The first time Aarav Verma killed someone, the city was celebrating.
Fireworks cracked open the night sky above Connaught Place, scattering color over the glass towers and colonial facades. Music thumped from open car windows. The news tickers on LED billboards screamed about another billionaire wedding, another stock-market high, another miracle of modern India.
Delhi was alive.
Aarav was dying.
He ran through the narrow lanes behind the Palika Bazaar complex, lungs burning, blood warm and sticky on his ribs. The stench of urine and rotting garbage clung to the humid air. His phone buzzed again in his pocket—fifteen missed calls—but he didn't dare slow down to look.
Footsteps echoed behind him.
Not many.
Just enough.
Three silhouettes slid out of the shadows at the end of the alley. Their eyes glowed faintly, like embers in a dying fire. The sigils on their skin pulsed—marks of the Awakened. Illegal, unregistered. The kind the ARA pretended not to see when money changed hands.
Aarav skidded to a halt.
"Don't run, kid," said the one in front, a tall man with a shaved head and a smile too calm for someone blocking an escape route. "We're not here to hurt you."
The lie landed soft and practiced.
Aarav's back hit the damp brick wall. His fingers brushed the cracked screen of his phone through his pocket. If he could just make the call—
"You made us work tonight," the second man said, rolling his neck. A blue shimmer crawled over his knuckles. "Boss doesn't like that."
"I told you," Aarav said, voice hoarse. "I don't know anything."
The third one laughed. It was a bright, cheerful sound that didn't belong in this alley. "Everyone knows something. We just help them remember."
The shaved-head man took a step closer. Heat rippled around him, warping the air. A Fire-class. Not high rank—maybe C or low B—but more than enough to turn an unawakened college kid into ash.
"Your brother," he said casually. "Works with the ARA, right? Cute. Makes people nervous when family gets ideas about being honest."
Aarav's stomach dropped.
"You leave him out of this."
"Then you stop lying."
The heat pressed closer. Sweat beaded on Aarav's forehead. He tasted copper.
This was how it ended, then. Not with some heroic stand. Not with the city noticing. Just another name that would never make the news.
His phone buzzed again.
This time, he answered without looking.
"Where are you?" a girl's voice burst through the speaker, breathless with worry. "You said you'd meet me. Aarav, I swear, if you're skipping again—"
"Riya," he whispered.
The shaved-head man's smile widened. He reached out and plucked the phone from Aarav's hand before he could react.
"Well, hello there," the man said into the phone. "Your friend's having a little… emergency."
Riya's voice sharpened. "Who is this? Where is Aarav?"
"Relax," the man said. "We're just asking him a few questions. He's being difficult."
Aarav lunged forward. The blue-shimmered man backhanded him into the wall. His vision burst into static. Pain bloomed along his jaw.
"Don't," Aarav choked. "She has nothing to do with this."
The man tilted his head. "On the contrary. She has everything to do with this. Leverage is such a beautiful thing, don't you think?"
The phone crackled. "Aarav? What's happening? Talk to me!"
Aarav dragged himself upright. The alley seemed to tilt, the fireworks above painting the night in cruel colors. He thought of the last time he'd seen Riya—laughing at a chai stall, complaining about how the world felt different since the Awakening. He'd promised her he'd be careful. He'd promised her he wouldn't get involved.
"I'm sorry," he said softly.
For a moment, the men froze. Not because of fear. Because of confusion.
Then the world inside Aarav broke.
It didn't explode.
It collapsed.
The heat vanished from the alley as if someone had sucked it out with a vacuum. The blue shimmer on the second man's knuckles flickered, then died. Sound dropped into a heavy, muffled hush.
Frost spiderwebbed across the damp bricks. Condensation crystallized mid-air. The breath of all three men turned into clouds of glittering ice.
Aarav felt it before he understood it.
A pressure behind his eyes.
A cold so deep it wasn't cold anymore.
A heat so intense it had no temperature.
The two sensations twisted around each other in his chest, compressing into something that didn't belong in a human body.
A voice—not sound, but meaning—unfolded in his skull.
[UNIQUE AWAKENING DETECTED]
[SKILL: ZERO-POINT CONTRAST]
[RANK: UNCLASSIFIED]
[WARNING: REALITY INSTABILITY – 0.01%]
The shaved-head man staggered back. "What the hell did you—"
Aarav raised his hand.
He didn't aim.
He decided.
The space between them folded inward, like a page being crushed in an invisible fist. Frost and heat collided in a silent scream. The alley warped, bricks bowing as if the world itself was flinching.
The three men didn't burn.
They didn't freeze.
They vanished—ripped out of the story of the world so cleanly it left no blood, no ash, no echo.
The pressure snapped.
Sound rushed back in. Fireworks boomed overhead. Music thumped. Somewhere, a drunk couple laughed.
Aarav dropped to his knees.
The phone lay on the ground, screen cracked but still glowing.
"Hello?" Riya's voice came through, small and terrified. "Aarav, please… say something."
His hands trembled as he picked it up. The alley was empty. The night was normal. Too normal.
"I'm here," he said. "I'm okay."
There was a pause. A breath. Relief spilling through the line.
"Oh thank God. You scared me. Where are you? I'm coming to you."
"No," he said too fast. "Don't. Go home. Lock the door."
"Aarav—"
"Please," he whispered.
Silence stretched. Then, softer: "Okay. But you owe me samosas tomorrow. Two. Extra chutney."
He laughed—a broken sound that surprised him.
"Deal."
The call ended.
Above the city, unseen by human eyes, something ancient stirred. A presence that had watched civilizations rise and fall turned its attention toward a narrow alley in Delhi.
And smiled.