I stood there, disoriented, the riot swirling around me like a storm I couldn't escape. Flames devoured a water tanker just yards away, the metal buckling with pops and hisses, acrid smoke billowing into the night sky and stinging my lungs. The air reeked of burning rubber and desperation—shouts piercing the din: "Water thieves! Give us what's ours!" A mob of furious residents had the drivers cornered, dragging them from the cab with rough hands, fists and feet landing in a frenzy of raw anger. Faces twisted in rage, clothes torn, eyes wild with the kind of hunger that water alone couldn't quench. It was visceral, too real for a dream—the heat baking my skin, the crowd's press threatening to swallow me. My heart hammered; this wasn't the abstract weirdness of numbers or machines. This felt... immediate, like a warning etched in fire.
I grabbed the arm of a nearby man—a lanky figure in a sweat-soaked shirt, his face smeared with grime. "Hey! What's happening here?" I yelled over the roar, my voice cracking with urgency.
He spun, eyes narrowed in confusion and fury, but he answered anyway, spit flying with his words. "These bastards are thieves! Stealing our water from the borewells—sucking 'em dry and selling it at 10x the price to those posh IT parks and fancy apartments. Our taps run empty, our families go thirsty, and they profit off our misery!" He shook me off, plunging back into the fray, his shout lost in the melee.
I staggered back, mind reeling. A nearby shop's door hung open, its television blaring news through the haze. I pressed closer, the screen flickering like a beacon. The anchor's voice cut sharp: "The dry tap crisis has escalated into violence in South Chennai. Water mafia gangs are illegally extracting from local borewells, hauling thousands of liters to high-end buyers while residents suffer. The new collector's inaction—failing to seize tankers or shut down illegal operations in early February—has led to this. Riots now rage, and sources say she's being dismissed for negligence."
The footage rolled: empty faucets dribbling air, women with pots protesting, crowds clashing with police batons. Then, the name flashed in bold: District Collector Priya Malhotra. My blood ran cold. That's her—my Priya. The date stamp: ten days from now. This can't be happening. Is this a glimpse? A what-if? The news looped: "If steps had been taken sooner..." But the words blurred as a high-pitched scream ripped through the air.
I whirled— a water tanker barreling down the street, horn wailing like a banshee, scattering protesters. Panic surged; I tried to dive aside, feet slipping on debris-slick ground. Too slow. Impact slammed me—pain exploding through my chest, bones crunching, vision tunneling to black. The world faded in a rush of shouts and smoke.
I jolted awake, gasping, sheets a tangled mess around me. My body ached with phantom bruises, heart pounding like it'd burst. The bedroom was still, moonlight slanting through the new curtains we'd hung—our curtains, soft and blue, a small victory in making this place home. Priya breathed evenly beside me, her form peaceful under the covers. No riot, no flames—just the quiet hum of the AC and the distant city murmur. "What was that?" I whispered to the dark, hand clutching my chest where the crash still echoed. Sweat cooled on my skin; I sat up slowly, careful not to wake her.
Dreams or prophecies? The question clawed at me, a therapeutic puzzle piecing together my fractured realities. In my old life, dreams were forgettable static—random firings of a lonely brain. Here, since the transmigration, they'd turned vivid, escalating: oceans of numbers drowning me in code, machines churning chaos like broken factories, cosmic debris pulverizing me in void's embrace, prehistoric forests hunting me with raptors' cunning. And now this—a riot tied to water, to Priya's work, her name splashed in disgrace. Why her? Why ten days ahead? It felt prophetic, a fork in time where inaction sparked inferno. The details matched her dinner talk: drought, tankers, unrest brewing. If this was foresight from my old world's knowledge—twisted into omens—then what? Warn her? "Hey, love, I dreamed riots and your firing—fix the mafia?" She'd think me mad, or worse, doubt my stability.
I slipped out of bed, feet padding to the window. The terrace view stretched below—Chennai's lights twinkling like distant stars, oblivious to the storm building. Therapeutic reflection washed over me: these visions healed my past solitude by forcing engagement—with her career, our future, the city's pulse. Isolation bred apathy; this demanded action. The diary in the office called to me—MORT@L's path, influence and value. Water was value now—scarce, fought over. Perhaps tie it in: research mafias, use the rig for intel. But at 3 AM? No. Tomorrow.
Back in bed, I watched Priya sleep—her face soft, worries of the day smoothed away. "I won't let that happen," I murmured, brushing a strand from her forehead. Whatever these dreams were—subconscious fears, transmigration glitches, or true glimpses—they pushed me to protect what mattered. Us. The house around us—photos smiling, lamps waiting—felt like armor. Sleep tugged again, reluctant but inevitable. As eyes closed, the riot's smoke faded, but the warning lingered: ten days. Time to act.