His dizziness surged the moment he sat back down.
The world tilted violently. Nausea clawed up his throat like hot oil.
Amitesh pressed a hand to his mouth and shot to his feet.
"Guys… you can keep going," he forced out, voice tight and strained.
Without waiting for replies, he bolted toward the bathroom.
He slammed the door behind him, bent over the sink, and tried to retch.
Nothing came.
Only dry heaves that scraped his throat raw.
He braced both hands on the cold porcelain, sucking in long, shuddering breaths until the spinning slowed.
After several moments, he straightened slightly and fumbled with his zipper, desperate for any kind of relief.
"Amitesh."
Raktbeej's low, amused voice echoed inside his skull.
Amitesh's temper snapped like dry wood.
"For the love of—can the heavens at least let me take a damn piss in peace?!"
Silence answered. Mocking silence.
He turned on the faucet with more force than necessary, splashing cold water across his face again and again.
Droplets ran down his jaw, dripping onto his collar. Only when the chill finally numbed the nausea did he shut off the tap and drag a sleeve across his mouth.
Stepping out, he nearly collided with Gauri.
She stood a few paces away, arms loosely folded, worry flickering in her eyes.
"You okay?"
"Yeah," he muttered, avoiding her gaze. "I'm fine."
Gauri hesitated, then spoke softer.
"You heard, right? Someone slaughtered the entire cult—the outcasts too. Burned the bodies so badly no one can even tell who they were."
Amitesh's expression didn't change.
"How do you know they were cult members?"
"They were found at the old ritual site. Exactly where those freaks always gathered."
"Oh."
Inside his mind, a cold realization clicked into place.
I don't remember burning the corpses.
His gaze drifted inward.
Did Raktbeej handle that part? …He really is thorough. Terrifyingly thorough. But this… killing so openly… I can't let it keep happening.
He exhaled through his nose.
"Anyway," he said aloud, "I'm heading to watch duty."
Gauri gave a small nod.
"Take care."
"Of course."
Minutes later he reached the watchtower.
The wooden platform creaked under his weight as he climbed up and settled into position—legs crossed, back against the railing, eyes scanning the dark tree line.
The night wind carried the faint smell of ash.
"Hey. Raktbeej."
A deep, velvet voice answered from within.
"Yes?"
Amitesh kept staring straight ahead, tone flat but edged with steel.
"Did you forget our deal?"
Silence stretched for two heartbeats.
"I told you," Amitesh continued, quieter now, "no harming anyone."
"They were going to kill—"
"Did I say you could hurt people if they tried to kill first?" Amitesh cut in sharply. "Is that what I agreed to when we made the deal?"
The presence inside him went utterly still.
Amitesh let out a slow, tired breath that fogged in the cold air.
"I'm not… complaining about the result," he said, almost to himself. "But did you have to do it so brutally?"
No answer came.
Only the wind, whistling between the wooden beams.
And somewhere deep inside, the quiet, satisfied hum of something ancient that clearly didn't regret a single drop of blood.
The wooden ladder creaked.
Slow, deliberate steps echoed up from below.
Amitesh's shoulders tensed
instinctively. His hand drifted toward the railing as he turned his head.
The figure that emerged from the hatch wasn't the one he'd braced himself for.
No lithe shadow. No hurried footsteps of worry.
Just an old man.
Mahaveer pulled himself onto the platform with a low grunt. A thin cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth, the ember flaring briefly as he exhaled a thin ribbon of smoke into the night air. Gray hair swept back carelessly, deep lines carved around his eyes and mouth — the kind of face that had seen too many seasons and cared about too few of them.
He studied Amitesh for a long moment, taking in the faint strain still lingering around the younger man's eyes.
Mahaveer's cracked lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"What's that look for?" he rasped, voice rough like gravel underfoot. "Expecting someone else? Some pretty face instead of this wrinkled old fossil?"
He tapped ash over the edge of the tower without looking down.
"Young people always do," he added, almost to himself. "Toss the old ones aside the moment something shinier walks by."
Amitesh shook his head quickly — once, sharply.
"No, it's not like that." His voice came out quieter than he intended. "I was just… a little surprised, that's all."
Mahaveer let out a short, dry huff that might have been a laugh.
He leaned one elbow on the railing, cigarette glowing brighter for a second as he took another drag. The smoke curled upward, ghostly in the moonlight.
"Surprised," he echoed, tasting the word. "That's one way to put it."
His sharp eyes flicked over Amitesh again — not unkindly, but searching, like a man who'd long ago learned that people rarely said what they really meant.
"You've got that look again, boy. The one that says the night's heavier than it should be."
He flicked the spent cigarette into the darkness below. It fell like a dying star.
"Something eating at you up here?"
Amitesh didn't answer right away.
He turned his gaze back toward the black tree line, fingers tightening on the railing until the wood groaned under his grip.
Inside his chest, something ancient and patient stirred — waiting.
Watching.
And somewhere far beneath the surface, Raktbeej's low, amused hum answered the silence.
Mahaveer didn't press.
He simply stood there beside the younger man, hands in his pockets, letting the wind carry away the last traces of smoke.
