The sun wasn't a star here. It was a wall.
Ninety-three million miles away, it's a statistic. A warm circle in the sky. Here, standing with his toes curled against the void, Valen felt the noise of it. A vertical ocean of screaming hydrogen, twisting itself into knots, vomiting loops of magnetic fire that could swallow continents whole. It wanted to eat him. It tried.
But his body didn't burn.
The radiation hit him and the heat just… stopped. It sank into his pores. No pain. Just a hum in the marrow. A vibration starting in the teeth and rattling down to the ankles. He felt the mitochondria waking up, greedy little mouths snapping open, gorging on the light. It felt like a deep breath after holding it for a century. The exhaustion of the lower realms washed out of his veins, replaced by a buzzing, electric drunk.
He floated there. A speck of dust against the furnace.
He opened his eyes.
There.
Earth hung in the distance. A marble. A fragile, ridiculous blue thing spinning in the dark. No borders from here. No noise. Just clouds and water.
His eyes stung. A drop of water leaked out—salt and memory—and the vacuum snatched it. Boiled it into atoms before it could even roll down his cheek.
"Ael-Mora."
The name hit the surrounding plasma like a hammer on a bell. A deep, impossible thrum that vibrated in his chest.
Beautiful.
He didn't move closer. He just stayed there, keeping his back to the fire, absorbing the fury so the little blue pearl could sleep.
Haridwar. The Ghats.
The city smelled of wet ash and river rot.
Six stories up, the ledge was slick with moss. The man in the black mask crouched, thighs burning, refusing to shift his weight.
Rain found the gap between his mask and his neck, cold trickles tracing the line of his spine. He ignored it. He ignored the smell of marigolds decaying in the gutters below. His shirt clung to him, heavy and sodden, sticking to the scars on his back. He wasn't a gargoyle; he was just a man with cramping muscles, waiting for the lights to change.
Two worlds, seperated by three miles of rain.
The Slum. Jwalapur.
The roof was leaking again.
Plink. Pause. Plink.
Ramesh stared at the ceiling stains. His back hurt. The dampness had settled into his joints, a dull ache that never really left. Beside him, Puneet wheezed—a wet, rattling sound that filled the small room. The sound of drowning on dry land.
Eighteen lakhs. Might as well be eighteen billion.
Ramesh sat up, groggy, reaching for his water glass. His knuckles rapped against nylon.
A bag. heavy.
He frowned, pulling the chain on the bulb. The yellow light flickered, buzzing like a trapped fly.
The bag sat on the table, shoving the empty medicine bottles aside. He pulled the zipper. It stuck, then gave with a tear.
Pink. Purple.
Stacks of it.
The air left the room. Ramesh forgot to breathe. His heart did a strange double-thump against his ribs. He touched a bundle. It felt dry. Crisp. Real.
A piece of paper lay on top.
He picked it up, hands trembling so hard the paper rattled.
For the boy.
He blinked, and the ink… went away. It didn't smudge. It just evaporated. Like breath on glass, fading until the page was blank white.
Ramesh looked at the door (locked). The window (barred). The money.
He didn't cheer. He collapsed. Forehead to the floor, clutching the cash like it was oxygen, a silent, shaking sob tearing out of his throat.
The Mansion. Shivalik Nagar.
Vinod's hands were slippery.
He missed the combination twice. Sweat stung his eyes. He wiped his palms on his silk kurta, leaving dark stains, and tried again. Left. Right. Left.
The safe clicked.
He yanked the handle. The heavy steel swung out.
Empty.
Just air. Dark, stale air.
Vinod made a noise—a choked, high-pitched whimper. He shoved his hand inside, scraping his Rolex against the steel, fingers clawing at the back panel. Nothing. The orphanage cut. The sand money. Gone.
"No," he wheezed. "No."
He spun around. The window was open. A neat circle of glass had been cut and laid gently on the expensive Persian rug. Rain blew in, ruining the wool.
Vinod grabbed his phone. His thumb hovered over the SP's contact.
Then, the freeze.
He stared at the screen until the backlight dimmed.
If he called…
Officer, someone stole my money.
Which money, sir? The money you declared?
The realization settled in his gut like a stone. The Tax Bureau. The Enforcement Directorate. If he reported the theft, he reported his own crimes.
He lowered the hand.
He was gagged. Choked by his own greed.
A scream built up in his chest, hot and acidic, but he swallowed it back down. He could accuse no one. He stood in the center of his gold-and-silk kingdom, small and ruined.
He threw the phone. It cracked against the plaster wall, leaving a dent. Vinod sank into his Italian leather chair, the silence of the room crushing him.
The Rooftop.
The man in the mask saw the shift.
In the slum, a light burned steady. In the mansion, a shadow passed the window, and the light died.
Scales tipped.
He stood up. His knees popped. He was cold, soaked to the bone, and tired. He adjusted his gloves, the wet leather creaking.
He didn't look back. He just stepped off the ledge, letting the dark swallow him whole.