Smithen heard none of it. Though he was determined to not cross his path with Viran, he couldn't possibly avoid the curiosity.
He had tried. For the first ten minutes, he pressed his ear to the study door, heart hammering, but he could hear almost nothing-none. Then he forced himself to not care as Kiren called, he left.
"Tomorrow. 10 AM. Don't be late. Wear something nice—not your usual homeless chic."
By the time Smithen hung, it was almost 12am, and the meeting, it seems didn't end, who knows and who cares, let me sleep, he murmured and retreated to his room. Stared at the ceiling. Fell asleep with his phone on his chest and But Viran's name on the edge of his thoughts, how could he possibly forget him, he madly stalked him, it was a one-sided love, ofcourse but the other party doesn't even know such a person exist on this world, and if not for the curse or sth, they could have possibly had parallel life with no intersection.
Next morning, 8.28am
Sunlight sliced through the curtains.
Smithen studied himself in the full-length mirror, turning his chin left, then right—the black suit hugged him like a second skin, every seam sharp enough to cut glass. His white shirt gleamed beneath the precise knot of his slim black tie, and his usually chaotic hair lay tamed and slicked back, a controlled rebellion.
He took a breath for a second and said to himself, "All the best Smithen for your new beginning" with a hope in his eyes and small smile on his lips.
Then walked downstairs.
Arin was at the dining table, coffee in hand, still in his black night robe. He looked up. Froze. His eyebrow lifted high, hey he said.
"Wow."
Smithen stopped. "What?"
"You look... good." shacking his head, Arin set down his coffee, crossing his arms. "But isn't this a waiter interview? Do you need to dress this... tiptop?"
Ahhh- what?
Smithen scratched the back of his head, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. "Brother, I don't want the manager to reject me before I open my mouth. I have to cover him with my beauty so I can land this job."
Don't you think so too, he gave out a naughty smirk.
Arin snorted. "Your beauty?"
"Internet said suits are famous in hotels nowadays." Smithen adjusted his tie. "And it's just an interview. If I clear it, I'll get a uniform anyway.", So why not wear it, Haha, he grinned.
Arin laughed—a genuine, warm sound that filled the morning. "Okay, okay. It was just a question idiot, You're too excited it seems, just make sure you don't over do it."
Smithen's phone buzzed.
Ok, go, it must be from that stupid friend of yours, go, he said with a grin on his face.
(Message) Kiren: "Outside. Don't be late or I'm leaving."
"Gotta go." Smithen grabbed his bag and ran towards the door.
"Wait—" Arin called after him. "You didn't finish your breakfast", and "No car? No driver?"
"Bicycle!" he yelled back
"You're going to a job interview on a bicycle in a suit?"
Smithen paused at the door, turned back with a wink.
The door slammed.
Arin stared at the empty space, shaking his head. Then he smiled—small, proud, a little sad.
He's growing up too fast.
As he pulled out the bicycle from the shed, and moved towards the gate,
The maid who was sweeping the porch stopped and watched him go.
Her broom froze mid-sweep.
She watched in stunned silence as the young master—the one who could summon a car with a single text—swung his leg over a rusty bicycle, straightened his perfect black suit, and pedaled down the driveway like a man on a mission.
She came inside without a word.
Some things were beyond explanation, it seems, young master is experminenting his life.
Hotel-9.30am
As he stepped in, saw a lobby so big you could fit a house inside. Chandeliers hung like frozen fireworks. The front desk stretched long as a train, with ten people in suits ready to help. Elevators climbed higher than airport towers. A thirty-floor giant. The doors were heavy wood. The carpet felt thick as grass. Every step smelled like flowers and fresh bread. On every wall, mirrors hung, catching the crowd and throwing them back in pieces
Smithen arrived slightly breathless, his cheeks flushed from cycling. He found Kiren waiting outside the manager's hall, leaning against the wall in a navy blazer that probably cost more than the hotel's monthly rent.
"Nice bike," Kiren said dryly.
When did you notice that? Smithen enquired.
