Chapter 6: Hollow
Aadi woke screaming, "No—no more!"—his voice a fractured wail tearing from his throat as he thrashed on the mattress, sheets tangling like a snare. Pain seared his chest—sharp, brutal, where the blade had sliced him—his hands scraping at skin, blood's bitter tang gagging him. The clock blinked 6:00 a.m., the same Tuesday sun glaring through the curtains, the window rattling in grim jest. His body quaked—ribs sore, arm burning, head splitting—the hum whispering Sindhu… Sagar…, faint and ruthless. He'd died—again—steel cutting him, Manisha's throat spraying, Neha's skull shattering, Ria's neck snapping—darkness taking him. Now here, the same crack in his wall mocking him, and scars—fresh, cruel—scarred his flesh: a thick, red slash across his chest, raw from the blade; a jagged mark on his arm, carved by fists or flames; a welt snaking over his ribs, accusing and new.
"Why… why me?" he moaned, fingers grazing the chest scar—rough, stinging—te ars spilling down his face. How many deaths? Too many to bear? His mind sank, a shattered shell—was it real? A nightmare etching him? He ripped his shirt open, staring—scars mapped his torso, a gallery of pain, each line a ghost of a death he couldn't escape. He curled tight, knees to chest, room fading, the hum droning—Axiom… Axiom…. That name—stitched in shadow, glimpsed mid-fight—loomed, a heavy shroud. He didn't know who they were, what they were—just a name, but it carried power, a weight that crushed him. They'd killed him, taken the rock, ended his friends. And he'd reset—again, scarred deeper. For what? They'd crush him, they always would—those hooded figures behind that name.
He dragged himself downstairs, scars itching under his torn shirt, legs leaden, breath shallow. The kitchen smelled of burnt toast, bitter coffee, and the faint tang of overripe fruit—his mother stood by the counter, slicing an apple with cold precision, her sharp eyes flicking up as he stumbled in, pale and trembling. His father sat at the table, hunched over a crossword, pen scratching, a plate of cold eggs and a chipped mug beside him. The clock ticked above the sink, loud in the silence, the fridge humming faintly. Aadi slumped into a chair, hands limp, scars tugging with every shift, his face a mask of exhaustion—eyes sunken, skin sallow, a boy hollowed out.
His mother paused, knife glinting mid-cut, her gaze narrowing as she took him in. "You're awake… screaming again." Her voice was low, edged with unease, studying him like a ledger gone wrong. She set the knife down, apple forgotten, and crossed her arms, her posture rigid—always assessing, always counting costs. "What's wrong with you? You're… off today—more than usual." Her tone was sharp, suspicious, peeling back his hopelessness like it was a flaw to fix. She stepped closer, peering at his torn shirt, the way he slouched—her lips thinned. "Look at you—shaking, pale, barely here. This isn't just a tantrum. What's this about, Aadi? You're useless like this—can't even function." Her words were ice, pragmatic—money drove her, not him; his collapse was a loss she couldn't afford, a puzzle threatening her bottom line.
His father grunted, not looking up, "Absurd as usual," the pen scratching louder—always that scratch, a shield of dismissal. But then he stopped, glancing over the paper's edge, his brow creasing as he saw Aadi's state—scarred shirt, trembling hands, empty eyes. "You eating?" he muttered, nudging the plate of eggs toward him, a small, gruff move. Aadi stared at the congealed mess, stomach roiling, and didn't touch it. His father sighed, setting the pen down, rubbing his temple. "You look like hell, kid. Sick? Tired? Say something." His voice was rough, distant on the surface, but there—a thread of worry, a flicker of care she didn't share. He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, waiting—unlike her cold scrutiny, his was softer, buried under years of quiet walls.
"Doesn't matter…" Aadi whispered, voice flat, pushing the plate back, scars aching under his shirt. His mother's eyes flashed, suspicion hardening—she slapped a hand on the table, leaning in close, her voice dropping low and cutting. "Doesn't matter? You're falling apart—those tremors, that look. You're hiding something, and it's costing us. I don't raise dead weight—snap out of it or explain." Her stare bored into him, mercenary-sharp, all profit and no pity—his weirdness wasn't just odd now, it was a threat to her world.
His father frowned, waving a hand at her. "Ease up, Reena—he's not a damn employee. He's just a kid, probably slept bad." He turned to Aadi, voice softening a notch. "Hey—stay home today, huh? Rest up, get your head straight. You don't have to push if you're not right." His gruff care clashed with her cold edge, a rare crack in his distance showing through—he cared, quietly, where she only calculated.
