The hawk was gifted with precision—to witness. But witnessing itself had become a curse he had chosen.
High above the concrete sprawl of the city, the white hawk banked on a thermal of rising heat. Its eyes, gold-rimmed and terrifyingly clear, didn't see "scenery." It saw the rigid facts of the world: the rhythmic thrum of traffic, the desperate signals of a thousand stressed humans, and the singular, flickering anomaly sitting by a window in Row 4.
Inside the classroom, the morning light didn't feel like a blessing to Aarush. It felt like a spotlight on a crime scene. The sunbeams stretched slowly across the scarred wooden desks, illuminating dust motes that danced like tiny, indifferent spirits. They finally came to rest upon his answer sheet, turning the cheap paper into a blinding white slab.
Aarush sat perfectly still. Around him, the room was alive with noise. Laughter collided with sharp whispers; the casual cruelty of teenagers blended into a distant, underwater echo.
His pen—a cheap, bitten plastic thing—moved randomly across the margin of the paper. He wasn't writing answers; he was drawing meaningless, jagged lines that looked like a heart monitor flatlining. His heart repeated one silent, rhythmic question:
*"Do I really belong here?"
A cold breeze, impossible for a closed-room morning, brushed against his face. He looked toward the window. On the thick, gnarled branch of an ancient banyan tree sat the hawk. It was calmly arranging its feathers, a creature of pure utility. For a moment, Aarush felt a violent tug in his chest—as if his soul were being pulled toward that creature's freedom. To the hawk, there were no marks or burdens. There was only the sky and the hunt.
"Aarush! Roll no. 26!"
The teacher's voice was a jagged shard of glass that shattered the trance. Mrs. Sonali's eyes were narrowed, two black dots of disappointment.
Aarush's pen slipped from his numb fingers. It hit the floor with a plastic *clack* that sounded like a gunshot in the sudden silence.
"Bro... go. Ma'am is calling you," a voice whispered behind him. A nudge on his shoulder—not friendly, just impatient.
The wooden bench creaked with a mournful groan as he stood. He didn't look up. He didn't want to see the smirks. He walked toward the front of the room, each step feeling heavier than the last, as if gravity itself were trying to pull him through the floorboards.
*Please... just let me pass this time. Let the numbers be enough.*
A boy from the middle row smirked. "Look. The little bird is up. Let's see if he can fly or if he's just lead."
Aarush reached the desk. His throat was a desert. "Ma'am... can I get my paper?"
Mrs. Sonali didn't answer immediately. She shifted through the stack with clinical indifference. Aarush crossed his fingers behind his back, pressing so hard his knuckles turned the color of bone. Finally, she slid a paper toward him.
"Start working harder, Aarush," she said, her voice dropping to a low, pitying tone. "You have potential, but you aren't using it."
He took the paper with trembling hands. He didn't look. He couldn't. He walked back to his seat, the heat of thirty gazes burning into his back. He sat down, sweat pooling in his palms. Slowly... with the dread of a man opening a death warrant... he lifted the corner.
At the top, slashed in a violent, bleeding red: **FAILED.**
Something inside him sank like a stone into an endless ocean. The classroom noise faded into a high-pitched whine. The world blurred.
He turned his gaze back to the window. The hawk was still there. *I wish I could fly away too.*
The school bell rang—a mechanical scream of joy for everyone else. Students rushed out, their voices full of plans and futures. Aarush remained seated. He gripped the paper so tightly the edges tore.
For the first time, he felt he could almost smell his own failure. It was a heavy, metallic scent that clung to his skin.
The walk home was a march toward judgment. Every passerby felt like a witness to his shame. Eventually, he stood before his front door. He stopped, placed his hand over his heart, kissed his fingers, and pointed them toward the sky—a desperate, silent signal to whatever was watching.
That night, his worth was measured in marks.
The dining room was a theater of war. Angry voices filled the house, bouncing off the walls until the air itself felt bruised. Harsh words cut deeper than the slap that followed—a sudden, sharp shock that left his cheek burning and his mind reeling.
"Burden on the family!" the words echoed again and again.
In the darkness of his room, Aarush lay on his bed. The ceiling fan spun above him, pushing around cold air that couldn't cool the fire in his chest. At the dinner table downstairs, one chair remained empty.
His younger sister's voice drifted up, a fragile whisper. "Should I call Aarush to eat?"
The silence that followed was the heaviest answer of all.
At midnight, the tears finally dried. He stared at the ceiling until the shadows felt like they were part of his skin. He looked at the window. The white hawk was still there, a pale ghost against the dark sky. A distant dog barked in the night, a lonely, territorial sound.
