Confrontation

Aman woke up to the pale light of dawn streaming through his curtains, his eyes heavy with the weight of a restless night. For a brief, blissful moment, he let himself believe that everything that happened yesterday had been nothing but a bad dream. The library. The empty train. The man—Ezra—and the card now tucked into his jacket pocket. All of it felt surreal, like fragments of a bizarre nightmare.

But as he sat up in bed and looked around his room, reality came crashing down. His jacket was draped over his desk chair, and he could still feel the faint weight of the card in its pocket, mocking him. Aman groaned, running a hand through his messy hair. He'd planned to sleep in; it wasn't like he had morning lectures to worry about. But his mind wouldn't let him rest. His body had betrayed him, waking up earlier than it had any right to.

The faint clatter of dishes and the muffled sound of movement filtered through his door. His mum was up, preparing for her day like nothing was out of the ordinary. Aman heard the hiss of the kettle, the sharp click of a cabinet shutting. She must've thought he was still asleep; this was the first time in weeks he'd been up before her.

Then it hit him. This was the perfect chance to ask her about Dad—while his sister was still getting ready for school.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, rubbing his face to shake off the lingering grogginess. His mind buzzed with questions as he slipped on a hoodie and padded out of his room. As he stepped into the hallway, the smell of freshly brewed tea greeted him, mingling with the faint scent of toast.

His mum was in the kitchen, her back to him, dressed in her usual work attire—a simple blouse and trousers. She was humming quietly to herself, her hands moving rhythmically as she buttered a piece of toast. For a moment, Aman hesitated. He watched her from the doorway, his throat tightening.

How do I even start this? he thought, his palms dampening with sweat. He felt like he was crossing some unspoken boundary, dredging up a subject she clearly didn't want to discuss. But he couldn't let this go. Not after everything that had happened.

Clearing his throat, he stepped into the kitchen. "Morning," he said, his voice rougher than he intended.

His mum glanced over her shoulder, a small smile lighting up her face. "You're up early," she remarked, her tone light. "Thought you didn't have lectures this morning?"

"I don't," Aman replied, leaning against the counter. "Just couldn't sleep."

She nodded, turning back to her toast. "You want some tea? Or should I make you something to eat?"

"No, I'm good," he said quickly, his heart thudding in his chest. The casual small talk felt like a cruel delay. He needed to ask her before he lost his nerve. Taking a deep breath, he plunged ahead. "Mum... can I ask you something?"

His mum paused, her knife hovering over the toast. She turned to face him, her expression soft but curious. "Of course, Aman. What's on your mind?"

He hesitated, his tongue suddenly feeling heavy. The words he'd rehearsed in his head on the way to the kitchen now felt clumsy and inadequate. "It's about Dad," he said finally, the words coming out in a rush.

Her smile faltered, just slightly. She set the knife down and folded her arms, leaning against the counter. "What about him?"

Aman swallowed hard. "I just... I've been thinking. I don't really know anything about him, you know? Like, what he was like... what he did for work. I mean, I know the basics, but..." He trailed off, searching her face for a reaction.

For a moment, she said nothing, her gaze dropping to the floor. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. Finally, she sighed, brushing her hands on her trousers. "Aman, we've talked about this before. He was a good man. He worked hard to take care of us, and... and that's all that matters."

"That's not what I'm asking," Aman pressed, frustration creeping into his voice. "I'm not asking if he was a good man. I'm asking who he was. What kind of job did he have? Why was he gone all the time? Why—"

"Aman," she cut him off sharply, her tone firm. "I've told you everything you need to know. He's gone. Nothing we say or do will change that."

He stared at her, a knot tightening in his chest. "Why won't you just tell me the truth?" he demanded, his voice rising.

"I am telling you the truth," she shot back, her eyes flashing. "You think I don't miss him too? You think I don't wish he was still here? But digging up the past won't bring him back!"

Their voices had grown louder, echoing through the small kitchen. Aman caught a glimpse of his sister peeking out from the hallway, her wide eyes filled with concern. Guilt prickled at him, but his frustration overpowered it.

"You're not even trying to answer me," Aman muttered, shaking his head. "You're just dodging the question like you always do."

His mum's lips pressed into a thin line. "This conversation is over," she said coldly, turning back to her toast. "You need to let this go."

Aman clenched his fists, his jaw tightening. "Fine," he spat, pushing off the counter. "Guess I'll figure it out myself."

Without waiting for a response, he stormed out of the kitchen, brushing past his sister in the hallway. "Aman—" his mum called after him, but he ignored her, grabbing his jacket and slamming the door behind him as he stepped out into the cold morning air.

As Aman walked away from the house, his breath visible in the crisp morning air, he heard his sister's voice behind him, faint and hesitant. "Aman..." she called softly, her tone tinged with both worry and frustration.

But he didn't stop. He couldn't. His head was still spinning from the argument, and his chest felt tight with a tangle of guilt and anger. He shoved his hands into his hoodie pockets, walking faster, letting the cold bite at his skin.

A few minutes later, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and glanced at the screen. It was a message from his sister:

"Why are you such a prick sometimes?"

He stopped in his tracks, staring at the words for a long moment. His fingers hovered over the screen, itching to type back something defensive, something to justify the way he'd acted. But he didn't. Instead, he sighed and slipped the phone back into his pocket.

He asked himself the same question.

With no real destination in mind, Aman found himself wandering toward the small park near his house. The familiar paths and worn benches were a stark contrast to the turmoil in his head. He walked slowly, kicking at stray leaves scattered across the pavement. The early morning sunlight filtered through the bare trees, casting long shadows across the ground.

He found a bench near the edge of the park and sat down, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. For a while, he just... watched.

Families dotted the open green spaces, their laughter cutting through the stillness. Children chased each other around the playground, their high-pitched squeals ringing out as they climbed slides and swung from monkey bars. A couple strolled by, their hands intertwined, their smiles soft and easy.

Aman's gaze lingered on them, his chest tightening.

These people had no idea how lucky they were, he thought bitterly. To live simple lives, untouched by strange cults, cryptic messages, and the suffocating weight of unanswered questions. To have families that didn't hide things from them. To have lives that made sense.

He took a deep breath, letting the cold air fill his lungs, and leaned back against the bench. He tried to clear his mind, to let go of the anger bubbling under his skin. But his thoughts kept circling back to the same things. His dad. His mum. Ezra's cryptic warning.

Why did my life get so complicated?

Aman rubbed his hands together, trying to ward off the chill, and glanced at his watch. It was still early. His mum and sister would probably leave the house soon—his mum for work, and his sister for school. Then he could sneak back in, freshen up, and grab a change of clothes without having to face them.

For now, he stayed in the park, watching the world move on around him, wondering if he'd ever feel as grounded as the people passing by.

After about twenty minutes of aimless wandering, Aman decided to head back home. The walk felt longer than usual, his feet dragging slightly against the pavement. He made sure to take the longer route, just to be absolutely certain his mum and sister were gone by the time he arrived.

When he finally approached the house, he paused at the front gate, scanning for any signs of life. The driveway was empty, and the curtains in the living room were drawn shut. The place was silent.

Too silent.

As he stepped inside and closed the door behind him, the stillness pressed against his chest. It was the kind of quiet that crawled under his skin now, setting his nerves on edge. Empty and deserted places used to feel like a reprieve—a moment of peace in an otherwise noisy life. But now, they filled him with dread.

His mind flickered back to the library, to the suffocating quiet and the eerie emptiness that had crept in before the stranger appeared. Then, to the train—the unnatural hush that had swallowed him before Ezra made himself known.

Aman shuddered, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

What if Ezra showed up again? Or worse... what if it was the creep from the library? The one who dragged him into that nightmarish pocket dimension. The thought alone made his chest tighten.

And even if they did show up, what could he possibly do? He had no magical powers, no super strength, no ability to distort reality. He was just a guy—an ordinary, powerless guy.

His thoughts spiraled as he climbed the stairs to his room, the floorboards creaking faintly under his weight. He tried to shake off the paranoia, telling himself it was just his imagination, but the unease lingered.

Once inside his room, he grabbed a fresh change of clothes and headed straight for the bathroom. He closed the door behind him and locked it, the sound of the latch clicking oddly reassuring.

The shower water sputtered to life, and he stepped under the warm spray, letting it cascade over his face. His muscles loosened slightly, the tension in his shoulders melting away bit by bit.

He closed his eyes, focusing on the sound of the water hitting the tiles, trying to drown out the chaotic mess in his head. Maybe this would help clear his mind, he thought. Maybe he could wash away the fear, the confusion, the anger—all of it—just for a moment.

