Next Morning
The early morning air clung cool and damp to the balcony.
Arnav moved through his workout in steady, controlled motions—push-ups slow and deliberate, muscles tightening and releasing as he focused on his breathing. Sweat traced a thin line down his spine, catching the pale sunlight filtering through the railings.
Control.
That was the point.
He rose, rolling his shoulders once, when a sound cut through the quiet.
Whip.
Sharp. Sudden.
Like thick hair slicing through air.
Arnav froze.
His breath stalled halfway in his chest. Slowly, he straightened, senses sharpening. The sound echoed again in his mind—too distinct to be imagination.
He turned.
The balcony was empty.
No movement. No shadow. Only the soft rustle of distant trees and the faint hum of the waking city below.
His gaze dropped instinctively to the edge of the railing.
Nothing.
Still, something felt… off.
The air felt heavier, charged in a way he had begun to recognize. His jaw tightened as he scanned the corners, the ceiling, the spaces where darkness liked to hide even in daylight.
"Who's there?" he asked quietly.
No answer.
The silence stretched.
After a moment, Arnav exhaled slowly, forcing his body to relax—but the tension didn't fully leave. His fingers curled unconsciously, as if bracing for something unseen.
From somewhere far below, unseen and amused, a presence lingered… then slipped away.
And Arnav knew one thing with unsettling certainty—
He was not alone anymore.
Later That Morning
Steam fogged the bathroom, blurring the edges of the world.
Arnav stood beneath the running water longer than necessary, letting it pound against his shoulders, as if it could wash away what still clung to him from yesterday—fire, fear, the memory of losing control.
When he finally stepped out, the mirror was clouded over. He wiped it with his palm.
His reflection stared back at him.
Tired. Controlled. Human.
He leaned closer, razor gliding along his jaw in slow, careful strokes. Each movement was deliberate—grounding. Normal. He watched himself intently, as if afraid to look away for even a second.
Then the light shifted.
The reflection didn't move when he did.
Arnav froze.
His image in the mirror darkened—not in shadow, but in essence. The eyes turned deeper, colder. A faint, twisted smile curved on lips Arnav hadn't moved.
"You can't keep me locked away," the reflection said softly, voice layered, not quite his own. "Soon… I'll merge with you. And then there will be no pretending."
Arnav's breath hitched. "No," he whispered. "You're not real."
The reflection leaned closer from the other side of the glass. "You feel me every time you lose control."
Arnav blinked.
The mirror showed only him again.
Normal. Silent. Empty.
His heart pounded violently against his ribs. He stared at his own eyes for a long moment, searching—afraid of what he might see staring back.
Slowly, he turned away from the mirror.
But the chill lingered.
And deep inside him, something smiled.
Arnav descended the staircase in a dark, perfectly tailored suit, every button in place, every movement composed. To anyone watching, he looked exactly like the man he had always been—controlled, disciplined, unshaken.
But inside, the echo of the mirror lingered.
The dining table was already set. The soft clink of crockery, the faint aroma of breakfast—it all felt strangely ordinary after everything that had happened.
Suman noticed him first.
She folded her arms, narrowing her eyes just enough to make her point. "Arnav," she said firmly, "if you think you're leaving this house without sitting down for breakfast with everyone, you're mistaken."
He paused mid-step.
For a second, it looked like he might protest. Work waited. Responsibilities waited. Escape waited.
Then he sighed—soft, resigned—and turned toward the table.
"Alright," he said quietly. "I'll eat."
Suman raised an eyebrow. "Properly. With us."
He gave the faintest smile. "Yes, Elder Mom."
The words softened her instantly.
Vedshree, standing near the kitchen doorway, watched the exchange in silence. Her eyes lingered on him—on the way he held himself too stiffly, on the faint shadows beneath his eyes. She said nothing, only pulled out a chair for him herself.
Arnav met her gaze for a brief moment before sitting down.
That look said everything neither of them voiced.
Around the table, conversation slowly resumed—light, careful, almost forced. Someone mentioned the weather. Someone asked about work. Someone passed the paratha.
Arnav listened more than he spoke.
For once, he didn't rush.
For once, he stayed.
And as he took the first bite, surrounded by the people he had tried so hard to protect—even from himself—he realized something quietly unsettling.
This…
this was what he had almost lost.
To be continued…