Arav learned the difference between falling and seeing the next morning.
Falling was physical.
Seeing was not.
He sat still on the edge of the bed, feet barely touching the floor. Without grounding, his body felt unreliable—like it belonged to a version of him that lagged half a second behind thought.
But that wasn't what unsettled him.
It was the clarity.
The room looked normal.
Too normal.
Every object felt outlined too sharply, as if his mind were overcorrecting for the loss of stability. Corners carried weight. Shadows felt deliberate.
He blinked.
The feeling didn't fade.
Instead, something aligned.
Not downward.
Inward.
Ira noticed first.
"You're not drifting anymore," she said cautiously. "You're… focused."
Arav frowned. "I don't feel focused."
He paused.
"I feel precise."
The word tasted wrong.
The pressure behind his eyes returned—not painful, not heavy.
Structured.
Like a lens being seated correctly for the first time.
He inhaled slowly.
The world didn't stabilize.
It clarified.
Devavrata Rathod arrived before noon.
This time, he didn't stand.
He sat.
That alone was enough to make Ira tense.
"You shouldn't be perceiving this cleanly," Devavrata said after a long silence.
Arav looked up. "Perceiving what?"
Devavrata met his gaze.
"The gap."
He gestured subtly—not to the room, but to Arav's eyes.
"When the root fails," Devavrata said, "most awakenings collapse. Panic. Disorientation. Psychosis."
"And when they don't?" Ira asked.
Devavrata's voice hardened.
"Then something else compensates."
He let the word sit before saying it.
"Ajna."
The name landed like a fault line snapping shut.
Arav felt it resonate—not as recognition, but as confirmation.
"That's not a power," Arav said slowly.
"No," Devavrata replied. "It's an override."
He leaned forward.
"Ajna doesn't stabilize reality. It reinterprets it."
He spoke carefully now.
"It fills uncertainty by deciding what should be true."
Ira's breath caught. "That's… dangerous."
"Yes," Devavrata said flatly. "Which is why we classify Ajna-based awakenings as unstable at best. Hostile at worst."
Arav's jaw tightened. "Rhea."
Devavrata didn't deny it.
"She doesn't open Gates," Devavrata said. "She opens people."
Arav closed his eyes.
For a brief moment, he sensed the campus—not spatially, but interpretively.
Patterns of attention.
Memory stress points.
Places where meaning thinned.
It was effortless.
That terrified him.
The system activated without prompting.
Not diagnostic.
Categorical.
Ajna Spectrum Detected
Interpretive Influence: Active
Warning: Passive Compliance Not Neutral
Ira stared. "What does that mean?"
Devavrata answered before Arav could.
"It means the system cannot tell whether you're obeying," he said quietly,
"or quietly rewriting the rules it uses to judge obedience."
Arav's hands clenched.
"So grounding fails," he said. "And perception takes over."
"Yes," Devavrata replied. "Which means your actions will no longer be measured by force."
"Then what?"
"By impact on belief."
The words settled heavily.
Outside, students passed, unaware.
Inside Arav's head, reality felt thin but legible.
He could see how stories formed.
How narratives stabilized panic.
How a single misinterpreted event could fracture trust.
This wasn't strength.
This was leverage.
Devavrata stood.
"You wanted to know what comes next," he said.
"This."
He looked at Arav with something close to regret.
"You don't learn to control Ajna," he continued.
"You learn to restrain yourself from using it."
After he left, Ira spoke softly.
"Do you feel different?"
Arav didn't answer immediately.
He looked at the window.
At the reflection of his own eyes.
"I feel like the world is asking me questions," he said finally.
"And I'm afraid of how easily I can answer them."
Somewhere else, Rhea smiled.
Not because the Eye had opened.
But because it had opened without permission.