After Aman stepped out of the shower, the steam clinging to his skin like a thin veil, he wrapped a towel around himself and made his way to the kitchen. His stomach growled softly, reminding him that he hadn't eaten anything since yesterday.

He wasn't expecting much—maybe just some cereal or whatever leftovers were shoved to the back of the fridge. But when he reached the counter, his gaze fell on a neatly wrapped meal, placed just so in the middle of the countertop.

There was a note resting on top, the paper slightly crumpled. The familiar loops and slants of the handwriting caught his eye immediately.

"Make sure you eat."

It was his mum's writing, unmistakable with its simplest of spelling errors. Aman stared at the note for a long moment, his fingers brushing over the paper. A small pang of guilt wormed its way into his chest, echoing the argument from earlier.

He took in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. She was trying, in her own way. He knew that. But knowing didn't make it any easier.

Reluctantly, he unwrapped the meal and sat down at the small dining table. The food was still warm enough, and though his appetite wasn't entirely there, he ate his fill. The quiet crept in around him again, but this time it was less suffocating and more... hollow.

Later that day, Aman found himself in the lecture hall. His usual spot near the back gave him a perfect view of the board, with the added bonus of being tucked just far enough out of sight that the professor's gaze rarely landed on him. A safe zone, where he could exist without being called out or forced to participate.

He leaned back in his seat, his eyes lazily scanning the room. His mind wasn't exactly on the lecture—how could it be?—but the familiar hum of quiet conversations and the shuffle of notebooks helped ground him, if only a little.

Then his gaze landed on Zara.

She was sitting farther down, her posture stiff and her head slightly lowered as she scribbled something in her notebook. Aman blinked, surprised.

He didn't expect her to show up, not after what she went through. The panic, the fear—it had been written all over her face yesterday. But here she was, sitting in class like it was just another normal day.

I guess she's a serious student, Aman thought, a faint twinge of admiration sneaking into his chest. Or maybe she was just trying to bury herself in routine, in something familiar, to forget.

Aman's gaze lingered for a moment longer before he looked away. He wasn't sure if he should talk to her or if it was better to leave her alone. After all, he wasn't exactly in the mood to explain what he knew—or rather, what little he knew.

Still, something about seeing her there, moving forward despite it all, struck a chord in him. Maybe routine was the answer, after all. Or maybe, he thought with a grim twist of humor, she was just better at pretending everything was fine.

Pretending, huh? Aman thought to himself. If anyone knew a thing or two about putting on a front, it was him. Years of quiet detachment, of playing the part of someone who wasn't affected by much—it came naturally now. But still, this was different. It wasn't about pushing Zara away for his usual reasons.

Deep down, he genuinely wished she—and the others—could move past what happened. They didn't deserve to be tangled up in all this. It's a bit tougher for me though, he thought wryly, seeing as I'm apparently the walking target.

As his thoughts spiraled, a familiar realization hit him: the lecture was over. The faint hum of chatter as people packed up and left snapped him back to reality. He glanced at his notebook. Not a single word written.

"Oh well, I'll just watch back on the recording," he muttered under his breath, fully aware he wouldn't follow through. It was a flimsy excuse at best, but it was one he told himself often enough to believe it for a fleeting moment.

The sound of chairs scraping and footsteps echoed through the lecture hall as the last of the students began trickling out. Aman lingered, deliberately taking his time packing up. He wasn't eager to bump into Zara or any of the others on their way out—not because he didn't care, but because he wasn't ready for the questions, the looks, or the uncomfortable half-conversations.

He zipped up his bag slowly, casting a quick glance toward the door. Zara was already gone, along with most of the class. The room felt quieter now, and Aman let out a small breath of relief.

As Aman walked out of the room, he pondered what to do next. His next lecture wasn't for another two hours. That was the double-edged sword of university life—having gaps in your schedule. For most people, it was an opportunity to grab lunch with friends, dive into a club activity, or just hang out. For Aman, it was a curse. He didn't have a close circle to kill time with, nor did he bother signing up for any societies.

It was just him, his thoughts, and a whole lot of empty space in between.

He made his way down the stairs, absentmindedly glancing around the building, when something—or someone—caught his eye. Yousuf was lounging on one of the worn-out sofas by the stairwell, phone in hand, furiously scrolling. He looked up just as Aman descended the last step.

"Finally!" Yousuf exclaimed, jumping up a little too eagerly. "I've been waiting for forty minutes."

Aman raised an eyebrow. "You waited forty minutes? Why?"

Yousuf slipped his phone into his pocket, grinning. "Because I knew you'd show up here eventually. Predictable, aren't you?"

Aman sighed. "Great. You've figured me out. What do you want?"

Yousuf ignored the sarcasm, gesturing for Aman to sit down. "Relax, man. I've just been piecing things together, you know? What we talked about yesterday... the Umbra Nex stuff. You're involved now, whether you like it or not, and you've got to take it seriously."

Aman frowned but sat down anyway, keeping a little distance between them. "And you've been waiting here to do what exactly?"

Yousuf chuckled, shaking his head. "Look, I'm not here to bug you. I just think you need someone to talk to about this stuff. You can't keep it bottled up. Trust me, I've been there."

Aman glanced away, uncomfortable. "I'm fine," he muttered.

"Yeah, sure," Yousuf said, leaning back. "That's why you look like you haven't slept properly."

Aman bristled at the comment but didn't respond. Yousuf wasn't entirely wrong, but he wasn't about to admit that.

"I'm serious," Yousuf continued, his tone softening. "I know I can be... a bit much, but I mean it when I say I want to help. This isn't something you can deal with on your own."

Aman exhaled heavily, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He stared at the floor for a moment before muttering, "I don't even know what 'this' is."

Yousuf nodded, as if he'd expected that response. "Well, that's the first step, isn't it? Figuring it out."

Aman glanced at him, skeptical. "And you're just going to stick around until I do?"

Yousuf grinned. "Pretty much."

Aman shook his head, a small, reluctant smile tugging at his lips despite himself. "You're unbelievable."

"Thanks. I'll take that as a compliment."

They sat there in a brief, companionable silence, the hum of the university building filling the background. Aman wasn't entirely sure why he tolerated Yousuf, but for now, he figured it was better than being alone with his thoughts.

"You said it's better to talk about this, right?" Aman asked, breaking the silence.

Yousuf leaned back, narrowing his eyes at Aman. "Yeah, why?"

Aman hesitated for a moment before replying, "Shouldn't you talk to the others about it too?" He was referring to the group they were with at the library.

Yousuf exhaled sharply, his expression turning thoughtful. He tapped his fingers on the armrest of the sofa, considering the idea. "Well, that Ollie guy hasn't shown up. Don't blame him."

Neither could Aman. If he could avoid being anywhere near this mess, he probably would.

"And the big guy... uh, what's his name again?" Yousuf asked, waving a hand as if the gesture would conjure the name.

"Alex?" Aman supplied, finding it a little ironic that he was suddenly being used as the middleman for these people.

"Yeah, him! I think he's playing football in the sports center." Yousuf scratched the back of his head.

Aman blinked in confusion. "Wait, I thought you already knew them. You were chilling with them, weren't you?"

"Nah," Yousuf said with a shrug. "I was only there because of Zara."

At the mention of her name, Aman stiffened slightly. "Who we need to talk to," Yousuf added quickly, glancing at Aman.

"Oh." Aman's mind started racing. His stomach churned at the idea of any kind of confrontation with Zara. Before he could voice his thoughts, Yousuf cut him off, as if sensing the questions forming.

"She's my cousin," Yousuf said plainly. "Her parents took me in after mine passed away. We lived in the same house until recently, when I moved to the dorms."

Aman blinked at the sudden revelation. "Oh," he said again, unsure of what else to say.

Yousuf gave a small, almost bitter chuckle. "Yeah, not exactly something I bring up a lot. But that's why I'm sticking around, you know? For her. Zara doesn't talk about stuff. Ever. She just locks it all up and pretends she's fine. Someone's got to make sure she's okay."

Aman nodded slowly, processing this new information. He wasn't sure what surprised him more—the fact that Yousuf and Zara were cousins, or that Yousuf was capable of being this serious.

"So, what's the plan?" Aman asked finally, trying to steer the conversation somewhere less emotionally heavy.

Yousuf smirked. "The plan is... we figure out what the hell is going on. Together. And maybe, just maybe, we survive this thing."

Aman couldn't help but roll his eyes. "That's your big plan?"

"Hey, it's a work in progress," Yousuf said, grinning. "Now, let's go find Alex. If he's playing football, that means he's alive, and that's a good start."

Aman sighed, getting to his feet. "Fine. But if he tries to tackle me, I'm out."

Yousuf laughed as they headed for the sports center. "Deal."

