In his small Mumbai flat, Vikram tried to be only a husband and a father again. For a few hours, the Tower felt distant. Unreal.
Until the knock came.
Debt collectors didn't care about Towers or survival instincts. They cared about interest. About leverage. About fear. They beat Vikram in the street, threatened his home, and made sure his family understood exactly how fragile their safety was.
They left him alive.
Not out of mercy—but as a warning.
Now, with blood on the ground. Vikram stands.
Between law and blood.
Between refusal and action.
And the red task is still waiting.
Vikram went back inside.
The door closed softly behind him, like the house was afraid to make noise.
His daughter didn't say anything. She only clung to him until her breathing slowed, until fear loosened its grip and sleep finally claimed her. Vikram stayed still long after that, afraid that moving would wake her—or remind her that the world outside wasn't safe.
When she was asleep, he carried her to the bed and tucked the blanket around her carefully.
Only then did he look at his wife.
Anya.
They hadn't been arranged. They had chosen each other. A quiet love, stubborn and sincere, built without permissions or blessings. That choice had cost them everything else. Families that turned away. Doors that never opened again. No safety net. No one to call when things went wrong.
Just each other.
Anya stood near the doorway, arms folded tightly around herself.
"You didn't tell me it was this bad," she said finally, voice steady in a way that hurt more than anger.
Vikram didn't answer.
What could he say?
That he'd hoped it would stop?
That he'd believed effort was enough?
Anya looked at him then. Really looked. At the bruises. The way he held himself, careful, controlled, like pain was something he was rationing.
"They won't stop," she said quietly. It wasn't fear speaking. It was certainty. "People like that never do."
Vikram nodded once.
"I know."
Silence filled the room again.
Anya broke it first.
"How were you planning to pay them back?" she asked.
Not accusing. Not angry.
Just asking—because someone had to.
Vikram leaned against the wall and let out a slow breath. "I'm a Tower climber now," he said. "I thought… if I survived long enough, if I found the right reward, the right item, the right payout—something would work out."
He didn't look at her when he said it.
"I didn't want to scare you until I was sure."
Anya absorbed that quietly. She didn't laugh. Didn't dismiss it.
"The Tower isn't kind," she said. "But it pays."
"Yes," Vikram replied. "Sometimes."
Another pause.
Then he spoke again, slower this time.
"There's something else."
That made her look up.
Vikram raised his hand.
The air shimmered.
A screen appeared—dim, restrained, glowing red.
Anya stiffened instantly.
"What is that?" she asked.
"A task," Vikram said. His voice didn't shake, but it wasn't steady either. "Optional. From my sponsor."
He swallowed.
"It pays enough to clear everything. The debt. The interest. The house."
Anya stared at the screen, then at him. "And the cost?"
Vikram closed his eyes for a moment.
"…I have to kill someone."
The word sat between them like poison.
Anya didn't speak.
Not immediately.
She walked closer instead, eyes scanning his face, searching for a lie. For exaggeration. For some Tower trick that made it less real.
She found none.
"A person?" she asked softly.
"Yes."
Outside the Tower.
No resets.
No mercy.
Anya stepped back, one hand covering her mouth.
The room felt smaller.
Vikram looked at her then—really looked.
"I don't want to," he said. "I won't do it without telling you. Without asking."
His voice dropped.
"Tell me," he said. "Should I do it?"
Anya's hand tightened against her lips.
Then she lowered it.
"No," she said quietly. "You're not the only one."
Vikram frowned. "What?"
She met his eyes. No drama. No buildup. Just truth.
"I'm a climber too," Anya said.
The words landed heavier than the red screen.
Vikram straightened. "That's not— Anya, you hate the Tower. You said you'd never—"
"I said I wouldn't climb for glory," she interrupted. "Or power. Or stupidity."
She exhaled slowly. "I never told you because… someone had to stay normal. Someone had to be stable."
Silence cracked.
"When you left every morning," she continued, "I didn't just pray. I prepared."
She looked at the red screen.
"So don't ask me like I don't understand," Anya said softly. "I do."
Vikram's voice came out rough. "Then tell me."
Anya stepped closer. Close enough to touch his face, to feel the bruises.
"You don't decide this alone," she said. "Not anymore."
She glanced once toward the bedroom—toward their sleeping daughter.
"If you take this task," Anya continued, "you don't do it for money. You don't do it for fear. You do it because the person deserves it—and because not doing it puts us in more danger."
Vikram swallowed. "And if I can't be sure?"
"Then you don't act," she said immediately. "Survival isn't the same as losing yourself."
She reached for his hands, turning them palm up. Bruised. Shaking. Human.
"You're not allowed to become someone she'd be afraid of," Anya said softly. "Or someone I can't recognize."
"We gather information first," she said. "Targets. Consequences."
Anya didn't let go of his hands.
"And you won't do this alone," she said firmly.
Vikram looked up. "Anya—"
"I mean it," she cut in, calm but unyielding. "If this task moves forward, I help. Not from behind. With you."
She drew a slow breath, then spoke like she was finally setting something down she'd carried for years.
"My ability isn't combat," she said. "It's perception."
Vikram stilled.
"I can see it," Anya continued. "Not clearly. Not like a screen. But I see the bleed."
She tapped her chest lightly.
"Aura Bleed," she said. "Mana. Intent. Power. It leaks."
Vikram's eyes widened.
"Through walls?" he asked.
"Yes." She nodded once. "A normal person feels like a dim candle behind stone. Barely there. Easy to miss."
Her gaze hardened.
"A climber?" she continued. "They burn. The stronger they are, the brighter the heat. Like a bonfire pressed behind glass."
Silence settled heavy between them.
"I can't see faces," Anya said. "Or skills. But I can tell who's dangerous. Who's hiding power they shouldn't have."
She squeezed his hands.
Anya said quietly. "We plan."
Vikram searched her face. "Plan… what exactly?"
"Who," she corrected.
She lifted her head, eyes steady now—focused.
"Who we take on first."