With the new rig humming softly in the second bedroom—now dubbed his makeshift office—Arjun felt a surge of purpose. The screens glowed invitingly, the dual monitors casting a blue hue across the empty walls. Priya wouldn't be home until evening, her first day as collector likely a marathon of meetings and paperwork. That left him free, unburdened by the old life's routines or this new one's immediate demands. It was therapeutic, this solitude: a space to reflect, to plan, to heal the fragments of his dual existence. No more drifting like a ghost; today, he'd build foundations.
But first, essentials. The PC was a beast, but without internet, it was just an expensive paperweight. Arjun stepped out into the hall, spotting a security guard posted near the entrance— a sturdy man in uniform, sipping chai from a steel tumbler. "Anna," Arjun called, using the respectful Tamil term for brother, "is there an internet connection here? BSNL fiber, right? Government-provided for the residence?"
The guard nodded briskly, setting down his cup. "Yes, sir. Main router's in the living room cabinet—fiber line active. You need extension to another room?"
"Exactly. To the second bedroom. Got the cables and stuff?"
"We have spares, sir. I'll fetch them." The guard moved efficiently, returning with a coil of CAT6 ethernet cable, a small router extender, and tools. Arjun waved Rajesh over, who was lounging on the sofa, scrolling his phone. "Come on, man. Help me set this up. You're the IT guy—freelance security and DevOps, remember?"
Rajesh grinned, pocketing his phone. "Fine, but only because you're buying lunch next time. Let's wire this monster."
They worked together, therapeutic in its simplicity: unspooling the cable along the baseboards, drilling a small pass-through hole in the wall (with the guard's assurance it was fine), crimping ends with pliers. Rajesh handled the router config—logging into the admin panel, setting a secure password, extending the Wi-Fi SSID. Arjun plugged the ethernet directly into the PC's port for max speed. "There," Rajesh said, wiping his hands. "Boot it up. Should be lightning fast."
The system whirred to life, the network icon blinking green. Arjun tested it with a quick ping—low latency, solid bandwidth. "Perfect. Thanks, anna," he said to the guard, who saluted and returned to his post.
Rajesh leaned against the doorframe, eyeing the setup curiously. "Alright, what now? You've got a monster here—what's it gonna run? CSGO for some multiplayer stress relief? PUBG battles? Or Resident Evil to scare yourself silly?"
Arjun chuckled, shaking his head as he settled into the chair—the ergonomic one he'd impulse-bought during delivery. "None of that, man. Games are fun, but this is for work. Real work. First, we're setting up accounts."
He opened Microsoft Edge—the default browser—and immediately searched for Chrome. Download complete in seconds, install seamless. "Switching defaults," Arjun muttered, navigating the settings. "Who uses Edge? Only old folks do it now—too many distractions, bloatware everywhere."
Rajesh raised an eyebrow. "Edge isn't that bad, but yeah, Chrome's king. So, accounts for what?"
Arjun created a new Gmail: [email protected]. The cursor blinked as he confirmed. "Mort@l Arjun," he said aloud, adding the @ for flair.
Rajesh peered over his shoulder. "What kinda name is that? Sounds like a gamer tag or something edgy."
Arjun smiled mysteriously. "It's gonna be real popular in a few years. But ignore it for now—trust me." It felt like planting a seed: a nod to his old life's memes and trends, healing the disconnect by weaving them into this world. Rajesh just shrugged, grabbing a nearby stool. "Whatever, bro. Your rig, your rules."
Next, sign-ups: YouTube channel under the same handle, a Microsoft account for Office and cloud sync, Twitch for potential streaming. Arjun paused midway, stretching his arms. "Hold up. Need something analog for this."
He pulled out a small bag from earlier—the diary he'd bought on the way back, a sturdy leather-bound notebook with thick, coated pages. Beside it, a special pen and a vial of ink, plus a tiny bottle of lemon extract. Rajesh eyed it curiously. "What's so special about that pen? Looks fancy."
Arjun grinned, uncapping it. "You know about Bond?"
Rajesh blinked. "Bond who? Like, financial bonds?"
"No, man—James Bond. Agent 007. I don't know if you've seen any of his movies, but this ink is special. Invisible when dry—only shows up when you apply lemon water or heat. These pages are coated so they don't get wet or smudge. This is gonna be my secret diary, you know? For plans no one else sees."
Rajesh's eyes widened, impressed. "Bro, that's cool! Like spy stuff. I need one just like that."
Arjun laughed. "Shrugged. Just buy your own at the same shop we went to earlier. Cheap and effective."
While Rajesh fiddled with his phone, probably searching for similar gadgets, Arjun signed into the same accounts on his new Zenbook laptop—portable backup. Then, he opened the diary. First page, with a normal pen: "Story" in bold letters. Below: "I'M MORT@L". And at the bottom: "By: ARJUN". It stared back at him, a title for his life's next arc—therapeutic, claiming ownership of his narrative.
He flipped to the next page, switching to the invisible ink. The words flowed, visible only under the right conditions—a secret therapy session on paper. "PATH," he wrote at the top.
Do you guys know who makes the most amount of money, has the most power in this world? It's not the presidents who carry nuclear codes nor the army generals commanding millions of soldiers. If any of you has ever read or seen "GOT"—Game of Thrones—then you remember the line: Who do you think is the most powerful? It's not the strongest, it's not the wealthiest. Then why do people think KINGS are powerful? Why do they deserve to rule?
It's not respect—it's their Belief. And I think way more ahead: it is BELIEVE itself that is the most powerful. If they BELIEVE IT in a person, a thing, anything, it will take form, and they will make it THAT powerful.
Currently in this world, everyone right now knows or Believes that 99% of your problems can be solved with it. If not, then you're just not doing enough. IT IS "MONEY"—a very Fictitious Variable Value, really. And the ones who control it? It's the ones who keep our wallets safe, ensuring the same value tomorrow: The Banks.
Do you know in this world who can actually help a poverty-stricken country or one on the verge of economic collapse? IMF—that single 3-character Organization Can Raise Up a new Country. It can also Destroy any country through the same method. All you need to make someone win between two is to hand a gun to the one you want to win.
Now that grand intro is over, so see...
Under "PATH," he structured his thoughts, the ink drying invisible but etched in his mind:
INFLUENCE
Bollywood: Rising Stars, Directors, Scripts Social Media: YouTube, Instagram, TikTok
POWER
Politicians: Ministers, Parties Tycoons
CONTROL
Companies Banks Gateways Service Industry
VALUE
Money: Stock Companies Crypto
He paused, pen hovering. My Next Thought: Who can I reach right now?
The question hung there, a prompt for action. Arjun closed the diary, feeling a quiet catharsis—like unburdening secrets to a trusted counselor. This wasn't just planning; it was healing: channeling his old world's foresight into this one's opportunities. Rajesh, still engrossed in his phone, looked up. "You done scribbling? What's next on the agenda, secret agent?"
Arjun pocketed the pen, smiling. "For now? Testing the rig. But soon... big things. Stick around—you might see the start of something."
Rajesh nodded, intrigued. "Alright, Mortal Arjun. Show me what this beast can do."
They dove into benchmarks—CPU stress tests, GPU renders— the machine purring like a content beast. It felt right, this blend of tech and vision: a step toward controlling his destiny, one invisible note at a time.