The sports center buzzed with activity. The sound of sneakers squeaking against polished floors echoed through the large space, blending with shouts from players and the occasional sharp whistle from the coach. Aman hated places like this—the fluorescent lights, the lingering smell of sweat, the endless noise. It all reminded him of high school gym class, a place he'd actively avoided whenever possible.

Yousuf strode ahead confidently, scanning the rows of players on the indoor court. Aman followed reluctantly, his hands stuffed deep into his pockets as he kept his head low. He felt out of place here, like an intruder in a world that thrived on collaboration, camaraderie, and competition—all things he'd never been good at.

"You good?" Yousuf asked, looking back at him.

"Yeah, sure," Aman muttered, though his clenched jaw said otherwise.

Yousuf raised an eyebrow but didn't press. He motioned toward the court where a group of players were practicing. "Think he's over there."

Aman squinted, recognizing Alex almost immediately. Even sitting on the bench, his broad shoulders and towering frame made him stand out. But something was off—he wasn't playing. Instead, he sat hunched over, his arms crossed and a scowl plastered across his face.

Yousuf nudged Aman. "Looks like he's benched. Wonder what happened."

Yousuf led the way, calling out, "Yo, Alex!"

Alex glanced up, his expression darkening when he saw them approach. "What do you want?" His tone was clipped, defensive.

Yousuf shrugged, plopping down on the bench beside him. "Relax, man. We're just here to check in."

Aman lingered a few steps away, not wanting to crowd Alex. He could sense the tension rolling off the guy, and he wasn't in the mood to provoke anything.

"What happened?" Yousuf asked, nodding toward the court.

Alex leaned back, crossing his arms. "Got into it with one of the guys. Coach benched me for 'unsportsmanlike conduct.'" He sneered, his jaw tightening. "Bunch of bullshit, if you ask me."

"Yikes," Yousuf said, wincing. "What was it about?"

Alex's glare drifted to the players on the court. "Some idiot wouldn't pass the ball. Thought he was the whole damn team. I called him out, and he started mouthing off."

Yousuf chuckled nervously. "Classic team drama."

Aman bit back a comment. It wasn't like he could relate. He'd always avoided team sports for precisely this reason—the pressure, the arguments, the way one person's mistake could ruin everything for everyone. It was too much responsibility, too much blame. He hated the idea of being the weak link, the one who let everyone down.

Alex's eyes flicked to Aman, and for a split second, something unreadable passed over his face—something sharp and bitter. It was gone as quickly as it came, but it left Aman feeling uneasy.

"You good?" Aman asked, breaking the silence.

"So, must've felt pretty good huh?" Alex asked, shifting his posture a bit, crossing his arms tighter. "In charge of the whole thing back in the library, huh?"

Aman blinked, taken aback. "What?"

"You know," Alex continued, his voice slightly mocking, "bossing everyone around, making all the calls. Had a whole plan laid out. Must be nice." He glanced back at the game, but there was something in his voice, something deeper that wasn't just casual observation.

Aman sensed the subtle jab, a thinly veiled criticism, though it didn't seem directed at him so much as at himself. He felt that familiar, prickling discomfort, the way Alex was trying to downplay his own insecurity under a shell of casual remarks. It was almost like Alex was… jealous. Of him? Of his ability to take charge when everything fell apart?

"You think I was in charge?" Aman asked, his voice steady, though his mind was racing. "I didn't even know what was going on the whole time."

Alex scoffed, the bitterness creeping back into his tone. "Oh, really? You just happened to make the best choices then? 'Cause when shit hits the fan, you get to be the one everyone turns to?." He shifted again, clearly uncomfortable. Alex let out a sharp exhale, his voice laced with frustration. "I mean, try leading a whole team... Must be easy if you've got it all figured out."

Aman stayed silent, his eyes fixed on Alex, watching the subtle shifts in his expression—the furrow in his brow, the tension in his jaw. Was this about him, or was Alex just venting? He couldn't tell if this was personal or just misplaced anger.

Instead of responding immediately, Aman took a slow breath, weighing his words. He thought about how often people projected their insecurities when they felt cornered. He's not attacking me, Aman reminded himself. He's wrestling with something bigger.

He moved closer and sat down beside Alex, not too close to crowd him but near enough to show he wasn't dismissing him either. He still didn't say anything, letting Alex's words hang in the air.

Alex turned to him briefly, his gaze sharp, testing, before he looked away again. "You think I'm scared, don't you?" he muttered, his voice quieter now, almost hollow. "Because maybe I am. I don't know how to handle this. None of it."

Aman nodded slowly, his lips pressed into a thin line. He wanted to say something reassuring, something meaningful, but he held back. Words didn't feel right here—not yet. Instead, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, letting the silence settle between them.

Alex glanced at him again, this time with less hostility. "What? No words of encouragement?" he asked, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, though his tone lacked the usual bite.

Aman shrugged lightly, finally speaking but keeping it brief. "Just don't want to say the wrong thing."

For a moment, Alex looked like he might snap back, but then he let out a dry laugh. "Yeah, well… maybe that's smarter than what I do."

Aman allowed himself a small smile but didn't push the conversation further. He could tell Alex wasn't looking for advice or praise—just someone who didn't expect him to have all the answers.

And that, for now, was enough.

For a moment, there was silence between them, but this time it wasn't strained. The tension had melted, if only slightly.

Yousuf, sensing the mood shift, cleared his throat. "You good now?" he asked Alex, trying to steer things back to normal.

Alex waved him off, his earlier aggression fading. "Yeah, I'm fine." He grabbed his bag and stood up, rolling his shoulders. "It's just one game. Not like it's gonna end my life."

Aman nodded, offering a small smile. "Yeah, man. Exactly."

The clatter of trays and chatter of students filled the air as Aman Yousuf and Alex walked through the busy hallways of the campus. Students bustled around them, their footsteps echoing against the tiled floors, their voices mingling in a blur of casual conversation and laughter. They passed dozens of faces—some familiar, some strangers—each one wrapped in their own little world, moving in rhythms that seemed so effortless. For a brief moment, Aman couldn't help but wonder, Am I part of a group now? The thought sat heavy in his chest, an uncomfortable shift in his mind. This was the thing he had always avoided, always feared: belonging. The weight of expectations, the pressure to be a part of something bigger than himself, to be judged, to somehow matter. He had always kept to himself, kept his distance, but now it seemed as though things were starting to shift.

He glanced around, his eyes narrowing as he observed the students laughing together, working in groups, pulling one another into inside jokes. The kind of togetherness that seemed so... natural. Was he meant to fit in here? Was it time to finally stop running from it?

The thought was almost suffocating.

As they made their way to the canteen, the noise grew louder. The smell of cheap coffee and fries wafted through the air, mixing with the sound of trays clanking on tables and the soft murmur of students in conversation. At one of the tables near the window, Zara sat by herself, poking at a half-eaten salad with a fork. She wasn't paying attention to the rest of the room, her gaze lost in her thoughts, distant.

Yousuf shot Aman a look. "Alright, I'll handle this. You don't have to worry about it." His tone was calm, but Aman could sense the weight behind it. Yousuf didn't need to explain—it was clear that, as Zara's cousin, he had a closer connection with her.

Aman nodded, though his mind was racing with conflicting thoughts. He wasn't sure how to feel about Zara. She seemed so... distant, even after the events at the library. He hadn't had the chance to talk to her properly, and part of him wasn't sure how to begin. The whole situation with the cult, the eerie encounters, the danger—none of them seemed to make it into the conversation yet.

"Alright, we'll hang back," Aman said, glancing at Alex, who was standing a little farther away. Alex had been following them without saying much, but now, it seemed as though he had nothing else to say. His shoulders were tense, his posture stiff, like a wall of silence had been thrown up between them. It was almost as though he was just waiting for something to happen.

Aman couldn't help but notice how quiet it was. Alex wasn't talking, and neither was he. It wasn't the usual silence of two people who didn't know each other. It was something heavier—an unspoken acknowledgment that neither one was ready to breach the distance between them. Aman glanced at Alex, but he didn't look at him. Instead, Alex stared off at a group of students across the room.

A few of Alex's teammates, noticing him standing there, approached with casual greetings.

"Yo, Alex! You coming for the match later?" one of them asked, clapping him on the shoulder.

"Yeah bro, we're gonna need you in top form today!" another added with a grin.

Alex straightened up, his earlier tension seemingly dissipating in an instant. He greeted each of them with a confident smile and a firm handshake, exchanging a few jokes and nods. His ease with his teammates was evident—he knew exactly how to make small talk, how to command attention with a quick joke or a well-timed compliment. Aman couldn't help but observe, admiring the way Alex could connect with people, how easily he seemed to fit into the group dynamic.