Two shadows on the watchtower.
One old. One carrying something far older.
And neither of them quite sure how much longer the quiet could last.
Mahaveer took one last long drag from the cigarette.
The ember flared bright orange, illuminating the deep creases around his mouth for a heartbeat before he flicked the butt over the railing. It spun downward into the darkness like a falling ember of a dying fire.
He exhaled slowly, smoke curling from his nostrils like dragon breath.
"I need your help, kid."
Amitesh raised an eyebrow, arms still crossed loosely over the railing.
"In what?"
Mahaveer didn't answer right away. He leaned forward, elbows on the wood, staring out at the same black tree line Amitesh had been watching.
"There are rebellious little packs running wild down there," he finally said, voice low and rough. "Kids—some barely old enough to shave—forming gangs. They group up based on the first element they awaken. Fire with fire, wind with wind… you know how it goes."
He gave a tired, crooked smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Then the older ones—twenty-five, thirty, sometimes more—step in and crown themselves kings. They loot the communal storage, carve out territories, beat anyone who doesn't kneel fast enough. It's getting uglier every week."
Amitesh tilted his head slightly.
"So you want me to fight them."
It wasn't really a question.
Mahaveer let out a dry chuckle that turned into a cough.
"Why not ask Gauri?" Amitesh pressed, voice flat. "She's stronger than me. Everyone knows it."
Mahaveer turned his head just enough to look at him sidelong.
Smoke still lingered at the corners of his mouth as he spoke.
"First… she's my daughter." His tone hardened, protective in a way that brooked no argument. "I don't put her in front of blades if I can help it. Not even when she's the strongest blade we've got."
He paused, letting the wind carry the last wisps of smoke away.
"Second…" His gaze sharpened, cutting straight through the moonlight. "She's not as brutal as you."
Amitesh's fingers twitched against the railing.
Mahaveer didn't flinch. He kept going, voice steady and deliberate.
"You make decisions in half a second when blood's in the air. No hesitation. No second-guessing. You see the opening and you take it—clean, fast, final. Gauri thinks. She weighs. She tries to leave people breathing when she can."
He straightened a little, rolling his shoulders like a man shrugging off an old weight.
"That mercy's a luxury we can't afford right now."
Silence settled between them.
Heavy. Thick.
Amitesh stared out at the darkness again. Somewhere deep inside his ribs, that ancient presence stirred—quiet, attentive, almost eager.
Raktbeej didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
The low, velvet hum of anticipation was answer enough.
Mahaveer waited. Patient. Unhurried.
Eventually Amitesh exhaled through his nose, the sound sharp in the cold night air.
"…When do you need it done?"
Mahaveer's cracked lips curved—just a fraction.
"Not tonight. But soon."
He clapped a heavy hand once on Amitesh's shoulder. Not gentle. Not rough. Just real.
"When the time comes, I'll point. You decide how far the blood flows."
He turned toward the ladder.
"Think about it, boy."
The old man started down without another word, boots thudding softly against the rungs.
Amitesh stayed where he was.
Alone again.
Wind in his hair.
Shadows stretching long across the watchtower floor.
And inside him, something old and hungry began to smile.
After receiving my first mission from Mahaveer, I began gathering information about the gangs that had taken root in the complex.
There were five in total: Fire, Water, Earth, Wind, and Thunder.
Not every kid was hotheaded enough to join one and form these little factions.
Plenty of parents still held real authority—even ordinary humans with no cultivation at all—refusing to let their children run wild just because they had awakened an element.
The Water gang, for instance, actually worked for Captain Singh. Since they could generate clean water, every day they climbed to the terraces of each building and filled the overhead tanks. Useful. Harmless, mostly.
The Earth users were no real threat either. Manipulating earth was slow, heavy work, and with Zoey around—the undisputed best among them—no kid was foolish enough to start serious trouble.
The Wind gang was similar: noisy, flashy, but rarely crossed any real lines. I'd still have to deal with them eventually, but they weren't the priority.
The real problems were the Fire and Thunder groups.
As I passed Building A that afternoon, I spotted trouble brewing.
A small cluster of kids had cornered Arjun against the wall near the stairwell. He stood with his shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on the cracked concrete, saying nothing.
The leader—one of the taller boys, maybe fifteen—cracked his knuckles and sneered.
"Finally caught your ass. What, you thought you could just keep escaping us forever?"
Before Arjun could even flinch, a hand clamped down on the boy's shoulder.
The kid whipped around—only to meet a fist that smashed squarely into his nose.
Blood sprayed. He staggered back with a choked yelp.
The others froze, eyes wide.
"Hey!" another one barked, stepping forward. "What the hell do you think you're doing? You new here or something? Don't you know who we are? We're from the Fire Force!"
A sharp, open-handed slap cracked across his cheek, cutting off his bravado mid-sentence.
I sighed, lowering my hand.
"Fire Force," I repeated flatly. "What a stupid, anime-inspired name."
The group stared at me, dumbfounded.
I shook my head. "As expected from kids—hormones and imagination running at maximum. Get lost."
