Mira didn't stop driving until the city was a memory.
Until the only lights were stars.
Until her hands stopped shaking on the wheel.
The abandoned factory appeared like a wound in the landscape—rust and broken glass, walls that had given up pretending to keep the world out. Exactly where Bharat's Codex said it would be. Exactly three kilometers from where she'd left him standing in the middle of the road like a man waiting for execution.
She wanted to hate him for that.
Couldn't.
Hating him required energy she didn't have left.
Anjali sat in the passenger seat now. Silent. Hands folded in her lap like she was praying—or had forgotten how to stop. The older woman's face was calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that came from practice, from years of learning how to keep your face still while everything inside you was screaming.
"He'll survive," Anjali said.
Not a question. A statement.
"You don't know that."
"I know my son."
"Twelve Divine Contractors, Mrs. Kumar."
"Thirteen."
Mira's hands tightened on the wheel. "What?"
"There were thirteen. You missed one."
"How do you—"
"Because I know how temple hunting packs work."
Anjali's voice was still soft. Still careful. But underneath—steel. The kind forged in places Mira didn't want to imagine.
"Twelve visible. One hidden. Always."
"The hidden one is the real killer."
Mira pulled into the factory's shadow. Killed the engine. Silence rushed in—desert silence, vast and absolute. Through the cracked windshield, she could see the building's skeleton. Metal beams like ribs. Broken windows like eye sockets.
A corpse of industry.
Perfect place to hide.
Or die.
"We should go back," Mira said.
"We can't."
"He's your son—"
"Which is why we follow his orders."
Anjali opened her door. Got out. Moved with surprising steadiness for a woman who'd been half-dead an hour ago. Mira watched her through the windshield—this small woman with temple scars and eyes that had seen too much.
"You're not worried about him."
"I'm terrified," Anjali said. "But terror is a luxury."
"Right now, we have work to do."
She walked toward the factory entrance. Mira grabbed the emergency bag from the trunk—water, first aid, the handgun Bharat had insisted she carry. Three bullets left. She'd used two on temple guards during the escape.
Hoped she wouldn't need the third.
Knew she probably would.
Inside, the factory was a cathedral of rust.
Darkness pooled in corners like spilled ink.
Mira's flashlight cut through the gloom—beam catching on broken machinery, old assembly lines that looked like the bones of metal dinosaurs. The air smelled of oil and decay and something else. Something older.
Like the building was remembering what it used to be.
And mourning.
Anjali moved through the space like she'd been here before. Checking corners. Testing floor stability. She stopped at what used to be a supervisor's office—glass walls shattered, but the room still intact. Defensible.
"Here."
Mira set down the bag. Her muscles were screaming—adrenaline crash hitting hard. She sat. Back against the wall. Gun in her lap.
"Now what?"
"Now we wait."
"For?"
Anjali was looking at something. A small brass pendant she'd pulled from her sari—tarnished, ancient-looking. Some kind of symbol etched into the surface. A peacock with too many eyes.
"For Peacock to find us."
"The god."
"Yes."
"You really believe—"
"I don't believe, child."
Anjali's eyes met hers. Dark and certain.
"I know."
"Because I was temple property for fifteen years."
"I've seen things that would crack your mind like an egg."
Mira wanted to argue. Wanted to say something about rationality, about how gods were just stories people told to make sense of chaos. But she'd seen the Codex. Seen what it did to Bharat. Seen the way reality bent around that book like light around a black hole.
So she stayed quiet.
And waited.
Twenty minutes later, Peacock arrived.
Not walking.
Materializing.
One moment—empty factory floor. Next moment—a figure standing in the center of the room. Tall. Impossibly tall. Wearing that same shabby vest and slacks, but now they looked different. Like the shabbiness was a costume, and underneath—something vast and feathered and burning with colors that didn't have names.
His eyes were all pupil.
Black holes with peacock patterns swirling in the depths.
"Ladies," Peacock said. "Lovely evening for a kidnapping."
Mira raised the gun. Hand steady. "Don't move."
"Adorable."
He didn't sound mocking. Just genuinely pleased, like watching a kitten try to catch a laser pointer.
"That gun has three bullets. One's a dud—moisture damage. One will fire but miss because the barrel's slightly warped. The third—"
He tilted his head.
"—might actually hit me. Won't kill me, but points for trying."
"Peacock," Anjali said. Voice calm. "She's with us."
"I know."
"Then stop terrifying her."
"I'm not trying to terrify."
The god sat down. Cross-legged. On the dirty factory floor. Like he was at a picnic.
"I'm trying to establish parameters."
"This girl—"
He nodded at Mira.
"—is about to make a choice that rewrites three timelines and kills approximately forty-seven people."
"I want her to understand the stakes before she makes it."
Mira's hand was shaking now. "What choice?"
"Whether to go back for Bharat."
"Or stay here."
"Safe."
The word hung in the air like a lie.
"If I go back—"
"Forty-seven people die. Including you. Including Anjali."
"But Bharat lives."
"Gets the information he needs to kill Rajan."
"Breaks the temple's power in this city."
Peacock's smile was sharp. Sad.
"You become the catalyst for a divine war that burns through three states and leaves the Codex masterless."
"If I stay?"
"Bharat dies. Eventually."
"Rajan consolidates power."
"The temple spreads."
"In fifteen years, they control half of India's political infrastructure."
"But you and Anjali live."