As the teammates left, Alex turned back to Aman, a subtle flicker of something passing across his face. For a moment, Aman thought Alex might say something—anything to break the silence—but instead, he just shifted his weight, his eyes lingering on Aman for a fraction too long.

There was a strange moment of understanding that passed between them. Aman felt it—like Alex was trying to read him, trying to figure out what made him tick. But Aman wasn't giving him anything. He wasn't even trying to.

In that silence, something about Aman's quiet confidence seemed to strike Alex. There was no flashiness, no need to prove anything. Aman was just... there. A solid, grounded presence in the midst of all the noise. It was hard to ignore, even harder to compete with.

Alex shifted again, this time with a slight, almost imperceptible nod, as if acknowledging something unsaid. "You know, you're pretty good at this whole... silent confidence thing," he muttered, half to himself.

Aman's gaze flickered toward Alex, his expression unreadable. "I'm not trying to be," he said simply, the weight of his words subtle but clear. He wasn't here to impress anyone.

Alex paused, then cracked a small smile. "I guess that's the point, huh?"

Aman didn't respond, but the faintest of smiles tugged at the corner of his mouth. They both seemed to recognize the unspoken truth: the other was something they couldn't easily define or figure out.

It was strange, how easy it was for Alex to talk to people, and how effortlessly Aman could command a room without saying a word. And maybe, just maybe, there was a certain respect between them that neither of them was willing to admit—at least, not yet.

But for now, the silence between them remained, thick with the weight of unspoken things.

Yousuf and Zara finally walked back to the table where Aman and Alex were sitting. Yousuf had a somber look, and Zara's expression was carefully neutral, though her reddened eyes betrayed some deep emotional undercurrent. Whatever conversation they'd had, it wasn't light. Aman caught Zara glancing briefly at him before quickly looking away.

It wasn't Aman's place to ask what they had discussed. The weight of it was evident in the heavy silence that now hung over the group. They exchanged fleeting looks, but nobody said anything. The quiet was palpable, almost oppressive, like they were all waiting for someone else to speak first.

Aman sat back in his chair, trying to look anywhere but at the others. He wasn't someone who initiated conversations, and he definitely didn't want to break this silence—especially not now. Breaking the ice meant taking control of the situation, stepping into a role he wasn't prepared for. He didn't want to be the guy who made decisions, who told people what to do, who... led.

Even Alex, who usually had no problem speaking his mind, seemed to sense the awkward tension. He drummed his fingers against the table, casting glances at everyone like he was searching for an opening. Aman caught him looking his way for a second longer than necessary, as if waiting for him to take charge.

The irony wasn't lost on Aman. Less than twenty-four hours ago, this specific group was laughing and chatting away like they didn't have a care in the world. Now, the weight of the previous day's events had hollowed out whatever lighthearted bond they'd shared. Nobody seemed to know how to pick up the pieces.

Zara eventually broke the silence by clearing her throat softly. It wasn't much, but it was enough to draw everyone's attention. Her voice came out steady but quiet. "So... what now?"

The question lingered, hanging in the air like a fragile thread, daring anyone to take hold of it. Aman's stomach knotted. What now? That was the question, wasn't it? The one he didn't want to answer. The one nobody did.

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, waiting to see if someone—anyone—would take the lead.

Aman took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the silence pressing on his chest. He finally spoke, his voice steady but quiet. "Someone should check on Ollie."

Everyone seemed to pause and absorb his words. It was a simple suggestion, but it carried a sense of responsibility that made the group collectively nod in agreement.

"I could get his number from the student list," Yousuf offered, glancing around for confirmation.

"Yeah," Aman replied, "but we can't all go together. That'll just make him feel like he's back in the library."

The others nodded again, the memory of the library still fresh in their minds. The thought of overwhelming Ollie, who hadn't been seen since, didn't sit right with any of them.

As the group mulled over what to do, Zara turned to Alex, her voice calm but pointed. "Didn't you go to the same secondary school as him?"

Alex raised an eyebrow, caught off guard by the question. "Yeah, what about it?" he replied, sounding almost defensive.

"You could talk to him," Zara said, her tone soft but firm. "You're the closest to him out of all of us."

Alex hesitated, scratching the back of his head as he processed her suggestion. "Well... I do know where he lives," he muttered, almost to himself.

"Perfect," Zara said, as if the matter were settled.

Alex glanced at her, then at the others, his face a mixture of reluctance and resignation. "I could go check on him tomorrow, I guess. Since it's Saturday."

"Good idea," Yousuf said, breaking the tension with an approving nod. "Just... keep it casual. Don't make it seem like we sent you or anything."

Alex shot Yousuf a look but didn't argue. Aman stayed quiet, observing the exchange. He felt a strange sense of relief that the responsibility wasn't falling on him. At the same time, he couldn't help but wonder how Ollie was holding up.

"Alright," Alex finally said, leaning back in his chair. "I'll handle it."

The group seemed to relax, if only slightly. One small step forward, Aman thought. He sat at the table, his mind churning with indecision. His hand slipped into his pocket, fingers brushing against the card that had been burning a metaphorical hole ever since Ezra handed it to him. He toyed with the edges, debating whether to share what happened on the train.

He glanced at the others, who were distracted with their own thoughts. Ideally, he should tell them. They were all in this mess together now, weren't they? But deep down, a nagging feeling told him it wouldn't go over well.

First, the man in the library had singled him out in front of everyone. Now, if they found out he'd been targeted again—this time by an entirely different group—they'd start pointing fingers at him, asking questions he didn't have answers to.

Aman's eyes lingered on Yousuf. Despite all his attempts to be friendly, Yousuf didn't fully trust him. Aman could see it in the way he pushed for details, always testing the boundaries of what Aman would share. To Yousuf, Aman might as well be a spy for either of the groups that had dragged them into this nightmare. And honestly, Aman couldn't blame him.

He sighed internally. If they decided to push him away, so be it. He'd been fine on his own before. He could do it again.

"It happened to me again," Aman finally said, his voice cutting through the quiet tension at the table.

The others turned to him, their eyes locking onto him like a spotlight had just been switched on. The words hung in the air, thick with implication.

Aman hesitated, but only for a moment. "On the train, after everything that happened... someone else came for me." He recounted the incident with Ezra, leaving out the part about the card. That detail was his, for now. He didn't trust them enough to bare everything.

The group listened in stunned silence. Zara's eyes widened, her lips parting in a soft gasp. Alex's expression darkened, though whether it was worry or something else, Aman couldn't tell. Even Yousuf, who was usually quick with a quip or a theory, just stared at him, dumbfounded.

When Aman finished, the silence stretched on, heavy and suffocating.

Finally, Yousuf leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. "Twice now," he muttered, almost to himself. "Why is it always you?"

Aman met his gaze but said nothing. He didn't have an answer to that question. He wasn't even sure he wanted one.

Aman felt his stomach twist at Yousuf's words. The air around the table grew heavier, the tension like an invisible vice tightening with every passing second.

"I think..." Aman began, his voice quieter than he intended. He hesitated, unsure if saying it out loud would make it all too real. "I think it's about my dad somehow."

Yousuf's eyes flickered with something unspoken—recognition, maybe. While Zara and Alex looked confused, Yousuf seemed to grasp what Aman meant. His expression softened slightly, but there was still a shadow of doubt lingering.

"What do you mean, your dad?" Alex asked, his tone skeptical and edged with irritation.

"I'm not sure..." Aman admitted, feeling suddenly small under Alex's gaze. "Look, I don't know what's going on either. I want to find out, too."

Yousuf leaned forward slightly, his voice calm but pressing. "Did he say anything else?"

Aman hesitated again. His fingers instinctively brushed against the card in his pocket, the one detail he hadn't shared. He glanced at Yousuf before shaking his head. "No, that's it."

Yousuf's jaw tightened slightly, a flicker of doubt crossing his face, but he didn't press further. Aman could tell Yousuf didn't fully believe him, but for now, he let it drop.

The scrape of a chair breaking the silence made Aman look up. Alex had stood, his face hardened, his voice sharp and dismissive.

"Look, this is all fucked," Alex said, his eyes darting between the group. "I don't care about cults or demons or aliens or whatever the hell this is." He turned his gaze to Aman, a cutting edge in his tone. "Especially people with daddy issues."

The words hit like a slap, but Aman stayed silent, his face unreadable.

Alex sighed and crossed his arms. "I'll check on Ollie tomorrow, like I said. But after that? I'm out."

Without waiting for a response, Alex turned and walked away, leaving the rest of the group in a tense, uncomfortable silence.

