chapter four

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"Whoever said money can't solve your problems must not have had enough money to solve them," I muttered, echoing Ariana Grande. But honestly, Ariana? You were wrong.

It's been 2 days and 7 hours since I've been stuck here, and let me tell you, the system has no plans of popping up like some knight in shining armor. Nope, I'm stuck in this fancy, fabricated mess, and life is far from glamorous.

So, let's recap how I've been holding up—spoiler alert: it's been a disaster. At first, I played it cool. I was like,

"Yeah, no big deal, just trapped in some romance novel world, happens all the time."

Right? Wrong. I made it through the first night, patting myself on the back for keeping calm... until midnight rolled around. That's when the panic hit. By 12:01 a.m., I was curled up on my expensive-looking bed, sobbing like a child who just lost their favorite toy. Yeah, I know, real strong protagonist energy here.

The next morning, I didn't even attempt to be productive. I spent two extra hours buried under the covers, trying to convince myself that maybe—just maybe—if I stayed in bed long enough, I'd wake up back in my actual room.

Spoiler again: didn't happen.

What did happen, though, was my stomach growling so loud I had no choice but to drag myself out of bed and face the day. In a moment of nostalgia, I threw on my panda-print night suit. Don't judge me—I miss home, okay?

Then came the afternoon, and what better way to waste time in a fictional world than with a good C-drama binge? Yeah, I found one here, and the male lead? Absolute chef's kiss. Caring, handsome, and with that brooding mysterious vibe that makes you want to dive headfirst into the screen. So yes, I spent my whole afternoon and evening watching that show. Time well wasted, no regrets. Sorry, not sorry.

Nighttime rolled around, and I figured, hey, I'm stuck here, might as well live a little, right? So I had dinner and then decided to watch a suspense-thriller movie. Bad idea. By the end, I was so terrified I literally cocooned myself in my blanket, questioning every creak and shadow in the room. I don't know how I fell asleep, but I sure wasn't doing it peacefully.

Day two? Even worse. I wanted to go out, I really did, but here's the thing: I've never just wandered around aimlessly without a destination in mind, and let's be honest, this world is sketchy at best. You know how in all those reincarnation novels, the female lead gets into trouble for being too bold, too early? Yeah, I wasn't about to be the next casualty. I'd rather be a cowardly tubelight than some overconfident fool walking straight into a trap.

And to make matters worse, the system—the one thing that's supposed to guide me through this insanity—has gone radio silent. I'm stuck here, without a mission, without a plan, and without my panda suit, wondering how in the world I'm going to survive this nightmare.

—

This is the third morning, and I didn't know what to do anymore. Breakfast was already in my belly, and I was watching the sky outside, thinking what the hell I should do now.

Suddenly, an idea popped into my head—maybe I could contact Mythili. But just as quickly as the thought came, a wave of panic hit me. What if I mess up the story? What if I trigger something I'm not supposed to? I can't risk ruining the plot. No way. I'll only meet her when the system tells me to.

I sat there, tapping my fingers on the table, weighing my options. Should I go out and explore? I know it's a bit risky in this glitchy, fabricated world, but the boredom was gnawing at me. I had to do something.

"Let's get ready, then," I muttered, pushing myself up.

I stood in front of the wardrobe, staring at the rows of clothes neatly arranged inside. My fingers grazed over the fabric of each piece, searching for something that screamed both 'explorer' and 'I don't want to die in this weird novel world.' Eventually, I settled on a simple outfit—jeans, a loose white t-shirt, and sneakers. Practical, comfortable, and low-key.

As I slipped into my clothes, I glanced at myself in the mirror. My hair, a bit unruly from two days of zero effort, needed a little taming. I brushed through it quickly and pulled it into a loose ponytail. "No need to look too fancy," I muttered to my reflection. I wasn't meeting anyone important. Just me, myself, and whatever lay beyond my front door.

A little lip balm and some moisturizer, and I was good to go. I grabbed a small crossbody bag, throwing in the essentials—phone, some cash (thanks, system), and a few random items like a hand sanitizer, which I wasn't even sure I'd need but felt safe having.

