Shreya had always known that night was different.
Walking alone along Crescent Bridge after her late college lecture, the fog crept around the streetlights like ghostly fingers. Her phone buzzed insistently in her bag, but a chill crawling up her spine made her ignore it.
The road ahead felt too silent, too perfect, as if the city had exhaled and forgotten the world existed. Then, in a heartbeat, her instincts screamed.
A man stepped onto the road, distracted, unaware of the speeding motorcycle bearing down on him. Shreya's body moved before her mind could process — a flinch, a grab, a pull. She yanked him back, just as the bike tore past. Tires screeched, the engine roared, but the man stood untouched, staring at her with wide, terrified eyes.
His gaze was… wrong. His skin pale as moonlight, his shadow stretching at impossible angles. Shreya's heart thudded painfully. Something about him didn't belong in this reality.
He whispered, "You… saved me?"
Shreya nodded, voice lost in a throat tight with fear.
The next instant, the man was gone, swallowed by the mist.
Shreya's legs shook. The world felt… altered.
And as she looked at the road, she realized the accident had left no mark. No blood, no tire marks, no witnesses.
The air smelled of something old and metallic, as if the fog itself was alive and watching.
Shreya's fingers brushed her neck, sweaty and clammy. Something told her that tonight wasn't just a lucky escape—it was a warning.
Because some lives, once touched, refuse to exist in the order they should.