Aman leaned back in his chair, letting out a slow breath. His fingers tapped anxiously against the table as he watched Alex storm out of the canteen. The weight of his frustration lingered in the air like a dense fog, settling uncomfortably over the table. He glanced around, noticing the soft hum of students chatting and eating their meals, completely oblivious to the heavy discussion that had just taken place. Life outside their small, bizarre circle continued as usual—normal, untouched, and distant.

He shifted in his seat, rubbing the back of his neck. This was why he hated being part of anything. He thought back to school, to all the moments he'd watched groups implode over petty fights, misunderstandings, or power struggles. It was always the same cycle, whether it was kids bickering on the playground, arguments during class projects, or breakups within friend groups. Aman had made it his unspoken rule to stay on the sidelines, to keep things surface-level and avoid diving too deeply into other people's problems.

Yet here he was, thrown into a situation he couldn't just sideline. Not completely, anyway. He didn't know these people well enough to truly care, and yet, their shared experience in the library—facing something unexplainable and terrifying—had tethered them all together in a way that felt... complicated.

And Alex walking away? Aman didn't blame him. Who wouldn't? This whole situation was absurd. Cults, strange pocket dimensions, cryptic figures targeting them. It felt more like the plot of some B-movie thriller than his life.

Aman sighed and straightened up, realizing Zara was sitting across from him. She didn't look at him, instead staring at her drink as if it held some profound answer to their current predicament. For a moment, he wondered what she was thinking, but he didn't want to ask. He didn't have it in him to play therapist.

He broke the silence instead. "After Alex confirms Ollie's fine, we should drop it. Walk away."

Zara's head tilted slightly, but she didn't respond. Her silence made Aman nervous, though he wasn't sure why.

Yousuf, on the other hand, looked like Aman had just slapped him. His brows furrowed as he leaned forward. "What?" he said, his voice tinged with disbelief.

"Look," Aman began, his tone measured but firm. "I know you've got your own reasons to go after them, but you can't expect the others to follow you. As you said, people could die."

Yousuf's frustration boiled over, his voice rising slightly as he retorted, "What about you then? They're after you too. Are you just gonna lay back and let them do whatever they're planning?"

Aman locked eyes with him, his expression unflinching. "For now? Yes."

The honesty in his voice surprised even himself. But he wasn't lying. He didn't have the drive or the passion to go on a crusade against some shadowy, global organization. What was he supposed to do? He wasn't a hero. He wasn't even particularly brave. The people targeting him didn't seem to want him dead—at least not yet. If they had, they could've easily killed him on the train or the library.

Yousuf's jaw tightened, his disbelief morphing into anger. "Un-fucking-believable," he muttered before grabbing his bag and storming off.

Aman watched him leave, guilt tugging at him, but he didn't move to stop him. There was no point. Yousuf had made up his mind, and Aman wasn't about to argue with him.

He slumped back in his chair, exhaling deeply as the tension finally began to ease. Only then did he notice Zara still sitting quietly across from him. The realization hit him that they were now alone, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.

Aman glanced at her, trying to gauge her reaction, but her face was unreadable. She stirred her drink absentmindedly, her eyes fixed on the table. He wasn't sure if she was upset, disappointed, or simply lost in thought.

"You're not gonna storm off too, are you?" he asked, his voice lighter, almost teasing.

Zara looked up at him, a small, tired smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "No. I think I've done enough running for now."

Aman chuckled softly, though the sound felt hollow. "Fair enough."

The silence between them stretched on, but it wasn't as uncomfortable as before. Aman's eyes wandered to the bustling canteen around them—students laughing, eating, typing away on laptops. The normalcy of it all felt almost surreal, like it belonged to another world entirely. He couldn't help but feel like an outsider looking in, detached from the life he used to know.

Finally, Zara spoke, her voice breaking through his thoughts. "You meant it, didn't you?"

Aman looked at her, confused. "Meant what?"

"What you said. About walking away."

He hesitated, then nodded. "I think so."

She studied him for a moment, her expression unreadable again. "You're not scared, are you?"

Aman let out a dry laugh. "Terrified. But I've never been the type to fight back, you know? I don't know how to... how to deal with any of this."

Zara nodded slowly, her gaze dropping back to her drink. "Yeah. Me neither."

For a brief moment, they shared a quiet understanding. Neither of them knew what the hell they were doing, but at least they weren't alone in feeling that way.

Aman's mind was like a storm of scattered papers, thoughts flying around and colliding. The events of the last 24 hours played on repeat, like a bad dream he couldn't wake from. Yet, one thought stuck out like a thorn: If I hadn't gone and sat with them, none of this would've happened.

The guilt tightened its grip, and his chest felt heavier. His eyes widened at the possibility of this being his fault. He was so consumed by the idea that he didn't notice Zara watching him.

"I think I know what you're thinking," Zara said, her voice breaking through his spiraling thoughts.

Aman blinked and looked up at her, startled. "What do you mean?"

Zara smirked, leaning her chin on her hand. "Your face is like an open book."

Her teasing tone only confused him further. An open book? Aman thought. Alex had literally said the opposite, calling him unreadable. Why are people so keen on analyzing me? He inwardly sighed, his self-deprecating thoughts bubbling to the surface. Maybe I should get a mirror and figure it out myself.

"It's not your fault," Zara said, her voice softer now, the teasing replaced with a calm sincerity.

Aman froze for a moment. He didn't know what to say, so he just nodded slightly.

"Nobody died or got hurt," she continued. "At the very most, people are just freaked out that their world isn't what they thought it was."

He mulled over her words, trying to find some solace in them. "Are you freaked out too, then?" Aman asked after a pause.

Zara gave a small, dry chuckle. "Not really. Yousuf has always gone on about this stuff since we were kids, but I never believed him. Not really. Until yesterday." Her fingers absentmindedly traced the rim of her cup as she added, "I mean, if his parents really went the way he says they did, then I owe him a big apology."

Aman tilted his head, leaning forward a little. "Don't know the guy that well, but he doesn't seem like the type to hold a grudge."

Zara nodded thoughtfully before sitting up straighter. "Besides, if anyone's at fault, it's probably me."

Aman frowned, his curiosity piqued. "What do you mean?"

Zara glanced at him before leaning back, a faint smile playing on her lips. "Yesterday... I'm the one who waved you over to sit with us. One of the guys told me not to, but he was a prick anyway."

Aman's thoughts raced back to the sofa, to the moment he stood there, unsure whether to join or keep walking. He remembered Zara waving him over, her expression warm and welcoming. He also recalled the guy sitting beside her who didn't look pleased at all.

"So why did you?" Aman asked, his voice quieter than usual.

"Huh?" Zara looked genuinely confused.

"Why did you invite me to sit with you?" he repeated, his gaze dropping to the table. Normally, he wouldn't ask such a direct question—it wasn't in his nature. But something in him wanted to know.

Zara tilted her head, her eyes studying him. For a moment, she didn't say anything. Then, a faint smile curved her lips again. "I don't know," she said simply, standing up from her seat.

Aman blinked, caught off guard by her abruptness. He watched as she slid her half-drunk cup across the table toward him.

"I'll catch you later, black belt," Zara said, her tone teasing once more as she turned and walked out of the canteen.

Black belt? Aman's confusion deepened for a moment before he remembered the comment he'd made yesterday about being a black belt in martial arts. His ears burned with embarrassment, his face growing hotter by the second. She remembered that? Of all things?

Despite himself, he let out a quiet laugh, his lips curling into a small smile. He watched her leave, the canteen suddenly feeling quieter. Her teasing words echoed in his head, but they left him with a strange sense of warmth.

As he leaned back in his chair, still chuckling under his breath, Aman realized that, for the first time in a while, he felt... lighter.

Aman froze as he reached for the cup. His heart plummeted into his stomach as the world around him shifted. The canteen, once bustling with faint conversations, clinking cutlery, and footsteps, was now eerily silent. The air felt heavier, colder, almost as if it had been sucked out of the room entirely.

He glanced around, and that's when he realized—the room was empty.

It wasn't like the students had filed out one by one. No. They were just... gone. Vanished. The emptiness of the massive space made it feel like the walls were closing in on him, amplifying the sound of his own breathing.

Not again.

His brain caught up almost instantly. It was happening again. That bizarre, unnatural shift in reality—the same thing that had happened in the library, on the train. One might think that after experiencing it a couple of times, he'd grow accustomed to it. But no. His heart raced as if it were trying to claw its way out of his chest. His breathing became shallow, quick. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to panic, to run.

But he didn't.

Aman clenched his fists under the table, willing himself to keep calm. Whether it was Ezra or that man from the library, he wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing his fear.

Seconds passed like hours, and then, without warning, a figure began to materialize in front of him. It started faintly, like static on an old television screen, before solidifying into a shape—a person.

