The city of Navran had finally gone quiet.
Midnight approached like a cautious guest, tiptoeing across the skyline. Streetlights flickered lazily, casting golden halos over empty roads. The constant hum of the city had dulled into a distant, rhythmic pulse, like a heartbeat barely audible beneath layers of silence.
Inside the Sen household, the world was still. The only sound was the faint, predictable ticking of the old wall clock in the living room. It marked every second with patient indifference.
But not everyone had surrendered to sleep.
Aarav Sen lay sprawled on his bed, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling as if it owed him answers.
He had turned off the lights hours ago, yet sleep remained a distant, mocking shadow. The mattress beneath him felt unusually firm, as though it resisted his attempts to find comfort. The thin blanket tangled around his legs, a silent testament to his restless shifting.
His chest thumped with a slow, deliberate rhythm. But it wasn't just his heartbeat. There was something beneath it—a pressure. A coiled tension that refused to fade.
He pressed his hand over his sternum, fingers splayed, as if to suppress the strange throb.
"Breathe, Sen. It's just a bad nap cycle," he muttered.
But the words sounded hollow.
It wasn't anxiety. He had felt anxiety before—before exams, during parent-teacher meetings, or when Rathore was on a verbal rampage. This was different.
His entire body felt dense.
Like gravity had increased its pull, making his limbs heavier, his movements sluggish. He felt like he was sinking into the bed, yet the bed itself offered no comfort, as if it resisted his weight.
He turned onto his side, pulled the pillow over his head, but the sensation clung to him.
Tick.
Throb.
Tick.
Throb.
The clock's rhythm had synchronized with the pulse in his chest, each second punctuated by a dull pressure beneath his skin.
He closed his eyes, hoping to drift into unconsciousness. But the silence was a lie.
He could hear too much.
The faint rustle of leaves from the neem tree outside his window. The soft hum of a refrigerator in the kitchen. Even the distant purr of a cat as it slinked along the boundary wall.
It wasn't normal.
His hearing wasn't supposed to be this sharp.
But Aarav had perfected the art of pretending things were fine.
"Just tired," he whispered to himself, though a part of him knew it wasn't true.
His muscles ached, not with pain, but with something deeper. A silent energy vibrating under his skin, waiting.
He shifted again, his blanket slipping off the bed. The ceiling fan above spun in lazy circles, its mechanical hum louder than usual.
Rajveer was downstairs, probably still in his chair, pretending to read a manuscript. Aarav knew his father's habits too well. Rajveer would wait until the early hours, then quietly switch off the lights and disappear into his room, thinking his son had fallen asleep.
But tonight was different.
Aarav could feel it.
And yet, he clung to the illusion of normalcy.
He exhaled slowly, forcing his body to relax, counting backwards in his mind.
Ten.
Throb.
Nine.
Throb.
Eight.
The pressure in his chest remained, unyielding.
He rolled onto his stomach, burying his face into the pillow, trying to muffle the sharpness of his own breath.
But it didn't help.
His body felt foreign, as if his skin was merely a container holding back something restless.
The blanket tangled around his legs felt heavier, almost restrictive, as if even the fabric sensed the strange density within him.
He sat up abruptly, swinging his legs over the bed. The floor beneath his feet felt cold, grounding him for a brief moment.
He raked his fingers through his hair, staring at the dark outline of his room.
"What is wrong with me?"
He stood up, stretching his arms, rolling his shoulders. The movements felt sluggish, as if his muscles were adapting to a weight only he could feel.
He walked towards the window, pulling the curtains aside slightly.
Navran lay sprawled before him, bathed in silver moonlight. The city was asleep, but to Aarav, it felt alive.
Every flicker of a streetlight, every rustle of a distant tree, every faint hum of an electrical line—he could hear it all. Not loud, but detailed. Intricate.
It overwhelmed him.
He closed the curtains, shutting out the world, and slumped back onto his bed.
"Get a grip, Sen. It's just exhaustion."
But he knew he was lying to himself.
The clock in the living room ticked on, mercilessly.
11:56 PM.
Four minutes to midnight.
He lay back down, one arm flung across his eyes, pretending that sheer willpower could drown out the noise, the tension, the unspoken fear curling at the edges of his thoughts.
The bed creaked under him, but tonight, even that familiar sound felt different. Amplified. Personal.
He adjusted his breathing, slow and deliberate, trying to calm the racing thoughts.
But his chest throbbed again.
A slow, deliberate pulse.
He pressed his hand against his sternum once more, as if he could cage the strange rhythm.
It didn't work.
The pressure remained, coiled beneath his skin, patient but undeniable.
The world outside might have been asleep.
But inside Aarav Sen, something had begun to stir.
And no amount of denial could stop it.
He closed his eyes, waiting for sleep to claim him.
Unaware that midnight was merely the beginning.