Bhagya had always hated waking up like this—heart hammering, lungs aching, every breath sounding louder inside his own skull than the world outside.
The ceiling above him swam in and out of focus, as if his eyes couldn't agree on what was real.
The man in the mirror's words from last night clung to him like the dampness of a nightmare:
"They're watching you now."
But the voice in his head didn't sound certain anymore.
It sounded like it wanted him to believe.
And not knowing... that was worse than the lie itself.
By the time he reached the university gates, he already felt like he'd been running for hours, though his legs had barely carried him a kilometre.
Anaya's voice reached him faintly, like she was speaking through thick glass.
"Bhagya? Are you even listening?"
He didn't turn.
He didn't even realise she was talking to him.
His world had narrowed to the sharp ache in his chest and the dryness in his throat.
The air around him had thinned, and every inhale felt like trying to drink water through a cracked straw.
Arvin stood beside her, brows furrowed in concern. He was saying something, but the words dissolved in the distance.
Bhagya's eyes were fixed on the ground, his hands twitching uncontrollably as if they were grasping for a shape lost to memory.
His mind replayed the mirror's cruel grin—smirking, mocking, always watching.
Throughout the day, the world blurred into a swirl of faces and noise.
Lectures became mere background static.
Bhagya didn't write anything down—he couldn't.
Every time he blinked, he saw reflections in Hindi mind... not one, but dozens, each showing a different end, a different death.
Anaya caught his gaze briefly during lunch. "Bhagya, are you okay? You're not eating neatly."
He forced a weak nod. "I'm fine."
But inside, his anxiety gnawed deeper, twisting every thought. He wanted to tell them about the mirror, about the endless endings he saw. But fear silenced him—the fear that sharing would drag them into his unraveling world.
By late afternoon, after stumbling home, the mirror in his room seemed alive.
It began to hum—not in sound, but in the way its surface seemed to breathe, pulse, like a living thing.
He didn't move closer. He didn't have to.
The glass clouded over, then cleared to show him—not standing there... but falling.
Another image—him drowning in dark water, lungs bursting, panic suffocating him.
Then—him crushed beneath rubble, fingers clawing for escape.
Later, a shadow piercing him through his body, lifting him upwards like a marionette caught in invisible strings.
It didn't stop.
Dozens of ways to die.
Dozens of endings.
All his.
His skin went ice-cold.
"Stop," he screamed, voice cracking.
The mirror only showed more.
In desperation, Bhagya tore the bedsheet from his mattress and threw it over the glass.
Only when its reflection disappeared did his hands stop trembling.
Evening came, but safety felt distant.
He ran into an alley thick with cigarette smoke and heavy, oppressive air.
He hadn't planned it—he just ran without thinking, following the kind of path you don't remember choosing.
The voices came first—loud, harsh laughter that sliced through the night.
Men, their footsteps closing in, too many and too fast.
It was already too late to turn away.
One shoved him.
Another grabbed his collar.
"Empty your pockets."
Bhagya's hands moved on their own—not to obey, but to fight.
He didn't remember the first punch he threw.
He only remembered the sharp crunch of knuckles against bone.
The warmth of blood—not his own—splattering his cheek.
Then came the pain.
Boots slammed into his ribs.
A knee crashed into his jaw.
Hands pinned him down.
And then—darkness.
When he woke, he stared at the same ceiling from that morning.
No blood.
No bruises.
No boots crushing him.
Just the ache in his knuckles—sharp, undeniable, real.
He rose slowly, senses alert.
Something was wrong outside.
Stepping out of his building, he found a crowd gathered near the alley.
Their voices were low, murmurs charged with tension.
The moment they saw him, the murmuring stopped.
Conversations halted mid-sentence.
Eyes widened.
Faces turned pale.
Bhagya searched their expressions for answers.
Found none.
Arvin was among them, his face frozen in horror.
Ahead of them lay a terrifying scene—cruelly beaten men, broken and bloodied, scattered across the alley's ground.
Near one of the fallen men, a glint caught Arvin's eye—an ID card lying on the ground.
It was Bhagya's.
A heavy silence fell—one that followed something no one was meant to survive.