The seat where Zara had been sitting wasn't empty anymore.

Aman's eyes widened as the figure came into focus. His breath caught in his throat. It wasn't Ezra. His initial reaction wasn't relief—it was dread. At least Ezra, for all his cryptic pretentiousness, had been civil. The man now sitting across from him was anything but.

It was him. The man from the library. The one who had pointed at Aman and threatened his life and everyone else's.

The man leaned back in the chair, completely at ease as though he'd been sitting there all along. There was something inherently sinister about him—the sharpness of his features, the way his piercing eyes seemed to look straight through Aman, the slow, deliberate movements that hinted at complete control of the situation.

"That was so cute," the man said, his voice laced with mockery and malice.

The sound of it sent a chill down Aman's spine. His words weren't loud, but they rang in the empty canteen like a taunt, reverberating in the unnatural silence.

Without breaking eye contact, the man reached for the cup Zara had left behind. He picked it up casually, almost lazily, and took a sip.

That simple action ignited something in Aman.

He'd already disliked this man—his threatening demeanor, his cryptic, dangerous nature. But now? Watching him nonchalantly drink from Zara's cup, as though mocking the normalcy Aman had just been experiencing, crossed a line.

Aman clenched his jaw, his teeth grinding slightly. His dislike was quickly turning into outright loathing. His breathing, though still shallow, steadied. He sat a little straighter, his eyes narrowing slightly. He didn't trust himself to speak yet, so he stayed silent, but his body language said enough.

The man, clearly reveling in the tension, smirked. It was the kind of smirk that sent a message: You're completely at my mercy, and I enjoy it.

Aman didn't flinch. Despite the rage simmering just beneath the surface, he held his composure. His mind raced with possibilities. He couldn't fight this guy—not physically, not mentally. And yet, he refused to let himself look weak.

"Well?" the man said, his smirk widening as he placed the cup back on the table. "Aren't you going to say something? You seemed so confident yesterday in the library. Leading the charge, playing the brave hero."

Aman's fingers dug into the edge of the table, his nails scraping against the surface. He didn't like where this was going.

The man's expression darkened, though his smirk remained. "Nothing to say? That's disappointing. I expected more from you."

Aman exhaled slowly, forcing his frustration down. Don't give him anything. Don't let him win.

Finally, Aman spoke, his voice low but steady. "I don't know what you want, but if you're here to intimidate me, save yourself the effort. It's not going to work."

The man tilted his head, amused. "Oh, I'm not here to intimidate you. I'm here to... observe."

"Observe what?" Aman shot back.

"You," the man said simply, his tone unnervingly casual. 

Aman's fists tightened under the table again. "I'm not a toy," he said, his voice firm.

The man chuckled. "Oh, I wouldn't dream of calling you a toy. You're more... complicated than that."

He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table, his casual demeanor unsettling. "Ah, where are my manners? This is our second time meeting, and I haven't even introduced myself." His voice was smooth, but it carried an edge that put Aman on high alert.

Aman's expression didn't shift, but internally, every nerve in his body was screaming. Something about the way this man spoke, the air around him—it was wrong.

"I'm Kazik," he continued, his smile widening just enough to show a glimmer of teeth. His name echoed in Aman's mind, like it was trying to carve itself into his thoughts.

"What do you want from me?" Aman asked, cutting straight to the point. He didn't care for whatever show Kazik was trying to put on.

Kazik tilted his head, amused by the bluntness, but his gaze sharpened, predatory. He leaned in just slightly, and his next words felt less like a sound and more like a whisper sliding into Aman's ears.

"Join us."

Aman blinked. The words sent a shiver down his spine. What?

"Excuse me?" Aman said, his voice steady, though his heart pounded in his chest.

Kazik's smile deepened, as if he found Aman's reaction amusing. He sat back, completely at ease. "You heard me. I think you'd be a fine addition to our little... collective."

Kazik leaned back in his chair, the ease in his movements at odds with the tension crackling in the air. "You know, Aman, I'm not just offering you a place in some group. I'm offering you power—power you can't even begin to imagine."

Aman stared at him, his expression unreadable, though his mind raced. Power? What the hell was this guy talking about? He didn't respond, refusing to give Kazik the satisfaction of an immediate reaction.

Kazik raised a hand, as if sensing Aman's disbelief. "Let me show you."

The air around them suddenly shimmered, like heat rising off asphalt on a summer day. Aman blinked, and in an instant, the canteen was gone.

In its place stood an opulent palace, the marble floors gleaming under an impossibly high ceiling adorned with golden chandeliers. Intricate tapestries hung from the walls, depicting scenes of battles, feasts, and kingdoms he couldn't place. The air smelled faintly of incense, rich and exotic. Aman instinctively looked down at his feet, the polished floor reflecting his confused expression back at him.

"What the—" Aman muttered under his breath, but Kazik cut him off.

"Impressive, isn't it? This is just the beginning."

Before Aman could respond, the palace dissolved into a lush, humid jungle. The sounds of chirping birds and distant animal calls filled his ears, and the scent of damp earth and greenery replaced the incense. The temperature rose, beads of sweat forming on his brow. Vines hung from massive trees, their leaves shimmering as though kissed by sunlight that filtered through the dense canopy.

Aman's hands clenched into fists at his sides. He wasn't scared or even impressed—just dumbfounded. His mind struggled to process what he was seeing.

"Still in disbelief?" Kazik's voice broke through the cacophony of the jungle, calm and almost mocking. With a snap of his fingers, the canteen returned as if it had never vanished.

Aman blinked, his heart pounding. He glanced around, half-expecting the walls to melt away again, but everything appeared... normal.

Kazik tilted his head, studying Aman's reaction. "This? This is nothing compared to what you could do. Reality is... malleable, Aman. A canvas, waiting for the right artist to shape it. With my power, you could do more than just exist in this world. You could better it. Shape it. Bend it to your will."

Aman stayed silent, his mind still reeling. He didn't trust himself to speak, didn't trust that he could form a coherent sentence even if he wanted to.

Kazik let out a low chuckle. "Ezra didn't tell you, did he?" His voice took on a sharp edge. "I can smell him on you. He approached you, didn't he?"

Aman's eyes narrowed slightly, but he kept his mouth shut.

Kazik leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with something darker now. "Let me guess. He played the friendly mentor? Tried to win you over with charm and riddles? Typical." He smirked, but there was something bitter behind it.

"So, you two aren't exactly on good terms," Aman said finally, his voice low but steady.

"Let's just say Ezra and I have... differing philosophies." Kazik's tone was measured, but the hostility was evident. He waved a hand dismissively. "But don't worry, I have no intention of harming you. The little stunt in the library? That was just a test. A way to see what you're made of."

"A test?" Aman's voice sharpened. "You threatened us. You told us we could die."

Kazik sighed, as if he were explaining something to a particularly stubborn child. "I admit, I may have gone a bit overboard. But it worked, didn't it? You're here, sitting across from me, and I've got your attention. That's all I needed."

Aman's jaw tightened, but he didn't respond.

Kazik's smirk never faltered as he watched Aman. His piercing gaze seemed to dig straight through him, as if searching for something hidden just beneath the surface. "Well?" he asked, his tone deceptively casual. "What will it be? No need to deliberate forever, Aman. I'm not here to twist your arm. I'm simply... curious."

Aman swallowed hard, his throat dry as sandpaper. The weight of Kazik's presence felt oppressive, the air itself seeming to hang heavier around him. "Are you... from Umbra Nex?" he asked, his voice steadier than he'd expected.

For the first time, Kazik's composure faltered ever so slightly. His eyebrows rose, and he let out a soft chuckle, low and almost amused. "People still call us that? That feels like a lifetime ago." His expression shifted, his smirk giving way to something more contemplative. "I suppose the stories never really die, do they?"

Aman tensed, his mind scrambling to make sense of the situation. Umbra Nex—the supposed cult, the boogeyman whispered about in certain circles. He'd heard the stories, the rumors, but to have someone from that group sitting across from him, talking like this...

Kazik leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "But we're not what you think, Aman. I assure you, we're nothing like the stories. Sure, there was... a dark period. A time when certain leaders lost sight of what we truly stood for. Rulers who were, let's say, too ambitious for their own good."

"And now?" Aman asked, his voice laced with skepticism.

Kazik's eyes lit up, his smile widening with something bordering on excitement. "Now, our goals have evolved. We don't want to rule the world—we want to fix it. To shape it into something better. Something greater." His tone shifted, becoming almost like a salesman pitching a revolutionary new idea. "Imagine a world free from chaos, from suffering. A world where everything is... as it should be."