I was just scrolling and saw your brother's story—he's all proud, caption like "my only brother heading to his first part-time job," but that old photo is literally you as a kid, pedaling that rusty bicycle with your backpack slipping off. It's such a normal, goofy moment, but the way he's hyping it up makes it feel kind of sweet.
"Nice blazer," Smithen shot back. Just smiling back.
"Jealousy is ugly on you." Kiren said, as he was correcting his blazer.
They grinned at each other—the easy, stupid grin of friends who had survived worse than a job interview.
Their talk stopped as AKANYA crossed them,
She was stunning—there was no other word. Tall. Sharp. Hair like dark silk, lips like crushed berries. Her perfume hit them before her presence did: expensive, floral, aggressive.
Kiren leaned front, and whispered, she is Akanya Shashi Smithen, one of the, as he was about to say, Smithen replied "whatever, who cares?"
She didn't look at him. Didn't glance. Just glided past, her heels clicking against marble like a countdown.
Smithen's fist clenched his shirt.
Kiren noticed.
"Hey." Kiren's voice dropped, low and careful. "It's just a formality to land this job, don't worry, we'll land it for sure." Smithen nodded. His jaw was tight.
His mind wandered,
She doesn't know me.
She doesn't know what she did to me.
She doesn't know I died miserably, because of a message that reached me, yes it was a UNKNOWN number but who could it be, if not her, it was as if someone knows that, we spent a night together, popping up exactly the morning.
"Come in." Voice came, cutting short his thoughts.
The voice belonged to a man in his forties—black suit, silver tie, face like carved stone. The manager's assistant. He held the door open, expressionless.
Kiren and Smithen, both walked in one after the other.
The room was arranged like a small restaurant: tables draped in white cloth, polished silverware, a buffet against the far wall. And at the center table—
Akanya sat grinning and laughing.
Beside her, a young man—thirty, handsome, wearing a suit that screamed his authority. They were sharing a bottle of wine. Empty plates. Easy conversation as if they were old friends.
Two empty chairs faced them.
Probably for us.
Akanya's gaze swept over Kiren, then landed on Smithen.
She pointed.
"You. Yes, you only. Come and serve me food."
The manager's assistant—a larger man, bald, with small eyes—stood silently by the wall.
Smithen moved.
He didn't hesitate. Didn't argue, thought inside him, he felt a urge of fire wanting to throw the plate onto her face, he remained calm, atleast on the surface. He walked to the buffet, picked up a plate, and began arranging food with hands that didn't shake.
Not anymore.
Kiren followed, matching his pace.
They set the table. Poured water. Placed napkins. Smithen's eyes never left Akanya—not staring, not glaring, just... watching. Tracing the curve of her jaw, the confidence in her shoulders, the way she tilted her head when she laughed.
She noticed.
Of course she noticed.
She leaned back in her chair, a slow smile spreading across her face. Then she pulled a folded bill from her clutch—high denomination, the kind people framed instead of spent—and held it out.
"Here. A tip."
Her voice was honeyed. Condescending. "For your service."
It seems, she probably thought, he was crushing her, but only he knows, that it was not,
She thought his eyes were full of longing.
She was wrong.
The eyes that traced her were burning—but not for her fondness, but for her downfall. For answers. For justice. For the truth behind the photograph that had shattered his first life, had him killed, made him regret for marrying him at the first place.
Smithen took the bill.
"Thank you, ma'am."
His voice was calm. Empty. Perfect.
15mins later, assistant called us back inside, they were discussing something it seems
"You're both selected."
The manager didn't smile. Didn't congratulate. Just stated facts like a judge delivering a verdict.
"Three weeks. Room service and waiter training. You'll learn the basics—cleaning, restocking, handling difficult customers." His eyes flicked to Smithen. "You got a tip too. That's unusual for an interview that too from her."
Smithen said nothing.
"After three weeks, if you both impress me, you'll be promoted to VIP waiters." The manager leaned forward. "But if I find something unusual—anything—you'll be dismissed immediately. No warning. No second chance."
