Chapter 17: The Man in the Suit

The wind that swept across the village on Monday morning carried with it a strange chill — one that had nothing to do with the weather. Ishan awoke before dawn, already dressed before Kabir stirred from the other side of the room. He combed back his hair, eyes cold and sharp in the reflection of the windowpane. Today wasn't just another day.

It was the beginning of the war.

He walked to school alone. Aaru had a cold, and Kabir had left early for a meeting with village elders. Ishan preferred the solitude anyway. His mind was churning with thoughts of Armaan Vaidya. Ayaan. The man he once trusted more than blood.

And now, a stranger.

The image of Ayaan's composed face under the sun-drenched banners haunted him. That fake name. That elegant lie. Armaan Vaidya — smiling at villagers as if he belonged. As if he hadn't once sat across from Ishan in glass towers, discussing market takeovers and political manipulations like casual lunch plans.

And yet, when their eyes met, something had shifted. A silent tremor between ghosts of a life long buried.

But not forgotten.

After classes, while students spilled out onto the school ground, Ishan made his way to the main square. It had become Miraanta's temporary command post. Banners were strung across the entrance to the community hall, now transformed into a "Development Outreach Center."

Inside, he spotted the man himself — Armaan — speaking to a group of locals.

Ishan leaned on the doorframe.

Armaan's posture was perfect, voice modulated with smooth assurance. "We're not here to take. We're here to uplift. You'll have electricity, clean water, new roads. And most importantly, opportunity. Isn't that what your children deserve?"

A few villagers nodded eagerly. Some still looked uncertain.

When Armaan caught sight of Ishan, he didn't falter. Not even a twitch.

He simply smiled.

"I believe in investing not just in places — but in people."

Applause followed.

When the meeting ended, Armaan dismissed his team with a slight gesture. He turned his gaze toward Ishan.

"Did you come to listen, or to challenge?"

Ishan stepped forward slowly. "I came to understand."

"And what do you understand so far?"

"That your words are well-rehearsed."

Armaan's eyes narrowed, just slightly. "I'd be a fool not to prepare for a place like this. Your village deserves that respect."

"Don't play the savior," Ishan said quietly. "We've seen enough of those."

For a beat, neither spoke. Then, Armaan gestured to a pair of wooden chairs.

"Sit with me. Talk."

Reluctantly, Ishan did.

The tension between them was like a violin string stretched taut — too much and it would snap.

"Tell me, Ishan," Armaan said with a calm smile. "What do you think of progress?"

"I think progress without conscience is destruction in disguise."

"Spoken like someone who's read too many philosophy books."

"Spoken like someone who's seen it firsthand."

Armaan chuckled. "Fair enough." He leaned forward slightly. "You're clever. Sharp. You're not like the others here."

Ishan's lips tightened. "Neither are you."

Their eyes locked. The words were vague. But they both understood the double meanings.

Then Armaan leaned back, mask of ease returning. "You should consider attending our town seminar. We'll be showing the full development model — even inviting a few media channels."

Ishan raised a brow. "A media show?"

"A mirror," Armaan corrected. "Let people see themselves as part of something bigger."

He stood. "Think about it."

With that, he walked away, issuing orders to his staff, leaving Ishan with more questions than answers.

That evening, Ishan sat with Asha on the temple steps. The sky was painted in molten oranges and pinks.

"He's here to manipulate," Ishan said.

She nodded. "He's good at it. Too good. But the elders are listening."

"Because they're desperate."

"They're also tired. You forget how much people want to believe in hope — even if it's fake."

He glanced at her. "You don't sound convinced."

"I'm not. But sometimes truth needs a louder voice."

He smirked faintly. "You volunteering?"

"Maybe."

He looked down at his hands. "He's not what he says he is."

"No one ever is," she said simply.

There was silence between them. A silence that wasn't empty, but full of unspoken trust.

The next day brought a subtle shift.

Posters appeared overnight. Leaflets, beautifully designed, praising the future Miraanta promised.

But something caught Ishan's eye.

A slogan printed at the bottom: "Rise From Ashes — Lead Like Fire."

It was a line from one of his own private speeches in his previous life — one he'd given only behind closed doors.

There was no way anyone else could know it.

Except Ayaan.

A chill ran down Ishan's spine.

This wasn't just business. This was personal.

After school, Ishan walked alone to the mango orchard near the southern border of the village — a quiet place, far from the crowd.

He wasn't surprised when Armaan arrived.

"You sent the posters," Ishan said without turning.

"I thought the words might reach the right ears."

"So you remember."

Armaan stepped closer, his voice lower now. "How could I forget?"

Ishan finally faced him.

"Why are you here, Ayaan?"

The man didn't flinch at the name. "Because the past doesn't end with death. It echoes."

Ishan's fists clenched. "You took everything. You stood there and let me die."

"I was trying to protect what was left."

"You were trying to claim it."

They stared at each other, both breathing harder now.

Finally, Armaan's expression softened just enough. "I never wanted this to be a war."

"Then stop acting like a conqueror."

"I'm not the one drawing swords, Ishan."

"No. You're drawing maps. Ones that erase homes."

There was silence again — longer this time.

"I need to know," Ishan said, voice quieter now. "Did you… was it you? The crash?"

Armaan didn't answer.

But his silence said enough.

"I'll stop you," Ishan said, stepping back. "Even if no one believes me. Even if I'm just a kid in their eyes."

Armaan nodded slowly. "Then I guess the board is set again."

"Same players," Ishan said. "New rules."

They parted ways under the heavy branches of the old mango trees — two souls carrying the weight of unspoken sins.

The war had officially begun.

Not for money.

Not for land.

But for truth.

And redemption.