Chapter 1
The World Did Not Notice His Death
No one screamed when Arun died.
There was no dramatic fall, no blood spraying across the street, no final words echoing through the air. One moment he was standing at the edge of the bus stop, staring at the cracked reflection of his face in a shattered advertisement screen, and the next—
darkness.
Not sleep.
Not unconsciousness.
Darkness that noticed him.
It pressed in from all sides, thick and intimate, like damp soil packed over a coffin. Arun tried to inhale and felt nothing enter his lungs. He tried to exhale and realized there was no air to push out.
So this is it, he thought calmly.
Strangely, the calm was the worst part.
His life hadn't been good enough to regret leaving, but it hadn't been bad enough to deserve this emptiness either. He had expected—if not heaven or hell—then at least something. A judgment. A voice. A door.
Instead, there was only the sensation of being forgotten mid-sentence.
Then—
Something shifted.
Not light. Not sound.
Attention.
A pressure settled on him, the way one feels eyes on their back without turning around. Arun felt examined, not as a person, but as an object. As something broken that had been picked up from the ground to see if it was still useful.
And then the world spoke.
But it did not speak to him.
It spoke about him.
Designation: Arun
Status: Deceased
Cause: Negligible
Condition: Incomplete
The voice was neither male nor female. It carried no emotion, no curiosity, no hostility. It reminded Arun of medical reports he had overheard while sitting outside hospital rooms—flat, efficient, and indifferent to suffering.
"What…?" he tried to say.
No sound came out.
He realized, dimly, that he had no mouth.
Evaluation in progress.
Viability confirmed.
Restoration permitted.
A pause.
The kind of pause that felt deliberate.
Notice: Restoration is not free.
Something inside Arun twisted.
Not fear.
Recognition.
This wasn't a warning meant to scare him.
It was a statement of fact.
Initiating Reinstatement Protocol.
Pain exploded.
Not sharp pain. Not burning pain.
It was the sensation of being remembered too violently.
His body reassembled itself with brutal precision—bones aligning, muscles stitching together, nerves screaming as sensation returned all at once. Arun gasped as air slammed into his lungs, and he collapsed forward, vomiting onto cracked asphalt.
The bus stop looked exactly the same.
People stood nearby. A woman scrolled through her phone. An old man argued with the driver of a stalled auto.
No one looked at him.
No one asked why a young man had just appeared on the ground like he'd been dropped from the sky.
The world accepted his return without comment.
Arun lay there, shaking.
Alive.
Very much alive.
And then he felt it.
Something was missing.
At first, he couldn't tell what it was. His limbs worked. His vision was clear. His heart pounded so hard it hurt.
But when he tried to feel relief—
There was nothing.
He knew, intellectually, that he should be grateful. That surviving death was a miracle. That this was something worth screaming about.
But the emotion never arrived.
His chest was hollow.
As if relief had been removed, not suppressed.
Reinstatement complete.
The voice returned, closer now. Not louder—closer.
Payment processed.
Human Component Removed: Relief
Arun froze.
Removed?
He staggered to his feet, ignoring the curious glances finally sent his way. His legs felt steady, but his mind spun.
"Removed… how?" he whispered.
No response.
Instead, something new appeared—not in front of his eyes, not as text or light—but as understanding, placed directly into his thoughts.
He understood what had happened.
Understood it the way one understands gravity or hunger.
When he died, the world had made a calculation.
And decided he was worth bringing back.
At a cost.
You have been recorded.
Future deaths will follow the same procedure.
Losses will accumulate.
Arun's throat tightened.
"Future… deaths?"
Another pause.
This one felt heavier.
Clarification:
You are no longer permitted to remain deceased.
The words didn't feel threatening.
They felt administrative.
Termination is reversible.
Human integrity is not.
The meaning slammed into him.
He could die again.
And again.
And each time, something else would be taken.
Not randomly.
Not gently.
Something human.
A horn blared loudly as the bus finally arrived. People surged forward, annoyed and impatient. Someone bumped into Arun's shoulder hard enough to stagger him.
"Watch it," the man snapped, already moving on.
Arun barely heard him.
His mind replayed the phrase over and over.
Human integrity is not.
He boarded the bus in a daze and took a seat near the back. The engine roared to life, and the city began sliding past the windows like nothing had changed.
But Arun had.
He tested himself quietly.
Fear came easily—his hands trembled, his breathing hitched.
Pain was sharp and immediate—he pinched his arm until it stung.
But relief?
Gone.
The absence was subtle but terrifying.
It was like missing a color you hadn't realized was essential until it vanished.
That night, he dreamed.
He stood in a vast, empty archive filled with shelves that stretched upward into darkness. Each shelf held objects—intangible things, glowing faintly.
A hand reached out from nowhere and plucked one from the nearest shelf.
The label read: Relief.
It shattered silently.
Arun woke up screaming.
The next morning, his phone buzzed.
A single notification.
No app name. No sender.
Just words, displayed starkly against a black background.
Record Updated
Deaths: 1
Remaining Human Components: Unlisted
Recommendation: Avoid unnecessary termination.
Arun stared at the screen for a long time.
Then, slowly, he laughed.
It came out wrong.
Too flat. Too sharp.
Because even as terror clawed at his chest, one thought rose above the rest—clear, cold, and undeniable.
If death was now a transaction…
Then survival was no longer about living.
It was about choosing what part of himself he was willing to lose next.
And somewhere deep inside, something unseen observed him silently—
Waiting for the next payment.
End of Chapter 1