Kiren nodded quickly. "Understood, sir."
Smithen nodded too.
VIP section.
The work was humbling.
They cleaned rooms that hadn't been touched in days—stripping sheets, scrubbing toilets, hauling trash bags that smelled like regret. They served breakfast to hungover businessmen who snapped their fingers instead of saying "please." They restocked minibars, folded napkins into swans, and carried trays so heavy their arms screamed by hour four.
Kiren dropped a glass.
It shattered.
He looked at Smithen with the eyes of a man who had never cleaned a dish in his life, with those puppy eyes of him, and soon was severely got scolded by the head waiter, he was already looking at us with disgust, as the manager informed we might get promoted to the VIP section, when practically we just landed in the job.
Smithen handed him a dustpan.
"Welcome to reality."
By 8 PM, they had moved to the restaurant—taking orders, serving meals, smiling at customers who didn't smile back. Smithen learned to balance four plates on one arm. Kiren learned that "the customer is always right" was a lie invented by terrible people.
By 10:30 PM, the last customer had left.
They cleaned the tables. Swept the floors. Polished the silverware until their reflections stared back at them, tired and proud.
10:45 PM.
They walked out together.
Kiren rolled his shoulders and pressed a hand to his lower back. Same time tomorrow? His voice was tired. The long hours were catching up.
"Smithen" — the other man just nodded. Same time.
Then they split.
Kiren slipped into his car. The door closed with a soft, expensive thud. Leather seats sighed under him. The engine purred like a cat.
Smithen walked the other way. He found his bicycle leaning against a lamppost. One pedal was chipped. The chain clicked as he pushed off.
One man drove toward the gate in a flashy car, and other in a bicycle.
The night sky was clear when Smithen started cycling.
Stars scattered like salt. A cold wind that smelled of river and freedom. He pedaled slowly, letting the exhaustion wash over him—not the bad kind, the earned kind.
I did this.
I earned this.
No one handed it to me.
Without a warning, rain started pouring.
Not gradually. Not politely. It exploded—a wall of water from a sky that had been holding its breath. One moment Smithen was dry. The next, he was drowning.
He was in the middle of a bridge.
No shelter. No cover. Just railings and river and the sudden, violent weight of water.
He reacted fast.
Outer coat shrugged off. Documents bundled tight inside. Fingers trembled as he knotted them to his bag.
His cap—plain black—yanked low over his eyes. Useless against the downpour.
White shirt plastered tight to his chest, outlining every heaving breath.
Underneath, the sheer white baniyan molded to his torso—ribs rising and falling, stomach clenching, the tender curve of his waist dipping inward. Soaked through, it went transparent, hugging his skin like a lover's desperate grasp.
Chill wind kissed his drenched flesh.
His lips—plump pink, parted in a soft gasp—snared the raindrops. One beaded on his lower lip, spilled over, traced his chin, glided down his throat's pulsing hollow.
Head thrown back, he panted raggedly, rain streaming over his face like unshed tears tracing secret paths.
Wind carved his form.
Every curve. Every shadow. Every exposed, quivering line.
The bridge lay barren ahead of him. Trailing empty behind.
Bridge lights stuttered, their glow snagging raindrops, shattering them into cascading diamonds that kissed the night.
Smithen swiped rain from his face, palm gliding over slick skin.
He gripped the pedals, muscles tensing to push forward—
Headlights.
A swarm of headlights.
Seven cars. Eight perhaps. Sleek black. Opulent. Vehicles that prowled shadows, not this forsaken bridge at midnight. They glided in tight formation—a convoy, hushed and predatory.
Windows sealed tight.
Tinted so dark they reflected only rain and Smithen's own ghost.
The middle car passed closest.
"Stop", a sudden loud voice, all the car stopped, turn back, a man with his red eyes commanded, yes sir, all the luxurious car, turned back, It was him, and he clenched his hand onto his pants, Who was that, I smelled the same smell isn't his eyebrows frowned , "Jasmine?"
Sir, here we are, he said.