"Quiet lives."
"Meaningless ones."
Mira stared at him. "That's not a choice."
"No," Peacock agreed. "It's a test."
"Of what?"
"Whether you're the kind of person who chooses meaning over safety."
"Or safety over meaning."
He stood. Brushed imaginary dust from his slacks.
"Personally? I'm rooting for meaning."
"Safety's boring."
"And I've been bored for three thousand years."
"Wait—"
But Peacock was already moving. Walking toward the factory's far wall—the one that was more rust than metal. He stopped. Put his hand against it.
The wall opened.
Not broke.
Opened.
Like reality had a door.
And Peacock had the key.
Beyond the opening—darkness. But not empty darkness. Darkness with depth. With movement. Like looking into water so deep you couldn't see the bottom.
"Through here," Peacock said. "Is a path."
"Leads to the Singh estate."
"Back entrance."
"Servants' gate."
"Takes forty minutes if you walk."
"Twenty if you run."
"Gets you there exactly when Bharat needs you."
He looked at Mira.
"Or you stay here. Door closes. You and Anjali wait out the night."
"Morning comes. You run. Disappear."
"Live."
"Choose."
Mira looked at Anjali. The older woman's face was unreadable—that practiced calm like a mask she'd worn so long it had fused to skin.
"It's your choice," Anjali said quietly. "Not mine."
"What would you do?"
"I already made my choice. Twenty years ago."
"I ran."
Anjali's hands were shaking now. First time Mira had seen her composure crack.
"Saved myself. Left others behind."
"Been living with it ever since."
"Every morning I wake up, I taste that choice."
"Tastes like ash."
She met Mira's eyes.
"Don't be me."
Mira stood. Legs unsteady. The gun felt heavy in her hand—heavier than it should, like it was gaining weight from futures it might or might not create.
She thought about Bharat.
The way he'd looked at her before getting out of the car.
Like he was memorizing her face.
Like he knew he wouldn't see it again.
She thought about the forty-seven people Peacock mentioned.
Wondered if she'd know their names.
If she'd have to watch them die.
If their blood would taste like ash too.
She thought about safety.
About quiet, meaningless lives.
About waking up every morning and tasting nothing.
"Fuck safety," Mira said.
Peacock's grin was incandescent.
"Attaagirl."
Mira walked toward the door. Toward the darkness that moved like water. Anjali grabbed her arm—gentle, but firm.
"You don't have to—"
"I know."
"He wouldn't want—"
"I don't care what he wants."
Mira pulled free. Looked at the older woman.
"I care what I want."
"And I want to matter."
"Even if it's just for one night."
"Even if it kills me."
She stepped through the door.
The darkness swallowed her whole.
Behind her, she heard Peacock laugh.
Heard him say:
"See you on the other side, Mira Sharma."
"Or in the underworld."
"Either way—"
"It's going to be spectacular."
The door closed.
Anjali stood alone in the factory.
Silence rushed back in.
She looked at her pendant.
At the peacock with too many eyes.
"Is she going to die?"
Peacock's voice came from everywhere and nowhere.
"Probably."
"Can you stop it?"
"Yes."
"Will you?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because she chose meaning."
"And meaning has a price."
"You of all people should know that, Anjali."
The voice faded. Left her alone with the rust and the darkness and the memory of choices made twenty years ago.
Anjali sat down. Back against the wall. Closed her eyes.
And prayed to gods she'd spent two decades trying to forget.
Prayed they'd remember her anyway.
Prayed they'd keep her son alive.
Prayed they'd let Mira's choice mean something.
Even if that something was death.
Meanwhile.
Three kilometers away.
Bharat opened his eyes.
He was in a car.
Moving.
Hands zip-tied.
Vision blurred.
The lead contractor was driving. Ayesha sat in back with him—mask off, face unreadable in the darkness.
"You're awake," she said.
"Where—"
"Singh estate. Twenty minutes out."
"Rajan's waiting."
"Along with half the city's elite."
"Going to make a show of killing you."
Bharat's chest felt like someone had replaced his ribs with broken glass. Every breath was agony. The Codex was silent—drained, spent, punishment deferred but not forgotten.
"My mother—"
"Safe. For now."
Ayesha leaned close. Voice dropping to a whisper.
"Your friend. The girl."
"She's coming."
Bharat's blood went cold. "What?"
"Peacock showed her the path."
"She chose to walk it."
"No—"
"Too late."
"She'll arrive exactly when you need her."
"Which is also exactly when she'll die."
Ayesha's eyes were dark. Knowing.
"Unless you change the script."
"How?"
"That's your problem."
She sat back. Put her mask on.
"I gave you information."
"Gave your mother time."
"Gave your friend a fighting chance."
"The rest?"
"Is up to you."
The car drove on. Headlights cutting through darkness. Taking him toward a mansion where a priest waited with ceremonies and contracts and the kind of death that took hours.
Bharat closed his eyes.
Felt his heart stuttering in his chest.
Felt the Codex silent against his ribs.
Felt time running out like sand through broken fingers.
"Mira," he whispered.
"You fucking idiot."
"Why did you come?"
But he knew why.
Same reason he'd stepped out of that car.
Same reason his mother had pulled Ayesha from drowning.
Same reason anyone ever chose meaning over safety.
Because some things were worth dying for.
Even if dying was the only certainty.
Even if survival was a luxury you couldn't afford.