I took a deep breath. "Okay, let's get it."

Stepping out of the house, I was hit with a rush of fresh air. The world outside felt different, alive, as though it knew I was finally venturing out. The streets were quaint, lined with charming houses and trees that swayed softly in the morning breeze. It looked so peaceful, so perfectly crafted. The birds chirping, the faint sound of distant chatter—it almost made me forget I was trapped here. Almost.

I started walking, my eyes scanning everything—buildings, shops, cafés, and random pedestrians. Every corner had a picture-perfect quality, almost as if the world had been designed to make you feel at ease. But I wasn't fooled. I knew better. This wasn't my world, and anything could happen.

I decided to stick to the main street. No weird alleyways for me today. As I walked, I passed by a flower shop that caught my eye. The bright blooms in the window were inviting, their colors vibrant against the soft morning light. Maybe I'd stop by on the way back. Further down, there was a bookstore, its wooden door slightly ajar, the smell of old paper and ink drifting out.

Suddenly, I felt a twinge of excitement. Maybe this exploring thing wasn't so bad after all. I could take in the sights, maybe grab a coffee or even do a little shopping. Sure, I didn't know how long this world would last for me, but for now, it was a decent enough distraction.

Then, as I turned a corner, I noticed something odd.

At a corner of the road, four bulky men formed a circle around someone. It was almost comical how out of place they looked in this otherwise quiet, upscale neighborhood. Two of them were pot-bellied old hags who had clearly lost the fashion game years ago. They wore white ganjis—those sleeveless undershirts that should never leave the house—and checkered lungis, one blue and one black. As I observed their bizarre outfits, I couldn't help but think, These guys are ruining the perfect society image.

The other two men looked slightly more in line with what you'd expect from street thugs: ragged t-shirts that looked like they hadn't seen a washing machine in weeks and jeans that were torn, but not in the cool way. Gunde?

[ Thugs ? ] Definitely gunde.

Are they harassing a girl? I wondered, my blood pressure rising as I cursed every possible word in my mental dictionary. I quickly took two more steps, getting a better view of the scene.

Except, the victim wasn't a girl.

He was a boy—tall, lanky, and pale as if he hadn't seen sunlight in years. His black shirt hung off his frame like a curtain, far too big for his skinny body, and his bony hand rested casually in his jeans pocket. He looked…sickly, but not in a weak way. More like someone who could easily blend into a hospital scene but carried an air of nonchalance that screamed he wasn't bothered by what was happening around him.

The fat thug waved a Kolhapuri knife in the boy's face, his sweaty brow furrowing as he barked,

"Jaan pyari hai to paise nikal!"

["If you value your life, hand over the money."]

His threat hung in the air, but the boy didn't flinch. His mask covered the lower half of his face, but his eyes—those dark, almost dead-looking eyes—remained calm. Completely emotionless.

One of the thinner goons leaned in toward the thug, his voice barely above a whisper, "Are you sure this guy has any money?"

The question seemed to echo in my head, and before I could stop myself, I blurted out, "Same, bro, I thought the same thing."

The second the words left my mouth, I froze. Shit.

All four of them turned to look at me—two pairs of bloated, greasy faces and two more hardened sets of eyes, all glaring at me like I'd just signed my own death warrant. Even the boy tilted his head slightly, his gaze now on me, as though I were an unexpected part of this bizarre equation.

I swallowed hard, silently cursing my own stupidity. This was not the time to play the sarcastic hero.

"Uh...hi?" I squeaked, my attempt at humor falling flat.

My heart raced so fast I could hear the frantic thumping in my ears. My throat felt dry, and I licked my lips nervously before blurting out, "He doesn't, but I have!" The words came out louder than I intended, my voice betraying the tension building inside me.

The thugs all turned to stare at me, their expressions a mix of disbelief and amusement. I could practically feel the regret crawling up my spine. What am I doing? Who in their right mind walks up to a bunch of thugs and announces they have money? This was the real-life equivalent of aaa bail mujhe maar.

