The silver SUV merged onto the highway, leaving the courthouse in the rearview mirror. Inside, the tension was thick enough to chew.
Mitchell was driving with both hands gripping the wheel at ten and two, his knuckles white. In the passenger seat, Cam was aggressively fanning himself with a parking validation slip.
"I cannot believe that woman!" Cam exclaimed, his face still flushed. "Judge Poulos? More like Judge *Soulless*. The way she looked at us? Like we were trying to swindle an orphan out of his gruel! I was *this* close to giving her a piece of my mind. "
"Cam, you were hyperventilating," Mitchell said, his eyes glued to the road. "You weren't going to give her a piece of your mind; you were going to pass out on the stenographer."
"It was the injustice, Mitchell! The sheer audacity to suggest coercion!" Cam huffed, then turned in his seat to look at Aman in the back. His expression softened instantly into adoration. "But you... oh, brave boy. You were magnificent. The vulnerability! You broke her heart right there on the bench."
Mitchell nodded, finally relaxing his grip on the wheel. "He's right, Aman. You saved us back there. When you dropped the scipt talk and just... spoke about your parents? I think that's what turned her to see our case."
Aman sat in the backseat, watching the California landscape blur by. He kept his face neutral, a perfect mask of lingering melancholy.
"I just told the truth," Aman said quietly. "My dad... he was a pragmatist. We talked about 'worst-case scenarios' like other families. He told me that in our culture, the soul is eternal. The body is just a vessel. other family don't get to use their plan mine had to use it."
He paused, letting the weight of the words settle. Mitch and cam become still by the words .
"He told me to be responsible if anything happened. And my mom... she always said to live in the present, because their well-wishes would always be with me. I just... channeled that."
Cam let out a wet sniffle. "See? Deep spiritual wisdom! And that judge thought we were manipulating him. If anything, he's mentoring *us*."
Aman turned to look out the window, hiding the small, satisfied smirk that tugged at the corner of his mouth.
*Internal Monologue: Channeling? I was channeling my inner actor and look i came out really good. But hey, if it works, it works. I should really look into drama club. That was an Oscar-worthy performance. Judge Poulos never stood a chance.*
===
Aman Old House
They pulled into the driveway of the sleek, modern house. It looked the same as the day Aman had left, but something about it felt hollow now. The silence that hung over the lawn was heavy.
Phil Dunphy was already standing by the front door.
"The cavalry has arrived!" Phil cheered as they got out of the car. "I've already scouted the perimeter. Curb appeal is strong ."
They unlocked the door and stepped inside. The air was stale, smelling of dust and disuse.
Cam immediately clasped his hands to his chest, whispering. "Oh, it's so... still. It feels like a tomb." He picked up a cork coaster from the side table. "Look at this coaster. The conversations it must have heard! The glasses it has supported!"
"It's from IKEA, Cam," Mitchell said, walking past him. "Focus. We have a truck coming in two hours."
Aman walked straight to the office. He had a mental checklist, and he wasn't leaving until it was complete.
He moved a generic abstract painting to reveal the wall safe. He spun the dial—a combination he knew from the original Aman's memories. *Click.* Inside lay his mother's gold jewelry , his father's watches, and stacks of emergency cash.
He walked to the small prayer niche in the corner. Under the velvet cloth of the altar, he found another envelope of cash his father kept for "rainy days." He pocketed it.
He moved to his desk. This was the hard part. He began dismantling the three-monitor setup.
cam and phil enter
"Need a hand, partner?" Phil asked, appearing in the doorway.
"Careful," Aman warned as Cam reached for a graphics card. "That's a GTX 690. ."
Cam recoiled as if the card were radioactive. "Right. I'll just... hold the bubble wrap."
Phil "really ? it is , we can play halo on this "
Aman " and far cry 3 . believe me you will like this . "
phil " oh ho oh ."
Cam wandered in, holding a vase. "Aman, what about the furniture? The sofas? The dining table? These drapes feel like silk!"
Aman looked around the room. "Pack the clothes. Mom's saris, Dad's suits. We donate those. The furniture, the appliances... leave them. We sell the house fully furnished. It raises the listing price and saves me the headache of storage. we donate everything later."
"Smart," Phil nodded approvingly. "Turnkey listing.."
Aman watched them work—Phil bubbling wrap around a lamp.
Aman thinking to himself "You don't read this part in the fanfictions. The dismantling a life. It's just... work."
After an hour, the personal items were boxed ready to carried away. The house looked even emptier, stripped of the small touches that made it human.
They gathered in the living hall in front of the boxes .
Mitch was looking at espersso machine in donation box wanted to have it but dont want to seem cheap.
cam noticing mitch chided him at arm .
Aman notices their gaze, move toward the boxes. He wound the cord around the back and hefted it up. He turned to Mitchell.
