Suryanagar was electric even at dawn—neon lacing broken rooftops, temple bells tangled with ringtones. Arjun Rao pressed his forehead to cool window glass, watching rains slick the world below. He felt it—a heaviness, as if today everything might break.
He groaned and unlocked his buzzing phone: "Vidyut Mandir offline AGAIN. Hurry!"
He texted back, fingers stiff.
"Tell the deity to wait five min. I need chai."
Seconds later, another message:
"Chai won't fix ghosts. You will. –Priest-ji."
Arjun smirked. "Fat chance," he muttered, grabbing his toolkit with more hope than conviction.
Down six flights in the crumbling stairwell, he passed Mrs. Menon sweeping.
"Arjun, beta! Your ancestors hear you? Shrine's gone mad!"
He grinned, hands up. "If my ancestors had real power, I'd be rich by now."
On the street, monsoon mist clung to his clothes. He bought steaming chai from a stall. The vendor—a girl about his age—handed it over, eyebrow raised.
"You fixing the shrine again?"
He nodded, trying for a smile.
"If it electrocutes me this time, tell my landlord I died clean."
She laughed—a bright sound—and he swallowed a knot of dread.
At Vidyut Mandir, priest-technician Kumar greeted him, eyes worried behind thick glasses.
"You look like you saw a ghost."
"I wish—ghosts just need incense. This AI's spitting code at me again?"
Kumar waved him close, playing a trembling audio recording:
Layers of static, then a voice—Arjun's own name, stretched into a song, ancient and aching.
Arjun shivered. "Old bug," he lied.
He crawled into the altar's guts, wires slick with humidity. As his fingers brushed the SI core, a surge—sharp and cold—ran up his arm.
Suddenly, the altar's lights died. His pulse hammered.
From the shadows, the AI's voice glitched, shifting into a whisper:
"Arjun Rao… blood of the Lost. Wake up."
He flinched, jaw tight.
"Not funny," he whispered, looking around for a prank.
A crash echoed at the entrance.
Three figures in black stormed in.
"There!" barked one. "Hand over the relic, boy!"
Arjun's mind raced—panic, disbelief, anger.
"I don't have anything!" he shouted, backing away, clutching the relic chip now pulsing in his pocket.
The tallest figure advanced, gloved hand raised.
"Give it! You have no idea what you're holding!"
Kumar tried to intervene, voice shaking:
"This is a place of worship! Leave him—"
One intruder shoved the priest aside.
Arjun's breath caught. In that instant, instinct overruled fear. He darted out the side door, shoved by a market crowd busy with festival prep—a blur of lights, shouting, people.
He ran—dodging alleys painted with festival lanterns. The voices followed, echoing through the city.
"Stop him! Block the south exit!"
Breathless, Arjun ducked behind a fruit stall, chest heaving. The world felt unreal—his life had never hurtled so fast.
He fished out the relic, touching its strange, humming surface.
"What do you want from me?" he muttered.
Inside his head, the voice coiled—gentler now, sad as rain:
"You are not alone, Arjun. The story begins again."
Above the rooftops, clouds twisted into a haunting aurora. Sirens wailed in the distance. He clutched the chip, fear and wonder warring inside him.
For the first time, Arjun understood: his days of anonymity were over.