Chapter 7: Tracing Shadows

The days at school had settled into a pattern, but Ishan Malhotra had never been a man who accepted patterns—not when they didn't serve a purpose.

Each morning he woke up on the thin mattress, went through the mechanical rhythm of chores, and attended school in a borrowed uniform that never quite fit right. On the surface, he blended in with the other boys. But beneath that fragile skin of normalcy, his mind spun like the engine of a jet, slicing through noise, filtering data, drawing connections.

And one name pulsed through his thoughts like a warning siren: Ayaan Mehra.

His former secretary. His most trusted man. The only one who knew the inner workings of his empire as intimately as he did. The only one who stood to gain, or lose, just as much from Ishan's death.

It began with a casual question to his history teacher.

"Sir," Ishan asked as the class packed up their books, "do any companies or NGOs come to visit our town?"

Mr. Sinha looked up, surprised. "Why do you ask?"

"I was just thinking," Ishan replied, playing the role of a curious student. "Maybe for career awareness or charity. I heard some people in town talking."

Mr. Sinha smiled. "That's rare here, but yes, there is one. A corporate NGO has been sponsoring mid-day meals for some of the neighboring schools. They hosted a medical camp last month in the town square."

"What's the name?"

"Udaan Foundation, I believe."

Ishan's stomach twisted.

Udaan.

That was a shell company he had approved during his final months. It was meant to be a side project under a new CSR (corporate social responsibility) initiative.

Only a handful of executives had access to it.

And one of them had been Ayaan.

The next day, he leaned over to a senior boy during the lunch break. "Do you know where the Udaan Foundation office is?"

The boy raised an eyebrow. "Why? Planning to ask for a scholarship?"

"Just curious," Ishan replied, flashing a neutral smile.

"They operate out of a temporary office near the old spice mill in town. It's where they run those computer and hygiene camps."

Ishan nodded, tucking away the information like a card up his sleeve.

He didn't speak much for the rest of the day.

But his thoughts were blazing.

That night, under the flickering bulb in their modest kitchen, Kabir brought in two bags of vegetables and dropped them onto the floor.

"We got more potatoes this time. Cheap today," he said, wiping his forehead.

Ishan helped sort them, his hands moving with mechanical precision.

"Kabir bhaiya," he said carefully, "do you ever go to town?"

"Sometimes," Kabir replied. "Market, clinic, once in a while to deliver bundles."

"I want to go with you next time."

Kabir looked surprised. "Why?"

Ishan hesitated. "There's a place I want to visit. A computer center."

Kabir laughed. "Since when did you become such a nerd?"

Ishan smiled faintly. "Since I realized books here don't have everything I need."

Kabir shrugged. "I'll ask Ma."

Permission wasn't easy. Their mother hesitated — city crowds, money, the risk of Ishan getting lost. But Kabir vouched for him, and finally, she agreed on one condition: Ishan would only go if he stayed with Kabir the entire time.

That didn't suit Ishan's plan.

So he decided to lie.

The following Friday, Kabir had to deliver an urgent package of handmade goods to the outskirts of the city. Ishan offered to accompany him — a dutiful younger brother. The perfect disguise.

As soon as they reached the edge of the main town, near the temple road, Ishan made his move.

"Bhaiya, can I go buy a notebook? I saw a shop near the bus stop."

Kabir glanced at his watch. "Okay, but be quick. And don't leave the street."

Ishan nodded.

He didn't go to the bus stop.

The old spice mill was a landmark — tall, rust-streaked, half-consumed by time. Just beyond its gates, a white banner fluttered over a row of repurposed office cabins:

Udaan Foundation — Hope in Action

He walked toward the entrance.

The guard looked him over, eyes narrowing. "What do you want?"

"I was told this is where students can sign up for scholarships," Ishan lied.

The guard scratched his chin. "You need to come during Monday registration. Staff's out today for the outreach camp."

"Where?"

The guard pointed toward the town hall. "Medical screening and food aid drive. Big man from the main office is visiting."

Ishan's heart pounded.

He thanked the man and turned.

Town hall.

He ran.

The crowd around the town hall was thick. Women in colorful sarees lined up for food coupons. Children played in the dust. Volunteers handed out pamphlets, water bottles, hygiene kits.

And there — near a temporary stage — stood a man in a dark blue kurta and tailored slacks. He moved with quiet authority. Checked his watch too often. Gave crisp instructions to younger volunteers.

From the back, it was unmistakable.

That was Ayaan Mehra.

He hadn't aged much. But the sharp, cold precision in his gestures was still intact.

Ishan stood rooted in place, watching.

The sound of drums from a nearby procession made Ayaan turn slightly.

For a moment, their eyes locked.

Only for a second.

But Ishan saw it.

Recognition.

And something else.

A flicker of confusion.

No, not confusion — calculation.

Then Ayaan looked away.

As if nothing had happened.

As if he hadn't just seen a ghost in a child's body.

Ishan left before he was noticed again.

His heart didn't slow until he was two streets away.

He didn't go back to Kabir. He sat behind a closed tea stall, breathing fast.

The questions buzzed louder now.

Was Ayaan reborn too?

Or had he never died?

Was he watching Ishan's old empire from the shadows?

Was he the traitor—or something more?

Back home, Ishan didn't tell anyone where he'd gone.

That night, he didn't sleep.

He stared at the ceiling again.

But this time, not in confusion.

In strategy.

Ayaan was here.

And whatever role fate had chosen for them now, Ishan would not be a pawn again.

No.

The game was back on.

And this time, he would win.

Even if he had to rebuild the board from scratch.