The question wasn't whether they'd come.
Was how many.
And whether Bharat could kill them all before his heart gave out.
The highway stretched ahead like a throat—narrow, dark, swallowing the single beam of their headlights. Mira drove. Bharat's mother sat in back, her breathing still ragged from the temple escape. The city lights were twenty kilometers behind them, shrinking into a smear of gold against the black.
That's when the motorcycles appeared.
Twelve of them.
Headlights cutting through the dark like knives.
Bharat's hand went to the Codex. The book was hot against his ribs—hotter than it should be, like it was burning through his shirt. He opened it. Pages flipping on their own, words crawling across parchment like insects.
[DIVINE CONTRACTOR PROTOCOL DETECTED]
[THREAT LEVEL: EXECUTIONER CLASS]
[PROBABILITY OF SURVIVAL: 12%]
[RECOMMENDATION: SACRIFICE PASSENGERS. FLEE ALONE.]
Bharat looked at his mother in the rearview mirror. Her eyes met his—calm, like she'd been waiting for this moment her whole life. Like she knew.
He closed the Codex.
"Stop the car."
Mira's knuckles went white on the wheel. "What?"
"Stop. The. Car."
"You're insane—"
"They want me. Not you."
Bharat's voice was flat. Final. He'd already made the decision—had made it the moment he saw those headlights. Some choices you don't get to debate.
"I'm not leaving you."
"You are."
He reached over, covered her hand with his. Gentle. The kind of touch you give someone when you're saying goodbye without saying the word.
"Get my mother somewhere safe. Peacock will guide you."
"Bharat—"
"Three kilometers ahead. Abandoned factory. Hide there."
The Codex had already shown him the map—burned it into his vision like an afterimage, every turn and shadow pre-written in divine ink.
Mira slammed the brakes.
The car skidded. Stopped.
Bharat was out before the dust settled.
The motorcycles were closing.
Two hundred meters.
One-fifty.
Bharat stood in the center of the road. The night air was cold—desert cold, the kind that stings your lungs. Behind him, he heard the car engine start again. Heard Mira curse him in three languages as she drove away.
Good.
Let her hate him.
Hate kept you alive when love made you stupid.
The motorcycles stopped.
Twelve riders. Twelve masks.
Divine Contractors.
They wore the temple's mark—silver threads woven into black leather, each thread a binding contract written in blood and prayer. Their masks were smooth, featureless, like faces that had forgotten how to be human.
The lead rider dismounted. Tall. Moving with the kind of precision that came from muscle memory drilled into bone.
"Bharat Kumar."
Not a question. A confirmation.
"The one who broke temple law."
"The one who stole divine property."
"The one who thinks mortal rules can bind gods."
Bharat smiled. It didn't reach his eyes.
"The one who's about to make you regret getting out of bed this morning."
They came at him.
All twelve.
At once.
The Codex opened. Pages exploding into light—cold, surgical light that carved the darkness into segments. Bharat's vision shifted. The world became lines and angles, trajectories and weak points.
[COMBAT PREDICTION ACTIVE]
[COST: 1 DAY LIFESPAN PER MINUTE]
[REMAINING: 43 DAYS → 42 DAYS → 41 DAYS...]
Pain hit him like a fist to the chest. His heart stuttered—skipped a beat, then two. Tasting copper. Tasting time burning away like paper in a furnace.
First contractor lunged.
Bharat sidestepped.
Blade whistled past his ear—close enough to feel the wind.
He grabbed the wrist. Twisted.
Bone snapped.
Elbow to the throat.
The contractor went down.
Didn't get up.
Second contractor.
Third.
Coming from both sides.
The Codex showed him the gap—point-three seconds between their strikes. Bharat dropped. Rolled. Came up with a length of chain he'd grabbed from the first contractor's belt.
Wrapped it around the second contractor's neck. Pulled. The mask cracked—underneath, a face. Young. Couldn't be more than twenty-five. Eyes wide with shock as the chain bit into windpipe.
Temple dancers started young.
Died younger.
Bharat didn't let go until the body went limp.
Third contractor's blade came down.
Bharat used the corpse as a shield.
Blade buried in dead flesh instead of living.
Bharat kicked.
Knee to sternum.
Ribs caved.
Four down.
His vision blurred. The Codex's light was eating him from the inside—chewing through days like a starving thing. He could feel it. Every prediction cost him hours. Every dodge cost him minutes.