"It's yours, Mitch," Aman said.
Mitchell's eyes widened. He reached out, his hands hovering over the machine like he wanted to hug it. "Aman, no. I can't. It is wrong ."
"I see how you look at it," Aman said, a small smile on mouth . "Besides, I'm moving in with you. Conside it turkish gift . I will also be drinking from it."
Mitchell bit his lip, his resistance crumbling instantly. "Okay. But I'm buying the beans. And I'm buying the good stuff. Single origin."
"Deal."
Aman walked back to the living room for one last sweep. He stopped at the mantle. There was one photo left—a framed picture of the three of them from a trip to San Francisco. His parents were laughing, the wind blowing their hair. The original Aman looked happy.
Aman stared at it. He didn't feel the sharp, stinging grief he had performed for the judge. But he felt a heavy, dull ache. The weight of a boy who had lost everything so that *he* could have this second chance.
He picked up the frame. He didn't toss it in a box. He took off his hoodie, wrapped the frame carefully in the soft fabric, and placed it gently in his backpack.
"Ready?" Mitchell asked from the doorway, holding the espresso machine like a newborn baby.
Aman zipped the bag. He looked around the empty room one last time.
"Yeah," Aman said. "I'm ready."
==
The duplex was finally silent.
Lily was asleep, sprawled diagonally across her bed, limbs flung out in the total exhaustion of a child who had spent the day hyperactive . Her breathing was a soft, rhythmic whistle.
Aman lay on his air mattress, staring up at the plastic glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the ceiling.
He wasn't tired. His brain was buzzing, the silence of the room amplifying the noise in his head.
After much time , aman have time for himself to think about his future to look at his horizon.
He felt like a sailor stranded in the middle of the ocean. He could swim in any direction, but if he picked the wrong one, he'd drown.
AMAN (Voice.Over) (Internal Monologue) The sky is the limit. That's what they say in America. But the sky is also a vacuum.
He rolled onto his side, looking at the moonlight filtering through the curtains.
AMAN (V.O.) I need a roadmap. A strategy , it easier to loose one-self if one dont have direction .
He ran the simulations in his head.
Option 1: The Entertainment Industry. It was the classic transmigrator move. Steal future hits.
The Weekend. He knew the melodies. He knew the lyrics to "Can't Feel My Face" and "Starboy." He didn't have the vocals, but in 2012? Auto-tune was hitting its stride. He could hire ghostwriters to write for him ,it would not work in wrong run but he would be famous , rich and popular and he won't take unnecessary fight with someone . He could make quick buck and then He could shift to a "producer." He could start a label, sign the artists he knew were about to blow up. Give them song what they would sing he would own song and artist and he could be heavy weight in music industry .
The Verdict: Rejected.
Why: It felt dirty. Imposter syndrome would eat him alive. Plus, he knew enough about the music industry to know it was a shark tank. He didn't want to end up in a contract dispute with a major label, or worse—at a party in Diddy's basement. Too much chaos. Too many variables.
Option 2: Academics/Tech. He could go back to his roots. In his past life, he was a software engineer . He knew the code. He could breeze through a CS degree, make some app and make a quick money to retire for life
The Verdict: available and open .
Option 3: The Money Game.
Bitcoin. It was 2012. The price was hovering around $5 to $10.
The Strategy: He couldn't just dump his entire inheritance into it. If a random teenager bought 50,000 Bitcoins, the market would freeze. The value of crypto depended on circulation—on people trading it. If he hoarded it all now, it would never hit peak.
The Play: Dollar-cost averaging. Buy slowly. Keep it under the radar. Use his allowance to build a position that would make him a filthy rich.
AMAN (V.O.) I can't bet on financial disasters either. Shorting the market requires capital and independence I don't have. I can't walk into a brokerage firm and say, "Short the whole world economy before covid," without raising red flags.
He shifted, pulling the blanket up.
AMAN (V.O.) I could emancipate. Take the money, be independent , live on my own. I'd have total freedom. i already have connection with the family now.
He looked over at Lily, sleeping peacefully with her mouth slightly open.
AMAN (V.O.) Rejected. What's the point of money if you're eating dinner alone? I want the life.
He smiled into the darkness.
He is in America land of freedom where one can do just about anything if they have money that he will have .
He needed a niche. Something that wasn't work. Something that was... fun. A hobby that justified his lifestyle but didn't feel like a job.
Maybe cars? Maybe flipping luxury watches? or Youtube?
He closed his eyes.
AMAN (V.O.) I'll figure out the passion later. For now... I secure the bag.
Aman let out a long breath, the tension leaving his shoulders. He was safe. He was rich (eventually). And he had a plan.
He drifted off to sleep .
===
Ranbir won .
i wont be able to upload for next two days . Bye .