CHAPTER 2: THE CAGE

It wasn't real.

It couldn't be.

Ishan Malhotra lay on a torn mat in a room smaller than his old bathroom, staring at the cracked ceiling above him. A flickering bulb buzzed like a dying insect. The walls were stained, the air thick with the stink of sweat, rotting food, and human desperation.

His fingers trembled as he touched his face again.

Thin. Rough. Alien.

Not the jawline that adorned magazine covers. Not the flawless skin maintained by custom serums flown in monthly from Switzerland. These hands weren't hands — they were sticks.

His body was a joke.

"This is a dream," he whispered hoarsely, his voice unrecognizable. "It has to be."

But dreams didn't stink like this. Dreams didn't itch with lice or make your stomach twist from hunger. Dreams didn't have buzzing flies near your ear or rusted fans squeaking above your head.

And dreams didn't slap you with reality when a small voice broke through your thoughts.

"Bhaiya…?"

That girl again. The one who'd clung to him when he woke up. Her face appeared in the doorway — wide brown eyes, matted hair, oversized frock torn at the collar.

"You're still awake," she said hopefully. "Do you want water? Amma said to boil it so your stomach doesn't hurt again…"

He blinked at her. She was smiling. As if the return of her brother meant the world.

He said nothing.

She stepped forward, holding a tin cup in her tiny hands.

"I'll bring food soon. Bhaiya… you look better today," she added with a shaky grin.

He stared at her like she was a glitch in a broken simulation.

What is this? Why is she looking at me like that? With… care?Why would anyone smile like that… for me?

She moved closer.

And he flinched.

She froze.

He stood up suddenly — or tried to.

His legs gave out. The world spun.

He collapsed, face-first into the dusty floor. The tin cup clattered. Water spilled. His elbows scraped the stone.

"Bhaiya!" she cried, rushing to him.

"DON'T TOUCH ME!" he roared.

She froze. Her lip trembled.

He pushed himself up on shaking arms, breathing like a cornered animal.

"I don't need you. I don't need any of you! This is fake. A hallucination. A goddamn glitch in my brain. I'm Ishan Malhotra! You hear me? I don't live like this—I own this kind of filth!"

She didn't understand a word.

He didn't care.

His mind raced.

This is a trick. Someone's messing with my head. Some kind of simulation. Sensory punishment. Psy-ops. Corporate revenge? A dream? A coma? I just need to find a way out.

He looked around the room again — for cameras, wires, clues. But all he found was a rusted calendar on the wall and a fly-covered bowl of yesterday's rice.

His heart began to pound.

The girl sniffled. "I… I didn't mean to make you angry…"

"Then leave," he snapped.

She didn't move.

He pointed to the door with a shaky hand. "I said, GET OUT!"

She ran. Not with a scream, but with soft sobs.

He sat back against the wall, chest heaving.

This wasn't him.

This couldn't be happening.

The woman — the one who claimed to be his mother — returned an hour later with a threadbare saree, a steel plate of flatbread, and something that might have once been lentils.

"Eat, beta," she said gently.

He stared at the food like it was poison.

"I'm not hungry."

Her face fell. "You haven't eaten in two days…"

"I don't eat this crap," he muttered.

She knelt beside him, brushing his hair back with warm fingers.

"I know it's hard," she said. "You've been sick. Maybe your head is still dizzy. But you're strong. You always were."

He flinched again.

"Don't touch me."

She pulled her hand back, pain flickering in her eyes.

"I'll leave it here," she said, placing the plate down. "Eat when you feel like it. You're my son. I'll never force you."

And she left.

Ishan stared at the food.

And then at his hands.

He lifted a chapati slowly. The flour crumbled at the edges. His hands were shaking so badly, he dropped it.

He pressed his fists to his eyes.

This is hell. I'm in hell.

The next time someone entered, it wasn't the girl or the woman.

It was him — a boy around seventeen or eighteen, with a bruised ego and fire in his eyes. His skin was tanned from the sun, his clothes torn at the knees. He tossed a cloth bag on the ground.

"Ma told me to bring medicine. You better thank her later."

Ishan raised an eyebrow.

"You're the 'big brother,' I assume?"

The boy snorted. "Not anymore. You think you can die and come back and still act like a king?"

He stepped forward, eyes narrowing.

"I don't know what happened to your head, but if you yell at my sister again, I'll forget you're 'recovering.' Got it?"

Ishan slowly stood, using the wall for support. He was barely half as tall now, thin as a rail.

And yet, when he spoke, his voice still carried the weight of command.

"Careful who you talk to, boy. You're nothing compared to who I used to be."

The brother laughed. "And now you're not even that. You're just a sick, half-dead brat with no memory and no manners."

He turned and left without another word.

Ishan's hands balled into fists.

He would never have dared speak to me like that. Not before.

Before.

Before he had his name. His power. His empire.

Now? He couldn't even stand straight.

That night, he crawled outside.

He had to prove it.

That this wasn't real. That this was a nightmare.

He stepped barefoot into the narrow alley. The ground was wet with filth. Rats scurried past his feet. The moonlight was blocked by buildings stacked like broken matchboxes.

Children laughed in the distance. Somewhere, a woman screamed at her drunk husband. A dog barked near an overflowing drain.

He kept walking.

A voice in his head kept saying, "This is beneath you. This isn't real. You are Ishan Malhotra."

But another voice — quieter — whispered, "Then why can't you wake up?"

He walked until his knees gave out. Until his vision blurred. Until the stench and the noise overwhelmed every cell of his being.

He collapsed in a pile of rags beside a leaking pipe.

And for the first time in two lives… he cried.

Not because of pain.

Not because of hunger.

But because he realized something far more terrifying than death had happened.

He had been reborn.

Stripped of everything.

And now, for the first time, he was caged inside a world he couldn't buy, command, or escape.

A world where love wasn't a transaction.

Where pain wasn't a punishment — it was a teacher.

But he didn't know that yet.

All he knew… was that the cage had locked.

And this time, the key wasn't made of gold.