Aarush let out a faint, hollow laugh. "Not today," he whispered. "But one day... I will live life on my own terms."
He wiped his face and pulled the blanket over himself. "Tomorrow... will be a new start."
Morning came with forced hope.
At breakfast, the silence sat heavier than any words. Chewing felt difficult, his jaw tight with suppressed tension. His mother spoke without looking at him, her voice flat. "I've decided. You will join the tuition classes. We are paying for one more chance."
Aarush gave a small, awkward laugh. "Sure... that will help."
But inside, fear rose like a tide. *How will I talk to them? New teachers. New eyes.*
That evening, he stood before the tuition building—a tall, glass-and-concrete monolith. Students moved past him with terrifying confidence. Finally gathering his courage, he stepped inside.
Shoes removed. Directions given. Third floor.
Each stair felt like a test of his resolve. At the end of a dim corridor, he pushed open a heavy classroom door. Bright, clinical light hit his face. The entire class turned silent. Many unfamiliar faces stared—but one face stood out.
A girl sitting near the front seemed to catch all the light in the room. She was steady, calm, and unshaken by the sudden silence.
Aarush quietly took the last bench. Questions surrounded him—where he was from, what his name was. He answered softly, occasionally stealing small glances toward her.
Days passed. He forgot many names, but one stayed etched in his mind. November 23, 2032:
The sky didn't turn black; it turned a bruised, violent orange. At first, people thought it was beautiful. Then, the stars began to fall.
A meteorite tore through the atmosphere, carrying a strange, dark energy that began to twist the world. In a single night, cities filled with tanks. Sirens replaced conversations. Fear replaced routine.
Monsters appeared. They were named **Sinners**. Those who awakened to fight them were called **Dealers**. A world organization was formed—the **NSEA** (National Sinner Elimination Association).
One evening, Aarush stepped out to buy supplies. Soldiers stood near tea stalls, their rifles looking like heavy lifelines. Life had changed so fast—from a neighborhood to a zone of isolation.
Inside a crowded café, he noticed Sanvi waving at him. Panic surged in his chest. He wasn't ready for her to see him like this. He grabbed his food and left quickly, taking a shortcut through the **Cursed Groves**—a patch of ancient forest the city had tried to pave over.
The streetlights there looked ancient, flickering with a rhythmic, dying pulse. He stumbled over a thick root and noticed a strange stone structure half-buried in the dirt.
Using his phone's flashlight, he revealed a carving: a figure standing with its head engulfed in black flames. Goosebumps covered his skin. The forest suddenly felt alive, as if it were breathing against his neck.
Something moved in the shadows. Aarush ran.
"HELP!" he shouted to the empty trees. High above, the white hawk watched silently.
*"He tried to resist,"* the wind seemed to hum, *"yet still he rises toward darkness."*
That night, Aarush dreamed of a burning wasteland. Black flames danced across the land, and on a distant cliff stood the same fire-headed figure.
It whispered his name. "Aarush..."
He woke with a gasp, his shirt soaked in sweat. Dogs were barking violently outside. He stood before the mirror and froze.
His eyes were glowing with a faint, dangerous crimson light. Something had fundamentally changed.
By morning, his body felt stronger, different. At breakfast, he reached for a glass of water. His hand tightened instinctively, and the glass crushed into shards in his palm.
His father stared. "He has awakened."
At school, the questions were a physical weight. *Are you awakened? Is it true?* Aarush could only reply with a hollow "I don't know."
But something inside him knew. He could see people differently now. He could see their souls—their energy—flickering like phosphorus.
That evening at tuition, exhaustion weighed on him. As he entered the classroom, a strange coldness filled the air. No one was inside.
Except her. Sanvi.
She turned and smiled. "You've changed, Aarush. Did something happen yesterday?"
Aarush stayed silent. He stared at her, and his new vision caught something the others missed. Her soul didn't flicker. It felt frozen—a solid, crystalline structure of power.
Before he could speak, others entered. The moment vanished.
After class, the group walked together. The air was tense. Then, a monstrous roar shattered the evening. The walls of a nearby building trembled as a tiger-shaped Sinner burst forward, its jaws splitting unnaturally into four sections.
It charged directly at Aarush.
Just before impact, a sound like a mountain cracking filled the air. A wall of solid ice erupted from the pavement between Aarush and the monster.
Aarush turned. Sanvi stood three paces away. She was calm. Unshaken. She had created the barrier with a single thought.
Outside, on the power lines, the white hawk watched.
*"He tried to resist,"* the echo returned but still rise in darkness