Imran didn't sleep that night.
None of them did, but Imran didn't even blink.
He sat on the sofa, smiling softly, staring at the wall like it was showing him a private movie.
Zoya whispered to Ayaan,
"He's breathing… but wrong."
Ayaan watched his cousin carefully. Imran's chest rose, but sometimes it paused too long before falling.
Like something else remembered to breathe for him.
Ammi approached him slowly.
"Beta, come recite with me."
Imran turned.
Too smoothly.
"Why?" he asked politely.
"The house already prays for me."
The room grew colder.
From the walls came soft murmuring—fragments of duas mixed backward.
The sheikh began reciting loudly. The verses pushed the air like wind.
For a moment, Imran twitched.
His smile slipped.
Something underneath moved.
Then he laughed.
Not his laugh.
Too deep.
Too many voices layered together.
"Stop tickling my brain," he said.
The lights exploded again.
Darkness slammed into the room.
In the dark, footsteps crawled on the ceiling.
Zoya screamed when she felt breath near her ear.
The jinn whispered:
"Comedy is better when someone cries."
Suddenly the lights returned.
Imran stood in the middle of the room.
Closer than before.
No one remembered him moving.
He leaned toward Ayaan.
"Your fear tastes cleaner than hers."
Ayaan's stomach dropped.
That was not Imran anymore.