Aman's stomach churned. His instincts screamed at him to reject every word Kazik said. It sounded too polished, too perfect. This was a classic villain monologue if he'd ever heard one.

"Why do you want me?" Aman pressed, forcing himself to maintain eye contact despite the growing unease in his gut.

Kazik's smile took on a sharper edge, a glint of satisfaction flickering in his eyes. "You were chosen, Aman," he said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Aman blinked. Of course. The chosen one. How original. He almost rolled his eyes but stopped himself, the weight of the moment too overwhelming to dismiss so easily.

"Chosen by who?" Aman asked, his voice quiet but firm.

Kazik's eyes widened, and his words hung in the air like a thunderclap. "By a very powerful god—even, some might say, the most powerful."

Aman stared at him, the words bouncing around his head like marbles in a jar. Gods? His mind struggled to process it, his reality unraveling with every second.

Kazik leaned back, his voice taking on a reverent quality. "He marked you, Aman. Branded you the moment you were born. Declared that no one—not us, not the Keepers, not anyone—could claim you until the time was right. Until now."

Aman's brain felt like it had short-circuited. Marked? Branded? Claimed? The words barely registered, going in one ear and out the other. It was too much. Too big. Too absurd.

Aman's mouth had gone dry, his head light and spinning. What the fuck is going on? he screamed internally, but his voice didn't follow. His curiosity, however, clawed its way to the surface, overpowering the whirlwind of panic in his chest. "What's that god's name?" he blurted out before he could stop himself.

Kazik's entire demeanor shifted. The easy, confident smile vanished, replaced by a tensed jaw and narrowed eyes. The air around him grew colder, heavier, as if the room itself was reacting to his change in mood. "We are not to speak his name so casually..." he said, his voice low and edged with something that almost sounded like fear. His hands, which had rested calmly on the table, twitched slightly before he interlaced his fingers, squeezing them tight.

Aman's stomach twisted at the sight. This man—this Kazik—had shown nothing but smug confidence up until now. But this? He looked afraid.

"I know the Keepers have already sent Ezra after you," Kazik continued, his sharp eyes flickering down for the briefest of moments. "You can stop fidgeting with that card in your pocket."

Aman froze, feeling the blood drain from his face. His hand instinctively moved away from his pocket, where the edge of Ezra's card had been digging into his fingertips. He hadn't even realized he'd been touching it. He felt like a child caught in a lie, his body stiff and his mind scrambling for a response.

"Who are the Keepers?" Aman asked, deflecting, hoping to steer the conversation away from himself.

Kazik leaned back slightly, his relaxed demeanor returning, though his sharp gaze betrayed a simmering malice beneath the surface. "A group similar to us," he began, his tone deliberate, like a teacher explaining something to a particularly dense student. "But don't let that fool you. While we strive to reform and purify the world—to fix the chaos that humans have sown for millennia—they exist solely to get in our way."

His words were calm, but there was venom in every syllable. Kazik's smile returned, wider now, but it felt more like a predator baring its teeth. "The Keepers cling to the past, to outdated ideals and pointless rules. They think they're guardians of balance, but all they really do is preserve a broken system."

Aman's expression remained neutral, though his mind raced. This sounds rehearsed, he thought, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. Kazik's description of the Keepers seemed too polished, too absolute—like someone trying to sell an idea, not present the truth.

"They paint us as monsters," Kazik continued, leaning forward now, his voice low and insidious, "but they're the ones holding humanity back. They're terrified of change, terrified of progress. They'll lie, cheat, and kill to protect their so-called 'order.' And all the while, they hide behind their self-righteous masks, pretending they're the heroes."

Aman tilted his head slightly, watching Kazik carefully. The man was clearly trying to sway him, painting the Keepers as villains without providing anything concrete. Aman couldn't help but notice the subtle contradictions in his words. If the Keepers were really as dangerous and obstructive as Kazik claimed, why was he so focused on discrediting them?

"Sounds like there's a lot of bad blood," Aman said evenly, testing the waters. He wanted to see how far Kazik would go in twisting the narrative.

Kazik laughed softly, the sound cold and humorless. "Bad blood? That's putting it mildly. They've been a thorn in our side for centuries. When we tried to bring unity and order to the world, they fought us tooth and nail. They drove us underground, forced us into hiding, all because they feared what we could achieve."

His voice grew sharper, his frustration bubbling to the surface. "They call themselves 'Keepers,' but what are they keeping? A dying world? A failing species? They cling to an illusion of control, too afraid to see the truth: that we're offering salvation."

Aman's stomach twisted at the word salvation. It felt too... theatrical, like something ripped straight out of a villain's monologue. He kept his face impassive, though inwardly, he was growing more and more skeptical. He's justifying everything they've done. Even the bad stuff.

"And what about you?" Aman asked, his voice steady but probing. "You've never done anything you'd call... questionable? No regrets?"

Kazik's smile faltered for a split second before he recovered. "Of course, there are always sacrifices in the pursuit of a greater good," he said smoothly, as if the words had been rehearsed a hundred times. "But we don't make those choices lightly. Unlike the Keepers, who act out of fear and ignorance, we act with purpose. Everything we do—everything I do—is for the betterment of this world."

There it is again, Aman thought, his chest tightening. He's so focused on justifying himself. Why is he trying so hard to convince me? The more Kazik spoke, the more it became clear that this wasn't just a conversation—it was a recruitment pitch. Kazik wasn't here to share information or to explain the truth; he was here to manipulate Aman into choosing his side.

Aman's silence seemed to irritate Kazik. "I can see you're still skeptical," Kazik said, his tone almost condescending now. 

"But let me assure you, Aman—what we offer isn't some hollow promise. It's real. It's tangible. And unlike the Keepers, we're not bound by outdated morals or petty rules. We have the power to reshape this world, to create something better."

Aman swallowed hard, keeping his gaze fixed on Kazik. He was starting to piece together the dynamics at play—the hostility between these groups, the competing ideologies, the way Kazik seemed almost desperate to frame himself as the righteous side. He's trying to steer me, make me doubt them while painting himself as noble. But if they were so righteous, why would they need to justify themselves so much?

Still, Aman said nothing, letting the silence hang. Kazik's sharp gaze never wavered, and the quiet stretched between them. Finally, Kazik leaned forward slightly, his smile softening, his tone shifting. It was no longer condescending but strangely empathetic.

"You feel it too, don't you?" Kazik asked, his voice quieter now, almost intimate. "That... hollowness. That nagging thought in the back of your mind. Like no matter what you do—no matter how hard you try—something's missing."

Aman froze, the words hitting uncomfortably close to home. He didn't respond, but Kazik clearly noticed the shift in his posture, the slight tension in his jaw.

"You've been searching for something, Aman. Haven't you?" Kazik pressed, his voice steady and calm, like he wasn't trying to sell anything anymore—like he was stating a fact. "You've pushed people away. You've questioned the point of everything—the routines, the friendships, the meaningless affection. You've always felt there was something more, haven't you? Something bigger. Something waiting for you."

Aman's breath hitched slightly, but he forced himself to keep his face blank. How does he know that? The truth of Kazik's words unsettled him. He'd always chalked up those feelings to normal teenage angst, the vague dissatisfaction with life that everyone seemed to have. But hearing it laid out so plainly, so accurately—it made him feel exposed, like Kazik was peering into parts of him he didn't even fully understand himself.

Kazik leaned back, his expression thoughtful, almost sympathetic. "That feeling isn't a curse, Aman. It's a gift. You were born with it for a reason. You've been searching because deep down, you know you're meant for more than this. More than some ordinary life. You were made for a purpose."

Aman's hands tightened into fists under the table. He wanted to argue, to call Kazik out on his manipulative tone, but... it wasn't entirely wrong. That hollow feeling—the constant sense that he didn't quite belong, that there was something beyond this monotonous existence—it had always been there. He hated to admit it, but Kazik had a point.

Kazik's smile widened, his voice taking on a persuasive edge again. "We can give you that purpose, Aman. A life of meaning. A chance to leave behind the doubts, the emptiness, the aimless wandering. You don't have to keep fighting it. You don't have to be alone in this."

Aman's mind raced. He's right about me, he thought bitterly. I've always felt like I'm just... existing, like I'm waiting for something that'll never come. But this? This can't be it. This can't be the answer.

Still, the thought gnawed at him. What if it was the answer? What if this was the reason for everything—the emptiness, the disconnection? What if Kazik was right, and he really was meant for something greater?

Kazik must have sensed his hesitation, because his smile turned almost triumphant. "I can see you're starting to understand," he said, his tone like honey. "You've spent your whole life wondering where you fit, what your place in this world is. And now, here I am, telling you the truth you've been searching for."

