(Three months later)
A party was in full swing at a posh Mumbai apartment. Aryan Khanna was celebrating the success of his new book, "The Burning Night." A crowd of admirers and press surrounded him.
"Sir, there is so much pain and fear in your story—it feels as if you've actually lived through it," a journalist remarked.
Aryan swirled the wine in his glass. He was wearing gloves, which he hadn't taken off once in the last three months. He offered a faint, hollow smile. "Perhaps I have."
Suddenly, his eyes drifted to a waiter standing in the corner of the room. The waiter stood perfectly still, his neck twisted at an unnatural, jarring angle.
The familiar old voice echoed in Aryan's mind:
"Look, Aryan... another one of my soldiers is here too."
Aryan's hand trembled; the wine glass slipped, shattering into a thousand pieces on the floor.
"Excuse me," Aryan muttered, rushing toward the washroom.
Once inside, he locked the door and pulled the glove off his right hand. Beneath his skin, there was no flesh. In its place was polished teak wood. The "timber infection" had already spread up to his elbow.
"What do you want from me?" Aryan screamed at the mirror.
His own reflection didn't answer, but the reflection shimmering in the sink water was that of the Old Man.
"We have to build our army, Aryan. Mumbai is just the beginning. We need to find 'The Master'."
"The Master? Who is that?"
"The one who created me. And now... we are going to find him."
Just then, Aryan's phone buzzed with a message from an unknown number. It contained nothing but a location: "Old Textile Mill, Lower Parel. 12:00 AM. If you want to stop your hand from turning into wood, come."