The desert wind screamed, flinging sand like needles.
Two men in black sprinted across the dunes—faces covered, clothes soaked in sweat and dust.
Each step sank deep. The heat dragged at their bodies like chains. Still, they ran.
One of them slipped—tumbled hard into the sand. He tried to rise but collapsed again, breathing ragged.
The second man didn't hesitate. He turned back, grabbed him by the arm, and pulled.
"No stopping. Get up."
The fallen one groaned—his legs barely responding.
A shout echoed faintly from behind them. Not close, but not far enough.
The standing figure scanned the endless dunes. No cover. No shade. No time.
"We're not dying here."
He lifted his partner, half-dragging, half-carrying him through the shifting sand.
They vanished over the next ridge—just two silhouettes swallowed by heat and silence.
Far from the sun-scorched dunes, in a quiet Delhi café...
Nineteen-year-old Aarvansh Saxena stirred his tea slowly, unaware that one day… he would be the one running.
Delhi — India's capital. A magnet for dreamers. A graveyard for secrets.
It wears a mask of tradition and progress, but beneath it, the city never sleeps. And it never forgets.
In the middle of this chaos sat Aarvansh—a quiet IIT Delhi student with the kind of presence that didn't ask for attention.
He spoke little. Observed a lot.
People listened when he did speak—partly out of curiosity, partly because they sensed there was more to him than he let on.
His friends were the complete opposite.
Aarav Dabral, the lovable idiot with zero shame and infinite confidence.
Shaurya Narang, the self-proclaimed voice of reason—calm, calculated, low-key full of himself.
Prakash, the quick-witted skeptic—smart, sharp, and occasionally smug.
They sat at their usual table in 32nd Avenue, a student-favorite spot that smelled like coffee and half-finished deadlines.
Aarav, wielding a spoon like a bat, mimicked a cricket shot mid-story.
"I swear, it was a perfect cover drive. That fielder? Fluke dive. Otherwise, boundary."
"Or if you hadn't edged it straight to the slips, maybe."(Prakash, not looking up)
"You weren't even there!"(Aarav, offended)
"If we start fact-checking your stories, we'll be here all day."(Shaurya, deadpan)
Aarvansh sipped his tea, a smile barely forming.
"Let him dream."(Aarvansh, quietly)
Aarav pointed his spoon at him like a sword.
"Finally, someone with sense! See? This is why Aarvansh is my favorite."
The laughter rolled on. The moment was light.
But beneath the surface, something had shifted in Aarvansh.
Not today. Not because of anything said at the table.
But because of a memory.
A flash of something. Something hidden. Something buried.
Outside the café, the air grew thick. The clouds gathered.
Rain began tapping on the windows—soft, rhythmic, almost timed.
And somewhere in another part of the city...
A man sat alone in a dark room, watching a grainy CCTV feed of the café.
He zoomed in slowly on the boy with the tea.
The name on the file in front of him:
Aarvansh Saxena
Subject #A47
Observation Phase: Complete