Aman felt his chest tighten, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts. Kazik's words were tempting—too tempting. But there was something about all of this that still felt... off. He couldn't ignore the unease in his gut, the lingering feeling that Kazik was saying exactly what he wanted to hear.

"What's the catch?" Aman asked finally, his voice low.

Kazik's smile didn't falter. "No catch," he said smoothly. "Only the truth. You were chosen, Aman. You've always been chosen. All you have to do is step into your purpose."

Kazik's words lingered in the air, tantalizing and heavy, pulling at parts of Aman he'd never fully understood. He could see it—almost feel it—the promise of purpose, the chance to finally fill that hollow ache in his chest. For a moment, he let himself imagine it, almost considered it. Maybe he's right. Maybe this is what I've been searching for.

But then shame washed over him, sharp and bitter. What the hell is wrong with me? Aman thought, clenching his fists beneath the table. Just because Kazik had hit a nerve didn't mean he was right. Just because Aman had questions about his life, about his place in the world, didn't mean he was about to join some psycho cult that wanted to "purify" the world.

He exhaled sharply and leaned back in his seat, forcing himself to meet Kazik's sharp gaze. "No," Aman said firmly, his voice cold and steady. "I'm not interested in your little ideology."

Kazik blinked, his smile faltering for the first time. "Excuse me?"

"I said no," Aman repeated, louder this time. "I'm not joining your self-righteous, reality-bending psycho squad, or whatever you call yourselves."

Kazik tilted his head, his expression unreadable. "I think you misunderstand what's being offered here, Aman. This isn't something you can just—"

"I understand perfectly," Aman cut him off, his confidence growing with every word. "You think you can swoop in with your creepy cult nonsense, play on my insecurities, and get me to join you. And for a second, maybe you almost had me. But let me make something very clear—I'm not interested in your 'world purification' garbage. Whatever you're selling, I'm not buying."

Kazik's gaze darkened, his smile slipping entirely. "Be careful, Aman," he said, his tone sharper now. "You don't know what you're dealing with."

"Oh, I think I'm starting to figure it out," Aman retorted, his voice laced with sarcasm. "You're just a bunch of cowards hiding in the shadows because you can't take the Keepers head-on. Is that it? You're weaker than them, so you skulk around, trying to recruit people like me to do your dirty work."

Kazik's composure cracked, a flicker of anger flashing in his eyes. "Watch your mouth," he said, his voice low and dangerous.

"Why?" Aman said, pushing further. "Did I hit a nerve? Must suck being second-best, huh? Always living in someone else's shadow, always afraid to face them head-on."

Kazik's hand twitched at his side, and Aman caught the flash of metal as he pulled a dagger from his cloak. The blade gleamed unnaturally, its edges catching the light in ways that didn't seem entirely real.

"I tried to play nice," Kazik said, his voice now cold and venomous. "I really did. But this little act of yours? It's getting obnoxious."

Before Aman could react, Kazik lunged forward with inhuman speed, his hand clamping around Aman's throat. The force of it sent Aman's chair skidding back, and he gasped as his airway was partially cut off. Kazik's grip was like iron, his strength far beyond anything Aman had ever encountered.

"I don't need your agreement," Kazik hissed, his face inches from Aman's. "I just need you alive. You can change your mind later."

Aman struggled against the grip, his hands clawing at Kazik's arm, but it was useless. The world around him seemed to darken, the air growing heavy with Kazik's oppressive presence. He could feel the sharp edge of the dagger hovering near his side, a silent threat that promised things could get much worse.

Aman's breath came in short, rasping gasps as Kazik's iron grip tightened around his throat. His legs kicked against the floor, his hands clawing at Kazik's arm, but it was like trying to move a steel bar. He knew it was futile, that there was no way he could overpower someone like Kazik, but he couldn't just give up. He had to try. He had to fight.

Kazik's lips curled into a cruel smile, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement as he watched Aman's desperate struggle. "Oh, this is delightful," he murmured, his tone dripping with sadistic pleasure. "Humans always think they can wriggle free if they just try hard enough. Go on, Aman. Keep struggling. It's... entertaining."

Aman's mind raced, his vision blurring at the edges as his lungs screamed for air. He had to think of something, anything. Then, like a flash of lightning, an idea struck him. It was a complete shot in the dark, but he had no other options. With the last ounce of air in his lungs, he croaked out, "Imagine... what that god of yours would say... if—if they find out about this."

His voice was barely audible, strained and broken, but the effect was immediate. Kazik froze, his smile faltering ever so slightly. A shadow passed over his face, and his grip loosened just enough for Aman to draw a shallow, desperate breath.

Aman didn't let the moment slip. His mind screamed at him to act. Now or never. Summoning every ounce of strength left in his battered body, he brought his legs up and drove both feet into Kazik's abdomen with as much force as he could muster.

The impact barely made Kazik stumble, but it was enough. His grip slackened, and Aman tore himself free, collapsing onto the floor and gasping for air. He scrambled backward, his throat burning, his hands trembling, but Kazik didn't lunge after him immediately. Instead, the man looked down at his midsection, then back at Aman, his expression shifting from surprise to cold fury.

Kazik tilted his head, his eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. "Bold," he muttered, his voice low and venomous. "Stupid, but bold."

Aman barely had time to react before Kazik moved. One swift kick—it didn't even look particularly forceful—caught Aman square in the chest. The world blurred as he was sent flying across the room, crashing hard into a table that splintered beneath him. The pain was immediate and blinding. His ribs felt like they had shattered, each shallow breath sending jolts of agony through his torso. He lay there, sprawled and unable to move, his vision swimming as the sounds of the canteen warped and faded around him.

His mind, however, refused to stop. What the hell just happened? he thought, his body throbbing with pain. Memories of his years of training flashed through his mind—broken boards, sparring partners, bruises—but those injuries felt like scratches compared to this. He'd been taught how to endure pain, how to push through it, but this was beyond anything he'd ever experienced. This... this isn't normal. He's not normal.

Kazik approached slowly, his footsteps deliberate, like a predator toying with its prey. His scowl deepened as he looked down at Aman, who lay motionless but defiant, his eyes glaring up at Kazik despite the pain. "You're really starting to get on my nerves," Kazik said, his voice colder than before. "I tried to be nice. I gave you the chance to join something greater, to have purpose, and this is how you repay me? Kicking me like a child throwing a tantrum?"

Aman tried to speak, to say anything, but his body refused to cooperate. Kazik crouched down beside him, gripping the hilt of his dagger. The silver blade gleamed in the dim light, cold and unrelenting. Kazik's eyes bore into Aman's as he spoke, his voice dripping with contempt.

"I may have overestimated your worth to you, worm," he hissed, the venom in his tone cutting deeper than the blade ever could. "You aren't the only one who was chosen, you know. You just happened to be the easiest one to control, a measly human who hasn't even unlocked his prowess… or so we thought."

The dagger's edge trailed across Aman's throat, cool and sharp, sending a shiver down his spine. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, his body frozen in place. Every nerve screamed for him to fight, but his mind drew blanks, panicking as it searched desperately for a way out. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, drowning out every rational thought.

Kazik's grin widened, his amusement palpable as he watched Aman's frantic eyes dart around, looking for anything, anything, to save himself. "What's wrong, Aman? Run out of your little tricks? Or maybe you've finally realized how utterly insignificant you are."

Aman's chest heaved as he tried to think. There has to be something—anything— but his mind betrayed him. He thought back to his life, of every fleeting chance he'd passed up for a normal life. And now here he was—pinned, helpless, and at the mercy of a man who looked at him like a predator savoring his next meal.

Kazik pressed the dagger slightly harder against Aman's skin, just enough for him to feel the edge biting in, drawing the faintest line of warmth. Aman flinched, his pulse racing.

"You can feel it, can't you?" Kazik whispered, leaning in closer, his breath cold against Aman's ear. "That fragile thread of life hanging by a mere thread. You should be grateful, you know—I'm giving you the chance to truly understand your place in the world."

Aman's mind screamed, but no sound left his lips. His body was paralyzed, every muscle failing him as if surrendering to the inevitable. He couldn't let it end like this. Think, dammit, think! But every thought dissolved into static, leaving him spiraling into hopelessness.

Kazik pulled back slightly, his expression shifting into something colder, more detached. He tilted his head, almost as if he were pondering a decision. "Maybe I should just end it here," he said softly, more to himself than to Aman. "A shame, really. All that potential, wasted."

Aman's breath hitched as Kazik raised the dagger, the cold gleam of its blade flashing in his vision. This is it, he thought, panic clawing at the edges of his mind. This is how it ends.

Kazik's eyes gleamed with finality as the blade began to descend.