The Old Temple didn't look like a temple.
It looked like a wound.
Bharat stood at the entrance, the card still warm in his pocket like a second heartbeat. The building crouched at the edge of Lower Ward where the city's geometry started to fail—alleys that turned back on themselves, streets that ended in walls they shouldn't have reached.
Architecture that had forgotten how to follow rules.
The temple's facade was old stone married to new steel. Pillars carved with gods whose faces had been worn smooth by pollution and time, now retrofitted with LED strips that pulsed in rhythm with something Bharat couldn't hear.
Like the building had a nervous system.
And it was waking up.
Above the entrance, the same emblem from the card glowed faintly—shrine and seal, old and new, breathing in unison.
Nine PM.
He was on time.
He wished he wasn't.
The doors opened before he could knock. Not by hand. Just… opened, as if the temple had been watching the street, waiting for him specifically.
Inside, the air was different.
Cooler. Heavier. It smelled of sandalwood and something metallic—copper, maybe, or old blood that had been scrubbed away but left its ghost behind.
The corridor stretched ahead, lit by oil lamps set into alcoves along the walls. Flame and shadow dancing together in a rhythm that felt rehearsed, like a performance that had been running so long it had become truth.
A figure stepped out of the shadows.
Robed. Hooded. Face hidden except for the eyes—eyes that looked at Bharat like he was a problem already solved.
"Bharat Rao. You came."
The voice was soft. Gender indeterminate. The kind of voice that had learned to speak in whispers so people had to lean in to hear their own sentencing.
"I was told there'd be money," Bharat said.
Blunt. No ceremony.
The figure tilted their head, and Bharat caught the faint gleam of something beneath the hood—a mark, maybe, or a scar shaped like script.
"There will be. After."
"After what?"
"The rite. The vows. The binding."
The figure gestured down the corridor.
"The bride is waiting."
The word hung in the air like a blade.
Bharat followed.
The corridor opened into a hall that shouldn't have fit inside the building. Too wide. Too tall. The ceiling lost itself in shadow, and the floor was polished black stone that reflected the lamplight like water.
At the far end, a dais.
On the dais, an altar carved from something that looked like marble but moved faintly, as if breathing.
And standing beside the altar—
A woman.
She was dressed in white silk that looked like it had been cut from moonlight and spite. No jewelry. No veil. Just a simplicity so sharp it hurt to look at directly. Her hair was pulled back tight, severe, like she'd declared war on softness.
Her face—
Bharat stopped walking.
She was beautiful the way knives were beautiful. Clean lines. Cold edges. The kind of face that made you wonder if she'd been carved by someone who thought beauty should cut.
Her eyes found his across the hall.
Dark. Empty of welcome.
Full of something else.
Assessment, maybe. Or resignation.
Like she'd already decided he wasn't going to survive this.
The robed figure gestured toward the altar.
"Approach."
Bharat's feet moved. Not because he wanted them to. Because the alternative was turning around, walking out, and watching his mother's oxygen supply flatline by morning.
He climbed the dais steps.
Up close, the woman was even colder. She didn't blink. Didn't soften. Just watched him with the kind of stillness that came from practice—years of standing in rooms full of people who wanted things from her, learning to give them nothing.
"You're the groom," she said.
Not a question. A statement delivered like a diagnosis.
"You're the bride."
Her mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Almost cruel.
"Mira."
"Bharat."
"I know."
She said it like she knew more than his name. Like she'd already read the file on him, cross-referenced his debts, calculated his lifespan down to the month.
The robed figure stepped between them, holding a scroll bound in red thread. They unrolled it with the reverence of someone handling a loaded weapon.
"The Ancestral Contract. Witnessed by blood. Sealed by vow. Unbroken for seven generations."
Bharat stared at the scroll. It was covered in script—some of it modern legalese, some of it older, temple-style calligraphy that looked like it had been written with a thorn dipped in ink.
Clauses stacked on clauses. Subsections breeding sub-subsections.
A labyrinth of words designed to trap you while making you feel protected.
"Read it," Mira said quietly. Too steady. Like she'd signed this kind of thing before and knew exactly what it cost.
Bharat scanned the scroll. Most of it was standard contract theater: terms and conditions, binding arbitration, non-disclosure—
Then his eyes caught a line near the bottom.
"The Groom shall assume all Prior Obligations of the Bride, including but not limited to Debts of Blood, Debts of Name, and Debts Incurred by Ancestral Rite."
He looked up sharply.
"What does that mean?"
Mira's expression didn't change.
"It means you're not just marrying me. You're marrying my debts."
"What debts?"
"The kind that don't get paid in money."
The robed figure stepped closer, holding out a ceremonial blade—short, curved, edge catching the lamplight like a promise and a threat.
