"When the air returned ."
The hospital smelled like antiseptic and silence. Aarav lay beneath crisp sheets, the muffled hum of machines echoing softly. His mother sat beside him, dozing with a book in her lap, while outside his room, the world debated the anomaly on every screen and headline.
But Aarav didn't care about theories. He was staring at the back of his hand.
The skin looked normal at first—until the light caught it just right. Then he saw it: a faint, glowing network beneath the surface. Not veins. Not bruises. A geometric lattice. Angular. Perfect. It pulsed gently, like a system awakening.
He'd only seen patterns like that once before—in his chemistry textbook, diagrams of carbon bonded into diamond.
A nurse entered to check his vitals, eyes tired. Aarav slipped his hand under the blanket. He wasn't ready to explain something even scientists couldn't.
Later that day, a boy in a wheelchair passed his door. He was pale, his arms wrapped in bandages. Aarav saw his eyes for a moment—dilated, glowing faintly. Just like his own had briefly flashed during the crash.
They locked eyes. No words were exchanged, but a quiet understanding passed between them.
That night, while the hospital settled into its nightly rhythm of beeps and snores, Aarav sat upright and flipped through his notes. He was supposed to be prepping for the quiz. Instead, he was drawing cell structures, scribbling thoughts: resonance stress, molecular feedback, carbon activation.
The crash hadn't just stolen oxygen. It had rewritten something inside him.
His phone buzzed unexpectedly. No name. No number. Just coordinates, and a message:
"They're searching us. Come alone."
He stared at the screen, then at his glowing forearm. The lattice pulsed brighter now, reacting to the message as if the air itself remembered him.
This wasn't over. It hadn't even begun.
Somewhere beyond this sterile room, someone—or something—was watching.
And Aarav was ready to chase the answer into the fire.