[REMAINING: 38 DAYS]
[WARNING: DIVINE REJECTION SYNDROME DETECTED]
[SYMPTOMS: HEMORRHAGING. NEURAL DEGRADATION. CARDIAC ARRHYTHMIA.]
Bharat coughed. Tasted metal. Looked down. Blood on his hand—dark, almost black in the moonlight. His body was starting to reject the divine code. Like a transplant patient realizing the new organ was poison.
Eight contractors left.
They regrouped.
Circled him.
Smarter now.
Cautious.
The lead contractor raised a hand. The others stopped.
"You're dying."
"Been dying since I was born," Bharat said. "Just faster now."
"Rajan-ji wants you alive."
"Rajan-ji can want a lot of things. Doesn't mean he gets them."
The contractor tilted his head. Considering.
"He said you'd be difficult."
"He say anything else?"
"That you'd beg. Eventually."
"Tell him I said—"
One of the contractors stepped forward. Different. Smaller frame. Moved with a grace the others didn't have—fluid, like water finding cracks in stone.
The mask came off.
A woman.
Young. Maybe thirty.
Scars on her neck—symmetrical, ritual.
Temple dancer scars.
She looked at Bharat. Her eyes were dark—the kind of dark that came from seeing things you couldn't unsee. Then her gaze shifted. Past him. To the direction the car had gone.
"I know her."
Bharat's blood went cold.
"Who?"
"The woman in your car."
"Her name is Anjali. She was temple property. Twenty years ago."
The woman's voice was soft. Careful. Like she was handling something fragile.
"We danced together. Before the Selection."
"Before they chose her for the binding ritual."
"Before she disappeared."
Bharat's mind was racing. His mother. Temple property. Twenty years. The timeline matched—matched the scars on her wrists, the way she never talked about her past, the specific silence she carried like a wound that never healed.
"You're Ayesha," Bharat said.
The woman blinked. Surprised.
"How—"
"Codex shows me things. Names. Contracts. Debts."
"Then you know I'm bound to kill you."
"But you don't want to."
"Want doesn't matter."
"It's the only thing that matters."
Ayesha looked at the lead contractor. Then back at Bharat.
"Rajan's waiting for you. At the Singh estate."
"I know."
"He wants to kill you in front of her. In front of Anjali. Make her watch."
The words landed like stones in dark water.
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because she saved my life once."
Ayesha's hand went to her throat. Traced the scars.
"During my Selection trial. I was drowning. Ritual pool. She pulled me out. Took the punishment herself."
"They broke three of her ribs."
"She never said my name."
"So what? You're letting me go?"
"No."
Ayesha's eyes were hard again. Professional.
"I'm giving you information. That's all I can give without breaking my contract."
"What information?"
"Rajan's ceremony is tomorrow night. Nine PM. He's summoning something. Something old."
"To do that, he has to drop his divine protections. For exactly ten minutes."
"Ten minutes where he's mortal."
"Ten minutes where you can kill him."
Bharat stared at her.
"Why?"
"Because I'm tired of being property."
"And because when Anjali pulled me out of that water—"
Ayesha's voice cracked. Just slightly.
"—she whispered: 'Run when you get the chance.'"
"I never did."
"But maybe you can."
The lead contractor stepped forward.
"Enough talking."
"Stand down, Ayesha."
"We have orders."
Ayesha looked at Bharat one last time.
Then put her mask back on.
Bharat's hand went to the Codex. The book was screaming now—warnings flooding his vision like blood in water.
[REMAINING: 32 DAYS]
[CRITICAL DAMAGE THRESHOLD APPROACHING]
[RECOMMENDATION: RETREAT]
Bharat ran.
Not away.
Toward them.
One last time.
He killed three more before his legs gave out.
Before the blood in his lungs drowned his breathing.
Before the world tilted and the ground came up to meet him.
He hit the asphalt. Hard. Tasted dirt and copper and something bitter—divine rejection, the Codex's price finally coming due in full.
Through blurred vision, he saw Ayesha.
Saw her knock the lead contractor's blade away.
Heard her say:
"He's more useful alive."
"Rajan wants a show."
"Let him have it."
The last thing Bharat heard before the darkness took him:
Ayesha's voice.
Soft. Close to his ear.
"Singh estate. Tomorrow. Nine PM."
"Don't be late."
"Your mother's life depends on it."