There was nothing now but a small, suffocating room.
The walls were plastered with yellowing printouts—get-rich-quick schemes, candlestick patterns, torn bits of motivational quotes, and a flyer that read "₹10,000/day from home!" in thick red font.
The ink had begun to bleed from the moisture in the air.
In the middle of it all: a narrow single bed.
The bedsheet was faded, a dull blue turned grey, with holes at the edges and a single flat pillow bent like it had given up.
Trash covered the floor—empty wrappers, dried-up pens, crushed plastic bottles, exam papers with red marks and remarks that bled shame.
And lying on that bed, eyes wide open, was him
He woke up with a violent start.
HAAAH!!
A gasp tore from his lungs as he jolted upright, sweat clinging to his chest like glue. His breath came in shallow bursts.
The storm.
The eyes.
The tower…
Gone.
'Just a dream. Or was it?'
The afternoon sun leaked through the cheap plastic blinds in jagged lines, casting sharp stripes across the cluttered floor. The shadows looked like prison bars.
The room's ceiling fan clanked with every turn, stirring the heat like a mockery.
It was hot—but he shivered.
Outside, somewhere in the street, a dog barked.
At what? A lizard? A thief? A ghost?
Maybe at the ghost of hope, he thought—the one that had left this place years ago.
The room was silent. Not quiet—silent.
Because quiet has life. This silence was dead.
Even the walls didn't echo.
They absorbed his pain like they'd heard it a thousand times.
Then—
A shout exploded from the other room like thunder through thin walls.
"What the hell is this bill?!"
Paper slammed against a table.
THWACK!
Then came the screech of plastic as an old chair was shoved hard enough to tip over.
"₹8,577?! Are they kidding me?! TEN TIMES!? These corrupt bastards—stealing from the poor like it's their birthright! I swear, they're bleeding us dry!"
(His voice cracked, furious. The kind that doesn't come from anger—but from helplessness.)
Footsteps followed—short, stomping, back and forth.
His[1] mother's voice cut in, soft but scared.
"Please, stop shouting… It's just one bill. Sit down, your BP again—"
"Every damn month it's the same! Looters in uniform, that's what they are! They should be hanged, every last one of them!"
He paused. Then something darker slipped into his voice.
"And look at us—eating air, dreaming dreams that'll never pay the bills…!"
Then came the worst part: silence.
Not the kind that meant it was over.
The kind that meant something was breaking inside a man who had nothing left to shout about.
He opened the door, slowly.
He stepped into the scene: his mother gently picking up the fallen chair, his father still staring at the crumpled electricity bill like it was a death notice.
Then—
Father turned, eyes bloodshot.
"And you! Standing there like a damn ghost. You don't earn, you don't study, you don't help! What are you even good for, ha?! Just eat, sleep and Loose money on Gamble Market!? Must be nice!"
No answers... He didn't even flinch.
The words didn't sting anymore. They were just echoes now.
He turned and walked back to his room.
He closed the door behind him. Quietly. Always quietly.
The outside world faded again. It was just him—and this cage.
He picked up his phone. A cracked screen. 7% battery. No unread messages.
He tapped through a few memes, scrolled past reels, hoping for something—anything—to distract him.
Then—
Ping.
He picked up his phone again.
No notifications.
No calls.
Just that dull blue light from the cracked screen lighting up his tired face.
He scrolled aimlessly. A reel. A news headline. A meme that didn't even make him blink.
Then—
Ping.
[1 New Message]
From: Unknown Number
"She's with him now. She always was. You were never even the option. She just didn't want to hurt you. I warned you... loser.."
Photo Attached.
He blinked.
His finger hesitated above the thumbnail.
He already knew.
Maybe not the details, but… he knew.
Still, his thumb tapped.
The image loaded slowly—pixel by pixel.
There she was.
Smiling. That quiet, beautiful smile that once made him believe the world might not be so cruel after all.
Her eyes looked at peace. Happy. Whole. Married.
Beside her—his arm around her—was someone else.
Tall. Handsome. Confident. The kind of guy with a future written in gold.
And Him?
He was the footnote in her story.
The good friend.
The "you're sweet but…"
The maybe in the future.
"She never lied to me."
"She said not to hope."
"She always said she couldn't promise anything—not with how uncertain her own life was."
"And I… I told her I understood."
He did.
He really did.
She wasn't cruel. She wasn't selfish. She was kind.
One of the few genuinely kind people in this rotting world.
But still—
There was that one sentence.
That one damn line that had carved itself into his heart.
"Maybe… in the future."
He knew it was false hope.
She didn't owe him anything.
He wasn't entitled to her heart.
And yet…
That tiny fragment of what if?
That single glowing ember in the back of his mind…
It died today.
His throat tightened.
The phone slipped from his fingers.
Thup
It hit the floor.
Sid sat back down.
Not on the bed.
On the floor.
Back against the wall.
His mouth dry.
'She chose him.'
'She never even considered me.'
'I wasn't even… in the race.'
The pain didn't stab this time.
It drowned.
Minutes passed.
Maybe hours.
He stood up.
One foot moved in front of the other.
He stared at the window. Just one jump.
One clean exit.
There was no future left here. Only bills, barking dogs, and shattered dreams.
He pulled the curtain aside.
The wind outside howled like it knew.
Like it had seen this moment before.
Like it had been waiting.
He placed a foot on the ledge.
Then—
BOOM.
A sharp crack.
Not thunder.
Not wind.
A light exploded in front of him—pure white, like someone had ripped the sun out of the sky and dropped it in his room.
It didn't come from the window.
It came from nowhere.
It came from everything.
He shielded his eyes, stumbled back.
The walls glowed. The bed trembled. The fan spun faster, dangerously fast.
His heart slammed once—twice—then everything stopped.
The air hung.
A voice? A presence?
He couldn't tell.
All he knew was—
Something had arrived.
[1] MC