By the time Shivam had managed to shower, change, and step into the dining area, the house was already humming with its usual rhythm, the clatter of dishes, the faint buzz of the news channel spilling from the living room, his younger brother shouting something about homework he'd left unfinished. It was all ordinary, achingly normal, and yet Shivam felt like he was standing one step outside of it, watching a play from behind the curtain.
Every movement pulled against his bruises. The painkillers dulled the edges, but each stretch of muscle, each twist of his torso, reminded him of Veeraj's fists, of gravel scraping his skin. He kept his posture stiff, shoulders squared, masking the pain. His father's earlier silence lingered in his mind like a shadow, heavy, unfinished.
He tried to eat, but the food barely registered. His mind was elsewhere, replaying the night over and over. Kairav's words had burrowed deep, gnawing at him: I know where you went. I know your friends. I know your family.
The thought made his stomach clench. If SynerTech already had files on them, if they'd been tracked for months, then every normal moment, every dinner, every conversation, every laugh with his friends, had been happening under a microscope.
The longer he sat, the more unbearable the weight became. He excused himself quickly, muttering something about assignments, and shut himself in his room.
The phone was in his hand before he'd even though it through. His thumb hovered over the group chat they'd all been part of since the Ridge trip, Bhumika, Naina, Aman, Dikshant, Aanchal. For weeks, the messages had been casual, half-hearted updates, nothing heavy. But now?
Now, everything felt like it was teetering on the edge.
He typed quickly; fingers stiff against the glass:
"Emergency. Need everyone to meet tonight. No excuses. It's about the Ridge, and something bigger. Might already be exposed."
He stared at the message for a few seconds, then hit send.
The screen showed "Delivered." No replies yet. But the act itself, finally admitting something was wrong, pulling the others into it, felt like stepping off a ledge.
Shivam tossed the phone onto his desk and leaned back in his chair, wincing as the movement stretched his ribs. Outside, the city was alive with the noise of a normal day, but to him it all sounded hollow. Because he knew, normal was already gone. Shivam's message was sent. His ribs ached, his head throbbed, but what weighed on him most was the thought that SynerTech already knew more than they should. He sat with that fear, knowing the group needed to meet, that time was running out.
And somewhere else, not far from where Shivam tried to quiet his mind, another night had been broken by unrest.
Bhumika hadn't been sleeping well. In fact, she hadn't truly slept in weeks.
She sat cross-legged on her bed, sketchbook open across her knees, her eyes raw from another nightmare that refused to let her go.
The early morning light pushed through her curtains in pale stripes, falling across pages filled with frantic drawings, jagged crystals, distorted cityscapes floating in the sky, spires cracked and falling apart. The pages looked like the work of someone possessed.
She didn't remember starting the latest sketch. Her hands had simply moved in the dark, tracing the visions that clawed their way out of her dreams. Dreams where shadows battled under orange-lit skies.
Dreams where she heard screams from faceless strangers and saw blood wash the streets of places she'd never visited. Dreams where a pulsing orange crystal throbbed like a beating heart, bending the air around it, demanding to be remembered.
At the center of many pages was a face. A woman's face. Stern, regal, and familiar. A Queen. Not a youthful figure, but older, lines of age and grief cut into her features, wisdom sharpened by loss. The queen's eyes followed her from page to page, as if the sketches themselves were alive.
Bhumika's hand trembled as she turned the page. Another crystal. This one drawn in layers of deep orange pencil, its glow almost suggested by the frantic shading.
She pressed her palm over it, as though she could smother the memory. But it was useless. The images always returned.
She had lied to her mother, brushed away questions about dark circles under her eyes. "Exams," she had said. "Projects." How could she explain that every night she was trapped in visions of collapse and carnage, of a queen who seemed to be waiting for her?
Her sketches weren't madness. They were warnings.
She closed the sketchbook slowly, resting her hand on the cover, as if sealing away the nightmares inside. But she knew better. They would return tonight, and the night after, clearer, sharper, pulling her deeper.
The city was awake now. Sunlight struck the streets in long golden slants, horns blared faintly in the distance, and Delhi's pulse began its usual rhythm. But in one corner of the police headquarters, the hum of routine was about to fracture.
A stack of morning mail sat unopened on the duty desk. Most were dull, traffic complaints, local petitions, routine notices. But one envelope, thick and official, carried a seal pressed in embossed silver: SynerTech Global Research Division.
The constable flipped through the pile, whistling under his breath. "Big people, these," he muttered, curiosity tugging at him. He slit it open, scanning the crisp legal pages inside before his eyes snagged on a line. He froze.
At the top of the order, in bold black type:
Subject of Immediate Restraint, Shivam.
The constable blinked, unsure he'd read correctly. A nineteen-year-old college student? He mouthed the name again, glancing toward the office where his superior sat. The words burned on the page.
"Sir," the constable said, stepping inside with the envelope. "There's something you should see."
Behind the desk, Shivam's father looked up from his files. His gaze, sharp as ever, shifted to the SynerTech seal before the constable even spoke. He snatched the papers from his hand.
The language was precise, legalistic, suffocating. It declared Shivam Sharma a "restricted individual," forbidding him from approaching or interfering with SynerTech operations, personnel, or research facilities. The justification cited "incidents of obstruction" and "unauthorized presence in sensitive operational zones." The penalty for violation was immediate legal action, and worse, SynerTech reserved the right to request federal intervention.
The father's jaw tightened. Each line read like a blade pressed closer to his son's throat.
He leaned back in his chair, silent for a long moment, his thumb tracing the embossed seal. This wasn't a petty complaint. This was a corporation moving like a state, fast, secretive, and absolute.
His chest ached with a weight he couldn't quite name. Pride, because his son was braver than he'd realized. Fear, because he was in over his head. Anger, because someone thought they could drop this letter into his station and threaten his blood.
The constable shifted uneasily. "Sir… should I log it?"
The father didn't answer right away. He stared at the name again. Shivam. His son. His boy who had left home last night saying nothing, returned bruised, claiming stairs or bikes. Lies. His boy who carried something he wasn't speaking of.
And now, SynerTech, this giant with its glossy reputation and hidden claws, had noticed him. Marked him.
"Not yet," the father said finally, folding the paper with deliberate calm. "I'll handle this personally."
The constable nodded, though confusion lingered in his eyes. He left the office quietly, pulling the door shut behind him.
Alone, Shivam's father set the folded order on the desk. He stared at it, fingers drumming once against the wood, then reached for his phone. His thumb hovered over the call button for a long second.
But he didn't press it. Not yet.
Instead, he leaned back, exhaling slowly, his eyes fixed on the sealed SynerTech emblem. A company like this didn't waste ink on children unless there was something worth protecting. Or silencing.
The office clock ticked, each second louder than the last. Somewhere in the city, his son was preparing to meet his friends, to talk about secrets they'd never told their families. Somewhere else, Bhumika's nightmares were painting the same orange glow Shivam had glimpsed in reality.
And here, in his hands, sat proof that the storm wasn't just imagined anymore.
It had arrived at their doorstep.