Aryan slammed the phone onto the edge of the sink. "I'm not going anywhere," he said, gritting his teeth. "I won't be a part of this insane game of yours. I'll call the police, I'll call doctors... I don't care if they throw me in an asylum."
He turned on the tap and splashed cold water onto his face. He felt that perhaps this rebellion would work. Perhaps if he stopped being afraid, the old man would grow weak.
Then, amidst the sound of the running water, he heard a laugh. It was coming from inside his mind.
"Foolish boy... do you think your body is still your own?"
Aryan opened his mouth to respond when suddenly—
Snap!
His left hand—which until now had been perfectly normal and fleshy—suddenly shot up into the air. Aryan hadn't tried to move it. The hand moved of its own accord, as if it belonged to someone else.
Before Aryan could grasp what was happening, the fingers of his left hand tightened around his throat.
"Ahhh...!" A choked sound escaped Aryan's mouth.
He tried to pry his left hand away with his right hand (the one covered by the glove, which was turning into wood). But the grip was as strong as iron.
He stumbled backward, his back slamming into the glass shower door. Crack! The glass fractured.
His own hand was crushing his windpipe. Aryan's face began to turn red. Darkness started to creep across his vision. He tried to scream, but no sound came from his throat.
The old man's voice echoed in his mind again, this time filled with rage:
"You have been summoned, Aryan. And when the master calls, the puppet does not throw tantrums. Will you comply, or would you prefer to die right here by your own fingers?"
Aryan's lungs were desperate for air. He realized he couldn't win.
He feebly managed to nod his head—"Yes... I'll go... let go..." He surrendered in his mind.
The moment he gave his consent, the iron grip on his neck loosened.
Aryan collapsed to the floor, coughing violently and clutching his throat. He looked at his left hand; it was still now, as if nothing had happened.
Trembling, he picked up his phone. It was 11:15 PM. The mill in Lower Parel was 45 minutes away. He had very little time left.
He grabbed his jacket, adjusted his gloves, and walked out of the house. He finally understood—he was now nothing more than a prisoner trapped inside his own body.