Rohit stood amidst the wreckage.
The bodies of the three men lay strewn around him, groaning or unconscious, their faces bloodied, limbs twisted at unnatural angles. Shards of shattered crockery crunched under his feet. Chairs were overturned, tables cracked, glass sparkled on the café floor like ice.
He was trembling. Not from pain—but from the surge of adrenaline .
He looked down at his hands, still faintly glowing with the golden aura that had erupted from within him moments ago. His fingers flexed slowly, as if unfamiliar with the strength they now held. The glow pulsed once... then began to fade, sinking back beneath his skin like a receding tide.
What am I?
That question echoed in his head as he stared at the carnage around him. His chest rose and fell. His fists still clenched. His jaw was tight, and his eyes flicked between the men he'd taken down.
Did I really do this with just my fists?
He raised his hands closer to his face, examining the raw knuckles, the veins bulging beneath bruised skin. He could still feel the warmth of the aura deep inside, buried now, but not gone.
And then a memory stirred—vague, elusive.
A dream. A vision. One he couldn't forget, no matter how far it seemed. It was beautiful. And terrifying. A sensation of power, of purpose, something far greater than himself. Something ancient, maybe even divine.
But when he reached for it—he found only black.
Like a wall. Thick and impenetrable. His thoughts collided against it like waves on rock. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't break through.
A voice shattered the silence.
"Looks like congratulations are in order."
Rohit snapped his head toward the sound.
Sathya.
He stood there at the edge of the destruction, his body bruised and bloodied from his battle with Mohit. His lip was split, one eye swelling shut, and his shirt hung in tatters, soaked with sweat and blood. But his posture was straight, defiant.
Rohit's expression twisted—anger boiling beneath the surface.
He turned fully to face him, fists clenched at his sides.
"This—" he gestured to the broken café, the bodies, the blood, "—this all happened because of you."
Sathya tilted his head slightly, a tired, sardonic smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
"Me?"
"Yes. If you hadn't provoked him... if you hadn't escalated things... none of this would've happened."
Sathya's voice grew sharper, defensive.
"You seriously believe the crap coming out of your mouth right now?"
Rohit took a step forward, shoulders square, jaw tight.
"What else am I supposed to believe?"
Sathya's fists balled. His voice rose too.
"What, should I have apologized? For doing nothing wrong? Just for trying to protect my friend ?"
"Yes! Maybe then he would've walked away! We'd all be fine, and this place wouldn't look like a war zone!"
Rohit gestured again to the ruined café—broken tables, frightened staff, bloodied tiles.
Sathya's eyes flashed.
"So I should let someone walk all over me? Be a jerk and just say, 'Sorry, please continue?'"
"Yes. He was just being a jerk. That's not a crime. This—" Rohit pointed again, his voice cracking, "—this didn't need to happen."
"We didn't do anything wrong!" Sathya snapped. "We don't owe them an apology. They disrespected us."
Rohit took another step forward, now inches from him.
"So because of your pride, your damn ego, you think it's okay to beat people down? What the hell is wrong with you?"
Sathya scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief.
"Don't forget—he grabbed your collar first. He made the move."
"I would've said sorry. He would've let it go. And that would've been the end of it."
Sathya laughed bitterly, the sound hollow.
"Are you even listening to yourself? If you wanted to be a coward, you should've let them beat you down instead of fighting back. But you didn't. You fought. Just like me."
Rohit's eyes narrowed.
"You've changed."
"Damn right, I have," Sathya shot back. "I'm done taking crap lying down."
They stood there—eyes locked, breath sharp, blood on both their hands.
Neither backing down. Neither yielding. Two friends. Two different visions of the world.