The thug with the Kolhapuri knife raised an eyebrow and took a slow, deliberate step toward me. His greasy face twisted in a smirk, and I could almost hear my inner voice screaming in panic. But I forced myself to stay composed, even though my legs felt like they were about to give out.

"Do you... accept Google Pay?" I blurted out, half out of desperation and half out of the sheer absurdity of the situation.

Before I could process my own words, one of the thugs—this one, with torn jeans and a ripped t-shirt—shouted, "I do!" as if I had just made the most reasonable offer in the world.

The sheer ridiculousness of the moment almost made me laugh, but I knew better. One wrong move and that Kolhapuri knife wouldn't just be for show.

And that's how I ended up losing ₹50,000 to a thug. That too, online.

I mean, seriously—who gets mugged via Google Pay? Apparently, I do. As the transaction completed and the thug's phone buzzed with a confirmation, I stood there, staring at the screen in disbelief. This had to be a new low.

The goons exchanged satisfied glances, and I swear I saw one of them grin like he'd just won the lottery. I had practically gift-wrapped my own money and handed it to them with a digital bow.

The thug with the knife looked at his phone, then at me, his eyes narrowing in satisfaction. "Good girl," he sneered, before turning to his goon friends.

"Chalo, kaam ho gaya."

["Let's go, the work is done."]

They left, strutting away like they had just pulled off the biggest heist of the century. Meanwhile, I stood there, frozen in place, a mix of anger, humiliation, and utter disbelief swirling in my head.

Only me, I thought, shaking my head. Only I could get scammed by a bunch of thugs in a world where this isn't even supposed to happen.

While I made a dozen different expressions—ranging from disbelief to annoyance—the boy I had apparently just saved stood there, completely unfazed. He simply stared at me, like none of what just happened mattered in the slightest. His blank, dark brown eyes peered at me from above the mask covering the lower half of his face. The almond shape of his eyes caught my attention more now, as did the heavy dark circles under them. He looked exhausted, almost ghostly.

"Are you alright?" I asked, eyeing him up and down, trying to figure out if he was in shock or something. He didn't bother responding. He just stood there, still as a statue, like nothing in this world could faze him.

Already a bit annoyed, I raised an eyebrow. "Mister?" I tried again, this time with a little more force in my voice. Still nothing. No words, no reaction—just that unsettling stare.

I huffed, crossing my arms in frustration. Ungrateful much? I mean, look at this guy. First, I risk getting involved in a thug situation, and now I'm stuck with someone who won't even acknowledge I helped. Do you think that frail, branch-like body would be fine after a stab wound?

"Where do you live?" I asked, trying to take a calming breath. Maybe he was just in shock or confused, I reasoned with myself. But no, he continued to just stand there, his gaze still fixed on me, his tongue seemingly glued to the roof of his mouth.

"Are you a little deaf?" I blurted out, irritation bubbling to the surface. Then it hit me—what if he's actually deaf? Or mute?

Feeling a twinge of guilt, I quickly pulled out my phone and opened the notepad, typing a quick message. I held it out to him, pointing at the screen for him to read. He looked at it for a second, his eyes shifting slowly to the phone. Then, with the same eerie slowness, he pulled his hand out of his pocket, but... he didn't take my phone.

He just stood there again, the same empty stare boring into me.

"What the...?" I muttered under my breath.

Before my irritation could reach its breaking point, the boy suddenly started coughing violently. The sound was harsh, rough—like it was coming from deep inside his chest. I froze, completely unsure of what to do as I stood there, helplessly watching him struggle.

His coughs grew louder, and my anxiety skyrocketed. I had no idea if I should pat his back or just stay out of the way. But before I could make a decision, he started to calm down, the fit subsiding as he fumbled to take off his mask.

In one fluid motion, he pulled a napkin out of his pocket, wiping at his mouth. My eyes widened when I saw his pale lips smeared with blood. Not just his lips, but the inside of his mask too. The crimson stains stood out starkly against the white fabric, a sight that made my stomach twist uncomfortably.

