David's train is scheduled for the following night, giving him plenty of time to pack. He decides to buy some Hyderabadi specialities to take home for his family.
Like every other day, he wakes up early and goes for a jog. On his usual route, he sees a commotion near a ladies' hostel. Police have blocked the road and diverted traffic. Word on the street is that there was a suicide last night — a woman jumped from the roof.
Naturally, a large crowd has gathered to watch the investigation.
David slows down to a walk, becoming just another onlooker. But as he nears the scene, the watch on his wrist begins to vibrate violently.
He quickly puts his earphones in.
"David, we have to get away from here. Fast."
"Why?"
"Get away fast, and I will tell you."
NEAA sounds genuinely terrified — like a child hiding from an angry mother.
David feels a faint, static-like energy radiating from the watch. A sudden, primal instinct kicks in. He feels like he is being watched by a thousand eyes.
Goosebumps erupt all over his skin. The feeling of being observed intensifies rapidly, becoming almost suffocating. He turns around and starts to walk away briskly.
Once he puts some distance between himself and the hostel, the crushing sensation of being watched fades. He stops and looks back to see what caused it.
What he sees chills him to the bone.
The entire crowd of onlookers — hundreds of people — have turned their heads. They are all looking directly at him. Their faces are blank, expressionless, as if their individual minds have been switched off and they are being controlled by a single entity.
"NEAA, what is that? Why are they looking at me?"
David doesn't wait for a reply. He turns and sprints, running faster than he ever has in his life.
"I do not know, David," NEAA replies, its voice shaking slightly. "But my operating protocol states: Before locating the Main Framework System, the Holder must not approach a recently deceased person. The time limit is 12 hours. After that, it is safe."
"Why were they all looking at me?" David pants, his chest heaving as he weaves through the morning crowd.
Distracted and out of breath, he turns a corner sharply and slams right into someone.
He is in front of a high-end wedding boutique. The person he bumped into is none other than a bride, fully dressed in her bridal finery, likely stepping out for a photoshoot or a fitting.
Thankfully, neither of them falls, but the impact is jarring.
David is still reeling from the horror at the hostel, his mind completely elsewhere. That changes instantly when a resounding SLAP lands across his face.
The bride, furious at having her expensive day ruined by a clumsy jogger, has struck him.
David is dumbfounded for a split second. Then, pure reflex takes over.
SLAP.
He returns the favor, delivering a resounding slap across the bride's face.
"Sorry, I bumped into you," David says coldly, rubbing his cheek. "And no thank you, I don't want that."
Hyderabad is a densely populated city. Like anywhere else in the world, when there is a good show, people gather instantly. A small crowd forms around them.
The bride's cheek is turning red. She is a small-time beauty, pretty in a conventional way, but David — who has recently seen a national-level beauty like Mufeeda — is utterly unaffected by her shock.
But, as always, the "Moral Police" are nearby. One of the onlookers steps forward aggressively.
"Hey! Why did you slap her?"
"When she slapped me, why didn't you ask her that?" David shoots back. He is not someone who gets beaten for nothing, especially in an era where equality is preached as gospel.
Then, the groom rushes out of the boutique, followed by the rest of the bride's family. Their faces are livid. Their intention is clear: beat David first, ask questions later.
David knows he cannot win a physical fight against a mob. To survive this, he needs to show a bigger fist.
NEAA, call the police and give them this location.
Simultaneously, he pulls out his phone, dials Varun's number, and starts shouting into the receiver, loud enough for everyone to hear.
"Hello? Is this the Circle Inspector of the Colony Station? Yes, this is the DGP's son speaking! I am here on the main street, and a group of people is trying to attack me! Yes, near the fancy boutique. Send a unit fast!"
He lowers the phone and sweeps his gaze over the angry family, his eyes daring them to move. I am the son of the Director General of Police. do you still want to touch me?
The bluff works instantly. The groom freezes. The family members exchange nervous glances. Understanding that the opposition is not to be trifled with, they back down.
NEAA, cancel the police call, David thinks.
"The call has already been made."
Dammit.
But the Indian Police are not known for their lightning-fast response times. Usually, they assume the first call is a prank and wait to verify.
Soon, David's phone rings. It is the police station.
"Hello, am I speaking to David?" a female voice asks.
"Yes, Madam," David answers, dropping his voice to a normal volume as he slowly backs away from the crowd.
"Are you in immediate danger of life?" It is the operator from the PSAP (Public Safety Answering Point). Calls are only transferred to dispatch for verified emergencies.
"No, currently I am not. They are just surrounding me," David says calmly.
"Okay. Can you explain the situation clearly?"
"Yes."
David explains exactly what happened — the accidental bump, the slap he received, and his retaliation — loud enough for the crowd to hear his version of events. Hearing the full story, the onlookers begin to murmur. Beating a man just for bumping into someone seems excessive, even for a bride.
The bride is now crying on the groom's shoulder, playing the victim. David knows these people are rich and likely powerful. He cannot antagonize them forever; he isn't powerful enough yet.
"Can you pass the phone to the other party?" the operator asks. The police want to mediate to avoid paperwork.
"Yes."
David hands the phone to an older man, likely the bride's father. The man listens, nods, and speaks in hushed tones for about ten minutes. Finally, he hands the phone back to David with a scowl.
"Hello, am I speaking to David?"
"Yes."
"I have talked with them. You can apologize to them and walk away. Do not disconnect the call until you are clear."
"Okay."
As instructed, David offers a stiff apology. "Sorry for the misunderstanding."
He turns and walks away without waiting for a response. Once he is a safe distance away, he ends the call.
But as he glances back one last time, he locks eyes with the bride. Her tear-streaked face is twisted in pure hatred.
David is sure of one thing: This is not over.