The hospital at night was a different animal.
Fluorescent lights too bright. Silence too loud.
The smell of antiseptic and fear.
Bharat walked through the corridors with his heart in his throat and the Contract Vision flickering at the edges of everything—script crawling on walls, on doors, on the faces of nurses who wouldn't meet his eyes.
Something was wrong.
More wrong than usual.
Room 408.
The door was open. Just a crack. Light spilling out into the hallway like a warning.
Bharat pushed inside.
His mother lay in the bed.
Smaller than he remembered. Frailer. Hooked to machines that beeped in rhythm with her shallow breathing. Her eyes were closed.
But her hand was moving.
Twitching.
Like she was trying to reach for something that wasn't there.
"Ma—"
Bharat crossed the room in three strides. Grabbed her hand. Cold. Too cold.
Her eyes opened.
Unfocused. Glassy.
"Bharat?"
"I'm here."
"There was... someone."
Her voice was thin. Stretched. Like words were harder than breathing.
"Who?"
"A woman. Young. She said... she said she was checking vitals."
Bharat's pulse kicked.
"What did she do?"
"Changed the IV."
The IV.
Bharat's gaze snapped to the drip bag hanging beside the bed. Clear liquid. Innocent.
He activated Contract Vision.
And saw it.
Faint script.
Crawling through the liquid like living ink.
Poison.
Not fast-acting. Not obvious.
Slow. Methodical.
Designed to look like natural decline.
"Nurse!"
Bharat's shout echoed down the hallway.
No response.
He yanked the IV line free.
His mother gasped. Machines screamed.
"What are you—"
"Trust me."
Footsteps. Running.
A nurse appeared. Male. Thick-built. Eyes too calm.
"Sir, you can't—"
Bharat held up the IV bag.
"This is poisoned."
"That's impossible. We have strict—"
"Test it."
"Sir, you're clearly distressed—"
Bharat stepped forward. Close enough to see the faint flicker of script beneath the nurse's collar.
Bound.
Paid.
Compromised.
"Who sent you?"
The nurse's face went blank.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You're lying."
Bharat's hand shot out—grabbed the man's wrist. The Contract Vision flared.
And he saw it.
Clear as daylight.
A transaction. Cash. Instructions.
A name.
Rajan.
And behind him—
A supply chain.
Pharmaceutical companies. Temple donations. Black-market clinics.
All feeding back to the same source.
The family.
The altar.
The harvest.
Bharat let go.
The nurse stumbled back. Fear finally cracking through the professional mask.
"You're going to call hospital security. Tell them there's been a contamination. This IV gets tested. Tonight."
"I can't—"
"You will."
Bharat pulled out his phone. Took a photo of the nurse's ID badge.
"Or I send this to every medical board in the country along with a very detailed accusation."
The nurse ran.
Bharat turned back to his mother.
Still breathing. Shallow. Weak.
But alive.
For now.
The voice came from the doorway.
"You're getting good at this."
Bharat spun.
Ayesha stood there.
Leaning against the frame. Arms crossed. That familiar look of bored contempt—but her eyes were different.
Scared.
"How long have you been there?"
"Long enough."
She walked in. Slow. Deliberate. Stopped beside the bed, looking down at Bharat's mother.
"She looks like you."
"What do you want, Ayesha?"
"To help."
"Why would you help me?"
She smiled. Bitter. Tired.
"Because I was you."
Bharat went still.
"What?"
"Three years ago. Different altar. Same contract."
She pulled down her collar—just enough to show the faint scar running along her collarbone. Script. Burned into skin.
"I was supposed to be the bride."
"What happened?"
"I ran."
"And they let you?"
"No."
Her hand dropped. The scar disappeared back beneath fabric.
"They caught me. Dragged me back. Put me on that altar."
"Then how are you—"
"Mira."
The name fell like a stone.
"She took my place. Signed a different contract. One that bound her instead."
Bharat's mind raced.
"Why would she do that?"
"Because she's insane."
Ayesha's voice cracked.
"Or because she understood something I didn't. That the only way to survive the temple—"
"Is to become it."
The voice came from the door.
Mira stood there.
Silent. Still. Face carved from ice and inevitability.
"You're learning fast, husband."
She walked in. The room felt smaller. Colder.
"Ayesha, leave."
"Mira—"
"Now."
Ayesha looked at Bharat. Something in her eyes—pity? Warning?—then she was gone.
The door closed.
Mira and Bharat alone.
Just the beeping machines and the weight of everything unsaid.
"You found the altar."
Not a question. A statement.
"Yes."
"And the passage."
"Yes."
"And now you want answers."
Bharat stood. Faced her.
"I want my mother to live."
"The poison will kill her in three days. Maybe four."
Her voice was clinical. Detached.
"There's an antidote."
"Where?"
"The temple."
Of course.
"And they'll just give it to me?"
"No."
Mira stepped closer. Close enough he could see the faint script beneath her skin—deeper than his, older, burned so far down it looked like part of her veins.
"You'll have to earn it."
"How?"
"Complete the First Blood Task."
The System stirred.
Bharat felt it—that familiar cold whisper at the base of his skull.
TASK ACTIVATION DETECTED.
FIRST BLOOD TASK: RETRIEVE THE OFFERING.
LOCATION: TEMPLE INNER SANCTUM.
RISK LEVEL: LETHAL.
REWARD: ANTIDOTE. TEMPLE ACCESS TIER 2.
FAILURE: MOTHER'S DEATH. YOUR MARK ADVANCEMENT.
Bharat's throat went dry.
"What's the task?"
Mira pulled something from her coat. A photograph.
Old. Faded. Creased.
A man. Young. Handsome. Standing in front of the temple.
Smiling.
"This is my brother."
Bharat looked at her. Saw something flicker behind the ice—grief. Old. Buried.
"I didn't know you had—"
"He was the groom before you. Five years ago."
"What happened?"
"He completed the contract."
"You mean—"
"I mean he's in the sanctum."
Her voice was flat. Empty.
"And you're going to bring him back."
"Back? He's alive?"
"Define alive."
Mira turned toward the door.
"You have until sunrise. The temple opens its inner sanctum once every lunar cycle. Tonight's the night."
"And if I refuse?"
She stopped. Didn't turn around.
"Then your mother dies. You die. And I find another husband."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that."
The door opened.
Mira walked out.
Bharat stood there.
Heart hammering.
Mind racing.
The photograph in his hand.
A dead man's smile staring back at him.
And somewhere—deep in the temple, deep in the dark—
He heard it.
Faint.
Distant.
Laughter.
Soft.
Patient.
Hungry.