closer—too close—and before Vikram could react, a fist slammed into his stomach.
The air left Vikram's lungs in a dry cough. He staggered back out of the doorway, boots scraping against the concrete outside. Another blow caught him across the jaw. Then another.
His wife screamed his name.
Vikram barely felt the third hit. Only the ground rushing up as he fell to his knees in the street.
"Stop—please stop!" his wife cried.
She turned, panic flooding her face, and pulled their daughter into her chest, pressing both small hands over the girl's eyes.
"Don't look," she whispered desperately. "Don't look, beta."
The men didn't stop.
A kick to Vikram's ribs. A sharp pain bloomed, hot and blinding. He tasted blood.
"Interest," the man said calmly, as if explaining math. "Penalty. Courtesy charges."
Vikram groaned, trying to rise. He failed.
The man crouched in front of him, close enough that Vikram could smell tobacco.
"This ends now," he said softly. "We'll take the house."
Vikram's eyes snapped open.
"No," he croaked. "Please… don't take that. That's all I have."
The man tilted his head. "It's an asset. You owe us. Simple."
Vikram grabbed at the man's pant leg, hands shaking. "That home is the only place I have. My wife—my daughter—please. I'll pay. I'll work. I'll do anything. Just give me time."
For a moment, there was silence.
Then the man stood.
He brushed imaginary dust from his sleeve. "You've already had time."
The man's gaze drifted past Vikram then, slow and deliberate.
Into the room.
"There are other ways," he said lightly. Too lightly.
Vikram's blood went cold.
The man straightened and took a step back, his smile returning—thin, practiced, cruel. "If you don't want to give up the house, Mr. Das… you can always find another way to pay."
His eyes flicked once toward the doorway.
Toward Vikram's wife.
Toward the child still hidden against her chest.
The meaning was clear.
He turned away then, already losing interest. "Think carefully," he said over his shoulder. "This is the last time we come to talk."
The two men followed him without a word.
Their footsteps faded down the street.
Vikram stayed where he was, hands clenched into the dirt, chest heaving. His wife knelt beside him, shaking, one hand on his shoulder, the other still shielding their daughter's eyes long after the danger had passed.
Slowly, Vikram pushed himself up.
He looked at his home.
Small. Fragile.
Everything he had.
Above them, on the third floor of a neighboring building, a boy leaned over the terrace railing.
He couldn't have been more than ten.
He watched the three men walk down the street, the way people instinctively watched storms from a distance—curious, uneasy, sensing danger without fully understanding it.
"Papa," the boy asked softly, tugging at his father's sleeve. "Who are those people?"
The father stepped up beside him, eyes narrowing as he followed the boy's gaze. He saw the way the men walked. Unhurried. Confident. Like the road belonged to them.
His jaw tightened.
"That?" he said after a pause.
He looked away first, as if the name itself carried weight.
"John Epstein."
The boy frowned. "Is he important?"
The father rested a hand on the railing, knuckles white. "Important enough that you stay away," he replied quietly. "And pray he never learns your name."
Below, the men disappeared around the corner.
The street returned to normal.
But something ugly lingered in the air—unseen, unspoken, and very much alive.