"Sign in blood. Or don't sign at all."
Bharat's pulse kicked up.
"I was told I'd get paid."
"You will."
The figure gestured to a small chest beside the altar. It opened with a mechanical click, revealing stacks of currency banded in temple script.
Enough to clear every debt.
Enough to buy his mother years.
"Half now. Half when the rite is complete."
"And if I refuse?"
Mira spoke before the figure could answer.
"Then you walk out with nothing. And your mother's machines go dark at dawn."
Her voice was flat. Matter-of-fact. Like she'd watched this negotiation play out a dozen times before and knew exactly how it ended.
Bharat looked at the money.
Looked at the blade.
Looked at Mira.
"Why me?"
For the first time, something flickered in her eyes. Not warmth. Just… recognition.
Like she'd asked herself the same question and hated the answer.
"Because you're desperate. And desperate men don't ask the right questions."
"What's the right question?"
She leaned in slightly. Close enough he could see the faint scar above her left eyebrow, the tiny imperfection in an otherwise flawless mask.
"Whether you'll survive the wedding night."
The words dropped like stones into still water.
"What happens on the wedding night?"
Mira's mouth curved. Not a smile. A blade testing an edge.
"That depends on whether the contract accepts you."
"And if it doesn't?"
"Then you become the debt."
The robed figure cleared their throat gently—a sound like a countdown.
"The hour approaches. Sign, or leave."
Bharat stared at the scroll. At the chest full of salvation. At Mira, standing there like a statue carved from ice and inevitability.
He should have walked away.
Should have thrown the card in their faces.
Should have done anything except reach for the blade.
But his mother's breath was a clock running down.
And Bharat had never been good at letting people die when he could still move his hands.
He took the blade.
The robed figure gestured to the scroll.
"Your name. In blood. Beside hers."
Bharat looked at where Mira's name was already written—elegant script in dark ink that looked too red to be anything but what it was.
"You already signed."
"I didn't have a choice," Mira replied softly.
"And I do?"
"No."
"Then why tell me the risks?"
Her eyes met his. For a breath, the coldness cracked.
"Professional courtesy. One sacrifice to another."
Bharat pressed the blade to his palm. The cut was shallow. Quick. Almost gentle.
Blood welled up, dark and warm.
He pressed his hand to the scroll, next to Mira's name, and wrote:
BHARAT RAO.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then—
The scroll moved.
Not wind. Not tremor. The paper itself seemed to breathe, words rippling like water disturbed by something rising from below.
The blood on the scroll began to glow.
Faint at first, then brighter—veins of light spreading through the script like capillaries feeding something alive.
Bharat tried to pull his hand back.
It wouldn't move.
His palm was stuck to the paper, blood soaking in deeper than it should, the scroll drinking him in greedy, purposeful gulps.
"What—"
The robed figure raised their hands.
"The Ancestral Contract recognizes the binding. Witness the vow."
The lamps around the hall flared. The altar beneath them hummed—a low, resonant note that Bharat felt in his teeth, in his ribs, in the hollow of his throat where panic lived.
Mira's hand shot out and grabbed his wrist.
"Don't fight it. It'll only take more."
"Take what?"
"Whatever it wants."
The scroll flared one final time—blinding, searing—and then the light snapped off like a door slamming shut.
Bharat stumbled back, gasping.
His hand was free.
But the scroll—
The names were gone.
Both of them. Erased. Consumed.
The script had rearranged itself into a single line of text, glowing faintly in the center of the parchment:
BINDING ACCEPTED. COVENANT ENACTED. FAILURE IS DEATH.
Bharat's vision swam.
"What did I just sign?"
The robed figure rolled up the scroll with practiced reverence, as if they'd done this a thousand times and would do it a thousand more.
"A marriage. And a sentence. Congratulations."
They gestured to the chest.
"Take your payment. The rest will be delivered upon completion of the trial period."
"Trial period?"
Mira's voice was quiet. Almost gentle.
"Thirty days. If we're both still alive, you get the rest of the money."
"And if we're not?"
She met his eyes.
"Then the contract eats whoever's left."
Bharat's pulse hammered in his ears.
"What did you just bind me to?"
Mira turned away, walking toward the corridor that led deeper into the temple.
Over her shoulder, she said:
"A family that kills its debts. And I just became one of them."
She disappeared into shadow.
The robed figure pressed the chest into Bharat's hands.
"You have twenty-nine days, Bharat Rao. I suggest you use them wisely."
They stepped back. The lamps guttered.
And somewhere—deep in the temple, deep in the dark—
Bharat heard it.
A sound like a bell ringing underwater.
And beneath it—
Laughter.