The next week moved faster than Arun expected.
One HR email turned into three.
Three emails turned into a ticket booking.
Then came the asset handover form, the Mumbai joining letter, the new project NDA.
Suddenly, his Chennai life — which felt routine, predictable, small — was being folded up like a bedsheet and tucked away.
Arun wasn't sentimental.
Not outwardly.
But the idea of leaving a city he had lived in for five years… it felt strange.
Not sad.
Not happy.
Just strange.
Like changing phone wallpaper after two years — you don't cry, but something feels off.
Packing Day
Arun stood in the middle of his tiny room with two duffel bags and one trolley bag.
He picked up a t-shirt.
Should I take this?
He tossed it into the bag.
He picked up an old jacket.
It smelled like Chennai humidity and memories he never acknowledged.
"Okay… donate."
He picked up a flask.
"You stay here."
He picked up the broken cupboard door.
He stared.
Then muttered, "I'll blame Chennai rats."
His phone buzzed.
Senthil: "Bro I'm coming over. Don't leave without tea treat."
Arun replied: "Fine. Bring biscuits."
Senthil: "You're rich now. YOU bring biscuits."
Arun stared at the message.
"…idiot."
He kept packing — charger, notebooks, spare earphones, random wires (because every Indian knows you NEVER throw away random wires), and the one luxury item he owned: a decent pair of headphones.
As he zipped the bag, he looked around the room.
The stained wall where rainwater leaked last monsoon.
The cracked tile he stubbed his toe on seventeen times.
The window grill that never opened fully.
The worn-out cot that somehow survived his existence.
He exhaled softly.
"Goodbye, budget jail."
Tea Stall Farewell
In the evening, Arun met Senthil at their regular tea shop.
Senthil arrived waving two packs of biscuits triumphantly.
"Bro! Bourbon and 50-50. Best combination!"
Arun sipped tea. "Why two brands?"
"For sweet and salty emotion, bro."
Arun just stared.
Senthil sat beside him. "Honestly da… Chennai won't be the same without you."
Arun shrugged. "Cities don't care about people."
Senthil shook his head vigorously. "But friends care!"
Arun raised an eyebrow. "Are you confessing something?"
"DAIII NO! I mean as a friend."
Arun nodded silently.
For a moment, neither spoke.
The tea stall noises filled the silence — tumblers clanking, tea master shouting, scooters honking, someone coughing violently.
Senthil broke the silence.
"Bro… you'll like Mumbai. I heard they have better pav bhaji."
Arun stared at him blankly. "That's your sales pitch?"
"And more job opportunities!"
"Better."
"And maybe… maybe you'll meet someone there."
Arun paused.
"Meet who?"
"You know… someone."
Arun sipped his tea slowly.
"Senthil, I'm moving for work, not marriage."
Senthil leaned closer.
"But bro… Mumbai girls… they have aura."
Arun gave him the deadpan face of pure disappointment.
Senthil laughed. "Fine, fine. Don't get angry. Just… don't forget me after you become Mumbai big boss."
"I'll forget you before boarding the train."
"DAIII—"
Arun looked away, but his lips almost curved.
Almost.
The Unexpected Freeze
They finished tea and walked toward the bus stop.
The streetlights flickered.
The wind smelled like dust and hot snacks.
Senthil kept talking about nothing — memes, office drama, an uncle who believed lizards were government spies. Arun nodded occasionally.
As they reached the bus stop, a small crowd formed around a crying boy, maybe six years old.
A woman — his mother — looked panicked.
"My son's ball rolled onto the road! Someone help!"
The kid pointed at the road, tears streaming.
Arun followed the direction of the kid's hand.
A bright red rubber ball was bouncing on the road.
At the same moment…
…a speeding auto turned the corner.
Right toward the ball.
And beyond it — toward the kid, who instinctively tried to run for it.
The mother screamed and grabbed him, pulling him back.
But the auto was still going to hit the ball hard — sending it flying into the crowd.
The kid yanked harder in panic.
His small hand slipped—
He broke free.
He ran.
Straight toward the road.
Time didn't ask Arun for permission.
It froze.
Everything locked.
The auto driver froze mid-shout.
The wheels hung mid-spin.
The ball hovered mid-bounce.
The kid froze with one foot in the air, tears suspended like glass beads.
Senthil froze mid-gasp.
Arun's heart hammered.
He walked slowly toward the road.
He bent down, picked up the ball, and placed it safely on the pavement.
Then he walked to the kid.
He gently placed the child back beside his mother, pushing his frozen form toward her arms.
When he touched the mother's hand, he felt a sharp strain — human physical size. Harder to move.
"Sorry," he muttered.
He stepped back two meters.
His breathing was uneven.
Freeze always felt heavier when he touched people.
He whispered:
"Resume."
Time flowed.
The child tumbled into his mother's arms instead of the road.
The ball bounced harmlessly on the pavement.
The auto screeched past and yelled, "Oi! Control your kid!"
The mother hugged the boy tightly, crying into his hair.
"Thank god… thank god…"
The bystanders sighed in relief.
Senthil muttered, "Man… that kid almost died da…"
Arun stared at the scene quietly.
He didn't feel heroic.
Didn't feel proud.
Didn't feel like a savior.
He felt a strange mix of annoyance and relief.
This power is too dangerous to leave uncontrolled.
If instinct took over randomly, he could expose himself.
And if instinct DIDN'T take over at the right moment?
Well…
He didn't want to think about that.
Senthil nudged him. "Bro, you okay? You look… strange."
Arun blinked. "I'm fine."
"You sure?"
"Yes."
They walked toward the station.
But Arun's mind wasn't on Chennai anymore.
It was on Mumbai.
If a simple street corner in Chennai almost caused disaster…
Mumbai's madness would be ten times worse.
He needed control.
Focus.
Discipline.
He needed to level up before the city swallowed him.
One Last Look
That night, Arun stood on the rooftop of his building — same view he had seen for years: the water tank, the uneven skyline, dim streetlights, the occasional passing train.
For once, he allowed himself a small moment of reflection.
Chennai wasn't perfect.
It wasn't glamorous.
It wasn't his dream place.
But it was the city where he survived.
Where he worked.
Where he awakened something extraordinary.
He exhaled deeply.
"Goodbye," he whispered into the night.
The city didn't answer.
Cities never do.
But the wind shifted slightly, warm and familiar.
A send-off.
Arun turned away.
Tomorrow, he would prepare to leave.
Next stop:
Mumbai.
And somewhere in that massive, chaotic city…
A girl with initials A.S. Rathore was about to turn his world upside down.
But not yet.
For now, Chennai closed its chapter with one last quiet night.