The morning air outside was crisp, unusually so.
Aarav Sen stepped out onto the street, his bag slung lazily over one shoulder, posture slouched just enough to maintain his signature 'couldn't-care-less' image. But even as he strolled toward the bus stop, something felt off.
His footsteps.
They didn't sound right.
Navran's cracked pavements usually returned a soft crunch under his shoes, a familiar rhythm that had accompanied his daily walks to school for years. Today, however, the sound was muted, almost absorbed by the ground itself. His feet felt lighter, yet every step seemed to settle deeper into the earth, as if his body carried a hidden weight that defied gravity's usual rules.
He flexed his fingers against the strap of his bag, adjusting its position on his shoulder. The synthetic fabric pressed against his palm with a texture far sharper than it should have been.
His grip tightened.
He heard the faint strain of the strap fibers, a sound too subtle for normal ears but clear as day to him.
Aarav frowned.
His bag wasn't heavy.
Yet his fingers had curled with a firmness as though he was lifting something much larger. He quickly loosened his grip, glancing around to ensure no one had noticed.
Nobody had.
The street was empty save for a few newspaper vendors and an old man sweeping the front of his shop.
He brushed it off.
Inspection day nerves.
That was all.
Unbeknownst to him, a figure watched from a window above.
Rajveer Sen stood behind the curtain of his study, eyes narrowed, observing his son.
From this vantage, Rajveer noticed the subtle shifts Aarav hadn't. The precision in his balance, the unconscious efficiency in his steps. Aarav was moving as if his body had recalibrated itself overnight—each stride measured, wasteful motions eliminated.
The Bloodline was settling.
Rajveer exhaled through his nose, restraining the urge to call Aarav back, to tell him everything.
But it wasn't time.
His hand, calloused from years of manuscript restoration, rested against the window frame, fingers tapping a silent rhythm.
Aarav continued his walk, unaware of the watchful gaze above.
As he neared the bus stop, a gust of wind swept through the street, playful yet oddly intrusive. It carried with it the city's usual chaos—vendors shouting, engines rumbling, birds flapping—but Aarav heard it all differently.
Layered.
Detailed.
He heard a crow flapping its wings three streets away, its feathers slicing through the air.
He heard the hiss of a distant tea stall kettle reaching its boiling point.
The muttered argument of a vendor and customer negotiating over five rupees reached his ears as if they stood right beside him.
Aarav halted mid-step, his head turning slightly towards the source of each sound, eyes narrowing.
He shook his head, muttering to himself, "Get a grip, Sen. You're not Spider-Man."
But the clarity remained.
He focused on his breath, slowing it, willing his mind to dull the sensory flood.
A familiar presence awaited him at the bus stop.
Anaya Rathore stood with her arms crossed, her posture as impeccable as ever. Her school uniform was immaculate, her hair tied back in a braid so tight it could probably cut glass.
Her eyes flickered towards him the moment he came into view.
Cold.
Sharp.
Their glances exchanged a silent war.
Aarav offered a lazy smirk, despite the storm beneath his skin.
Anaya didn't return it.
But her gaze lingered for a fraction longer, narrowing slightly. She noticed something—a glitch, a ripple in the usual rhythm of their encounters. She couldn't place it, but it was there.
Aarav could feel her scrutiny, but he was too busy controlling his own internal orchestra to engage in their usual verbal sparring.
The distant rumble of the school bus reached his ears before the others at the stop could even notice it. He could hear the distinct pattern of the engine, the way the wheels skimmed over the potholes on the approaching street.
The bus rounded the corner, screeching to a halt with its usual lack of grace.
Aarav stepped forward, his movements deliberate.
He grabbed the handle near the entrance of the bus, intending to swing himself up in his usual casual fashion.
The handle protested.
A sharp creak, louder than it should have been, echoed from his grip. The metal groaned slightly as if complaining about the force applied.
Aarav didn't notice.
But Anaya did.
Her eyes flickered to his hand, then to the handle, before darting away as if dismissing the observation.
She boarded behind him, taking her usual window seat.
Aarav plopped into his spot, slouching in the seat, one leg stretched into the aisle, his arms resting lazily across the backrest.
But the seat felt different.
Not uncomfortable.
Just... smaller.
As though his body had outgrown it overnight.
He rested his head against the window, eyes half-closed, pretending indifference.
But his ears picked up every conversation, every whisper, as if they were directed at him.
Two juniors at the front discussing last night's cricket match.
A group of girls gossiping about the inspection lineup.
He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to tune out the details, focusing on the rhythmic thrum of the bus engine instead.
Anaya, seated diagonally across, continued her silent observations, her brow furrowed.
Something was off about Sen.
But she couldn't quite define it.
Aarav, meanwhile, stared out of the window, watching Navran blur past.
He flexed his fingers absentmindedly against the seat rail, feeling the synthetic plastic groan under his grip. His thoughts, however, weren't on his unusual strength.
They were on survival.
"One inspection day, Sen. Just survive today. Like always," he muttered under his breath.
The bus rolled on, oblivious to the quiet storm brewing in the slouched boy by the window.