Aadi didn't answer, staring at the table's chipped edge, the hum pulsing—Axiom. That name, tied to power, to this hell—his parents' voices faded to noise. He shoved up, chair scraping, and shuffled out, their words trailing—"Let him go," his father said, tired; "Something's not right—he's useless like this," his mother shot back, cold and sharp. The walk to school blurred—death, blood, reset, Axiom.
Nikhil jogged over, football under his arm, but no grin—just wide, worried eyes, voice soft. "Aadi… you okay? You look wrecked—what's wrong?" He stepped closer, eyeing Aadi's torn shirt, the hint of scars beneath.
"Tuesday…" Aadi mumbled, voice hollow, gaze drifting—shadows bled, sounds muted, scars pulsing under cloth.
"Yeah, but…" Nikhil hesitated, hand hovering near Aadi's shoulder. "You're breaking, man—what's happening? Tell me."
"Doesn't matter…" Aadi said, turning away, scars aching, the courtyard droning—same snare, same doom. That name—Axiom—stuck like wet ash, not a light. He didn't know what it meant, but it was mighty—tied to this trap, these scars. The rock was theirs—planted, reclaimed. Ria woke it, they silenced it, and he was caught, a scarred pawn. Why fight? They'd slash him again.
By midmorning, whispers hummed—phones flashing the photo, blurry near the girls' washroom, 4:13 p.m. He didn't react, barely saw Neha and Manisha by the canteen—alive, untouched, as ever. He shuffled over, voice a thin rasp. "You're dead… I saw it… useless…"
Neha blinked, glasses slipping. "Aadi? Dead—"
"They killed us," he murmured, the hum faint, hands slack, shirt sagging to bare the chest scar—red, glaring. "Three men—hoods—stabbed me here…"—he touched it—"cut your throat, smashed your head—Ria's neck broke. Took the rock—glowing, Sindhu Sagar—I woke up. They're strong… Axiom… they'll do it again…"
Manisha stepped back, braid swinging, staring at the scar. "Killed? That mark—you're not even pushing—you're gone!"
"It's real," he said, eyes blank, slumping against the wall, pulling his shirt wider—arm scar stark, welt on ribs vivid. "Felt it—blood, pain—every time. Scars prove it—look. They're powerful—Axiom—know this trap… left the rock—Ria woke it—they killed us—I reset. Can't beat them…"
Neha gasped, twisting her sweater, voice trembling. "Those scars… terrifying—but you're here—we're here. You can't stop!"
Manisha grabbed his arm, yanking him up. "You're a wreck—killers, scars? Wild, but I'm not letting you fade. Ria's out there—let's go."
Aadi sagged, voice dull. "Library… science block… she had it… they took it… hopeless…"
"No shot," Manisha snapped, hauling him forward. "We're moving—I'm not watching you waste away!" Neha nodded, shaky but firm, trailing as they dragged him toward the library, his steps faltering, scars tugging with each lurch, the hum a lifeless thud.
He trailed as they reached the shed—rusted, sagging, generator buzzing. The janitor stood there, wild-eyed, wrench raised, muttering. Aadi didn't flinch as the wrench swung, cracking his shoulder—blood oozed, pain dim under the scars' weight. "Photo boy—back! Marked!" the janitor hissed, swinging again—Aadi stumbled, limp, as Manisha shoved the janitor off, wrench clattering free.
"What's that mean?!" she barked, pinning him.
"They had him!" the janitor spat, thrashing. "Kid—screaming—the rock—Sindhu Sagar's piece! He lived—they let him go—Ria woke it—loops—they don't know what he is!"
Manisha let go, glaring at Aadi. "Hear that? They don't know—you're still here!" The janitor bolted, vanishing into the crowd. Aadi sank to the dirt, blood pooling, scars throbbing, the hum a whisper.
"Still here… means nothing… they're too strong… they'll kill me again…"
Neha and Manisha returned, breathless. "Science block," Manisha said, pulling him up. "No rock—bag's empty—she's ranting 'they took it—he's mine!'—she's lost it."
Neha knelt, voice soft. "Aadi—those scars, the blood—you're alive. We'll figure it—don 't give up."
"Axiom…" he whispered, eyes hollow, blood staining his jeans, scars glaring in the light. "Strong… know this… killed us—I reset. Can't fight them…"
Manisha's jaw clenched. "Can't? I'm not done—you're not either. Who's next—Ria? Them?"
Aadi stared, voice a breath. "Them… Axiom… too strong… won't save me…"
The bell rang, the day grinding on, but he sat, shoulder leaking, scars raw and accusing, mind void—Ria distant, janitor gone, his parents' voices a faint echo. The loop churned, darkness loomed, and he faded—hopeless, scarred, a husk dragged on.