Sometime before the climax of the battle between Mohit and Sathya...
Inside the chaos-strewn café, Rohit was locked in his own private war.
His breath came in ragged gasps as he swung back blindly at the three thugs surrounding him. For every punch he threw, he received three in return. His lips had split open long ago, a crimson line streaking down his chin. Blood oozed from cuts on his temple, matting into his hair. His face had begun to swell—one eye puffed, the other glassy with pain—and each limb felt like it was forged from lead.
His fists were slow. His focus slipping. His strength fading.
Another hook slammed into his ribs. He staggered. Dropped to a knee. His breath caught in his throat.
"HELP ME!" he screamed, voice raw, broken. "Help me... PLEASE!!"
But no one came.
He looked around, delirious, wild-eyed—searching for a shred of mercy.
The café patrons had already vanished, fleeing the moment the fighting began. The staff huddled behind the counter, pretending not to see. Even the security guards were outside, trying—and failing—to contain the greater fight between the Gifted.
"Why...?" Rohit thought, heart hammering. "Why won't anyone stop this? What did I do to deserve this?"
Another fist struck his back, sending him sprawling onto the ground.
As he lay there, gasping, dirt and blood on his tongue, his inside voice speak in his mind.
"No one's coming. No hero. No justice. Only me."
His teeth clenched so tight they might've cracked.
"I don't want to lose."
He growled it aloud. A defiant snarl. A war cry. A promise.
The three goons chuckled as they circled him, ready to finish it. But then—a glow. Faint at first, like heat shimmering off pavement. Then stronger.
Golden-yellow light began to radiate from Rohit's chest, pulsing outward in slow, deliberate waves. The air around him shimmered. Cracked.
The bullies froze. They'd seen this before.
Their bravado melted into dread.
"Shit... he's Awakening," one of them muttered.
"Take him out before it's too late!" barked another.
Too late.
Rohit pushed off the ground with a snarl, his movement sharp, sudden, like an animal unchained. One eye still swollen, the other blazing with golden light, he charged.
The first thug lunged, panicked. Rohit moved with frightening clarity. His stance grounded, legs wide, shoulders squared. He torqued his hips, planted his heel—and drove his fist forward like a piston.
Crack!
The punch landed squarely on the thug's face. Nose shattered. Blood sprayed. The man dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.
The second flinched, too slow to act. Rohit was already there.
This one tried to block—hands up, arms tight—but his fear betrayed him. Rohit stepped in, hooked left, ducked a wild swing, and slammed an uppercut beneath his chin. The man staggered back, limbs loose, eyes rolling as he collapsed in a heap.
The last thug roared in panic and swung wildly, catching Rohit across the jaw.
Rohit's head snapped to the side, his feet skidding half a step—but he didn't fall. He turned back, blood trailing from his lip.
He stepped into the last thug's space—no hesitation now—and drove a fist into his gut.
Thud.
The man's breath exploded from his lungs. He doubled over, hands cradling his stomach—
And Rohit drove a brutal right hook into his temple.
The thug crumpled without a sound.
Silence.
Rohit stood amidst the wreckage of overturned chairs, broken tables, and unconscious bodies, his chest heaving. His arms shook. His knuckles bled. But around him, the golden aura still danced, flickering like firelight in the dim café.
He looked at his hands, at the blood, at the three broken men at his feet.
"I will become what I need to be."
No one cheered. No one clapped. But something had changed. Something real.
He didn't need saving anymore.
Rohit had Awakened.