He wiped the blood away as casually as if it was nothing, then threw the mask aside like it had served its purpose and wasn't needed anymore.

"What the hell..." I whispered, more to myself than him but then composed myself .

"Oh hey , wait!!" I shouted as soon as I spotted an auto a few meters away. The driver slowed down, giving me a window of opportunity. I turned to look at the boy, who stared back at me blankly, his eyes still void of any expression.

"Let's go, quickly!" I urged, motioning toward the auto with a sense of urgency.

For a moment, he just stood there, unmoving, as if my words hadn't reached him. I was about to call out again when he finally took a hesitant step forward, his movements slow, almost mechanical. I glanced back at the auto, hoping the driver hadn't lost his patience.

"Take us to the best hospital here," I instructed the auto driver as we both settled in. He gave me a weird look, like he was silently judging my choice of words, but then sped up without a comment. I glanced over at the boy, expecting at least some sign of relief, but instead, he just sat there gawking at me.

I turned toward him, meeting his gaze head-on. "Can you stop this staring now?" I said, more out of annoyance than anything else. Seriously, who just stares at someone after they saved their life—or rather, their ribs—from a thug's knife?

He finally broke the staring contest and shifted his gaze to the passing view outside. Now that I had a moment to properly observe him, I noticed how hollow his cheeks were—his face was clearly in need of some healthy fat, and maybe a few good meals.

Nevertheless, we soon pulled up to the entrance of a fancy hospital. I glanced at the meter and raised an eyebrow at the absurd amount displayed."Was I born just to be looted" I muttered under my breath, giving the driver a judgmental look. But instead of arguing, I handed over the cash. I had more pressing issues than picking a fight over fare hikes.

As we stepped inside, the scene immediately shifted. Patients sat scattered in the waiting area, some rushing to doctors while others looked lost or anxious. The sterile hospital smell mixed with the sound of hurried footsteps and low murmurs.

But before anything else, we needed to get him registered with a case. I headed over to the reception desk, glancing back at the boy, who still hadn't said a word. I couldn't help but sigh. Today was going to be a long day.

After what felt like an eternity—well, maybe just 10 minutes of waiting in line—I finally reached the front of the reception. The woman behind the desk looked up at me with a tired expression, clearly having had her fill of hospital drama for the day.

I quickly described the situation, explaining how the boy had coughed up blood. Her professional demeanor slipped just for a moment as her eyebrows shot up in mild surprise before she composed herself again.

"Room No. 37," she said curtly, jotting something down on her clipboard and gesturing toward the hallway to the right.

I nodded, quickly grabbing the boy's wrist to lead him in the right direction.

"Let's go , Room 37," I muttered as we moved through the hospital corridors, the faint smell of antiseptic in the air.

Just as quickly as we entered Room 37, we were ushered back out, now on a quest for reports from yet another room. It was starting to feel like a hospital scavenger hunt, and I was already exhausted.

The nurse's instructions were as clear as they were frustrating. "You'll need to get the preliminary reports from Room 12 before the doctor can proceed with the diagnosis."

I huffed in annoyance, shooting a glance at the boy, who still had that blank, slightly vacant expression. "Come on," I mumbled, nudging him forward as we made our way down the hallway once more.

We pushed through the crowded corridor, dodging patients and doctors as we reached the report room. It was starting to feel like a marathon.

It was 2 PM by the time we finally got the results, and they were far more shocking than I could have ever imagined.

The doctor adjusted his glasses, looking at the paper before him with a grim expression. "The patient has been infected with a rare kind of poison. I'm sorry to say, but the poison has mixed with every cell in his blood now."

My stomach dropped, and I felt my throat tighten. "Poison?" I repeated, disbelief coloring my voice. I glanced at the boy standing beside me, still emotionless, as if the words didn't register with him at all.

"How... How did this happen?" I asked, my voice shaky.

The doctor sighed, shaking his head. "It's unclear how the poison was introduced, but from the looks of it, it's been in his system for quite some time."

I stared at the boy, whose face remained disturbingly calm, as if he had already accepted this fate long ago. What kind of plot had I stumbled into?