Chapter 6: A Face from the Flames

The next morning, Ishan woke before the sun. The mattress beneath him was still warm from his body heat, the air thick with the scent of damp cotton and rusted iron. Aaru lay curled beside him, her tiny hands clutching a worn stuffed toy. Kabir snored softly across the room, his arm flung over the side of the bed. The ceiling above, with its faint cracks and flickering shadows, had become too familiar.

Ishan sat up slowly, mind sharp.

Last night's thoughts hadn't left him. They haunted the corners of his awareness like cold embers refusing to die out. He had to understand. His death — was it an accident or something more? A detail overlooked could cost him again. And he wasn't the kind to leave debts unpaid.

The librarian's routine was precise. Ishan had already noted her habit: she left during lunch to have tea and smoke with the peon under the banyan tree near the courtyard. It gave him approximately thirteen minutes of uninterrupted access.

He would not waste it this time.

The day crawled forward. In math, he corrected another error without raising his hand. He didn't need more eyes on him. In English, he silently mouthed corrections to misspelled words on the board.

When the lunch bell rang, Ishan didn't wait for Aaru or anyone else. He moved quickly through the side corridor, dodging the crowd of students heading to the playground. The library sat in a quiet wing, tucked between the staff room and the storeroom — isolated, unnoticed.

The librarian's chair was empty.

Perfect.

He slipped in.

The room was dimly lit, the sole window smeared with dust. The old computer sat in the corner, humming faintly. Ishan moved fast, tapping keys with familiarity that didn't match his age. He'd once overseen teams of cybersecurity analysts. This was child's play.

He reopened the search tab and typed faster this time:

"Ishan Malhotra car crash news footage"

More links. More information. He clicked the "videos" tab.

Clips began to load.

A shaky phone video from a civilian showing the twisted remains of his luxury car hanging off a cliffside road in the Alps.

News anchors delivering breaking coverage. Paparazzi outside his Dubai penthouse. Grieving shareholders outside his company's headquarters.

And then one video caught his eye.

"Ishan Malhotra's Secretary Breaks Silence — Ayaan Mehra's Press Conference"

He clicked.

A grainy news broadcast began. A sleek conference room. Dozens of microphones. Reporters packed like wolves, hungry for soundbites.

And there he was.

Ayaan Mehra.

The man who'd stood behind Ishan for over a decade. His right hand. The one who managed billion-dollar acquisitions without blinking. Loyal. Precise. Ruthless.

Ishan leaned in.

Ayaan was in a black tailored suit, not a hair out of place. His tone was steady, his posture exact. Eyes unreadable — but not to Ishan.

He watched Ayaan's face as the man said, "Ishan Malhotra's passing is a loss beyond measure. He was a visionary."

But there it was — the flicker. The brief tightening around the jaw. The pause that wasn't grief. It was calculation.

"The company will follow through with the planned merger," Ayaan continued. "We have obligations to shareholders."

Ishan froze.

Merger? What merger?

There had been no such merger on the table. Not officially.

Unless...

Unless Ayaan had initiated it. After his death.

Or worse — before.

He hit pause.

The image froze on Ayaan's face.

Still calm. Still composed.

But to Ishan, it was like staring at a ghost wearing a trusted friend's skin.

He sat back, breath shallow.

It wasn't just about his death anymore.

Something else was at play.

He needed to find Ayaan. Know where he was now. What he was doing. If he had been reborn too — or if he still walked the earth in the body Ishan left behind.

Because if Ayaan had orchestrated his fall…

No. He had to be sure.

He exited the browser quickly, cleared history, and powered down the computer.

His fingers trembled slightly as he exited the library.

Outside, the sun was harsh.

Students swarmed the courtyard, playing cricket with a taped tennis ball. Aaru waved at him from across the yard.

He waved back, distracted.

The world felt unfamiliar again. Dangerous.

He couldn't let his guard down. Not even here. Especially not here.

That evening, he returned home unusually quiet.

Kabir noticed.

"Everything okay?" his older brother asked over dinner.

"Fine," Ishan replied.

Aaru narrowed her eyes. "You're thinking too much again."

He didn't deny it.

Later, while they slept, Ishan sat up and scribbled notes in a torn notebook he'd borrowed from a classmate. He drew timelines. Names. Connections.

The crash. The silence. The sudden merger.

And Ayaan.

He circled the name twice.

Before sleep claimed him, a strange thought passed through his mind:

What if Ayaan had been reborn too?

What if he wasn't far?

What if fate had placed them both on this game board again — this time, not as master and servant, but as rivals?

He closed the notebook slowly.

The gods didn't give second chances for nothing.

They gave it for balance.

And balance always required opposition.

A king could not rise without a challenger.

And Ishan Malhotra had just found his.