They didn't need to be told twice. After a heartbeat of stunned silence, they scrambled away, half-dragging their bloody-nosed leader with them.
I turned to Arjun.
He was still pressed against the wall, dirt smeared across one cheek, breathing shallow. He looked smaller than usual.
Without a word, I raised my palm. A small sphere of water condensed in the air—perfectly round, shimmering faintly—before I flicked it toward his face.
It burst against his skin in a cool splash, washing away the grime and leaving him blinking in surprise.
"What element do you have?" I asked.
He swallowed, voice barely above a whisper. "Thu… thunder."
I tilted my head. "Louder. I can't hear you."
"Thunder!" he shouted this time, cheeks flushing red.
I gave a small nod. "Good."
Then I stepped closer, studying him.
"So why didn't you fight them?"
Arjun's gaze dropped to the ground again. His fingers twitched at his sides, but no sparks came. No crackle of electricity. Just silence.
I waited.
Arjun looked down at his feet, rubbing the back of his neck. Muddy water still dripped from his chin after the water ball you threw.
Arjun: "I… I tried once. Before. They just laughed and said thunder is useless indoors. Said I'd fry myself before I hit anyone. And… and they're right. The building's all concrete and metal pipes. If I miss even a little, the current jumps everywhere. Last time I tried a real spark, I shocked myself so bad I couldn't move for ten minutes. Mom had to carry me home."
He clenched his fists, small arcs of blue-white electricity dancing between his knuckles for a second before fizzling out.
Arjun: "Fire Force kids don't care about that. They just burn whatever they want. No one stops them because half the teachers are scared of getting roasted too. And the captain… Captain Singh only cares about the water kids keeping the tanks full. Thunder? Earth? Wind? We're just… extras."
He finally looked up at you, eyes a mix of shame and something sharper—anger that hadn't found a target yet.
Arjun: "You hit them like it was nothing. You're not even scared. What… what element do you have? Or are you one of those weird ones who doesn't need an element?"
The question hung there. Around you, the corridor of Building A was quiet now.
A few kids peeked from doorways and stairwells, whispering. Word travels fast when someone slaps Fire Force kids around like mosquitoes.
"Fire at first " I reply bluntly.
Arjun blinked, his wide eyes reflecting the faint blue sparks that still occasionally danced along his fingertips. "Huh… fire?" His voice cracked with genuine surprise. "So why'd you beat them up? Shouldn't you be… helping them? You know, same element and all?"
Annoyance flickered across my face like heat off asphalt. I crossed my arms.
"Racism now, is it?" I said, voice low and edged. "I'm already fed up with skin color, caste, race, gender—every damn label people slap on each other to feel superior. And now this? Elements too?"
I let the words hang for a second, watching the realization settle on his dirt-streaked face.
"Having the same element doesn't make us the same people. Doesn't make us family. Doesn't make me owe them anything."
Arjun nodded slowly, the motion small but certain, like he was tasting the truth of it for the first time.
I tilted my head toward him. "You said your mom carried you home when you shocked yourself. What about your dad?"
"He was there that day," Arjun answered quietly. "We were working the farm. He saw the whole thing—me shaking on the ground, smoke coming off my clothes. He didn't say much. Just picked me up too. Carried me inside like I weighed nothing."
I studied him a moment. "So why'd the fight even start today?"
Arjun shrugged, shoulders hunching. "I don't know. They just… came. Saw me walking alone, started shoving. Said I looked like easy prey. Same as always."
I let out a dry laugh. "Same as me."
His head snapped up, eyes wide again. "You too? How?"
"Every damn time in school," I said,
exhaling through my nose. "Some idiot thinks he can push me around because I'm quiet, or smaller, or whatever excuse they invent that day. At first it was one-on-one—they lost. Then they started coming in groups. Three against one. Four against one. Because alone they can't win."
I dragged a hand down my face, suddenly tired.
"Man… whoever said kids are the future, little gods walking among us… either that guy was a complete fool, or he never actually went to school."
Silence stretched between us.
Somewhere down the corridor a door creaked, then shut again. The whispers had mostly died out; the show was over.
I straightened, meeting his gaze.
"Alright. Go home now. Get cleaned up. But if you're free later—if you're tired of running, tired of people thinking thunder is useless—come find me."
I jerked my thumb toward the stairwell.
"I'll be around Building C roof most evenings. You want to get strong? Actually strong? Not just spark fireworks that hurt you more than them? Then show up."
Arjun stared at me for a long beat. Something shifted behind his eyes—not hope exactly, but the first thin crack in the wall of resignation he'd been carrying.
Arjun stood there for a second, still processing everything you just dumped on him. The surprise on his face slowly melted into something quieter—maybe respect, maybe just relief that someone finally spoke to him like he wasn't invisible.
Arjun: "...You really don't care about the whole 'same element = same side' thing, huh?"
He kicked at a small puddle on the floor, sending tiny ripples outward. A weak spark jumped from his fingertip and fizzled in the water before it could do anything dangerous.
Arjun: "My dad… he's not like the Fire Force parents. He doesn't push me to fight or show off. He just keeps saying 'control first, power later.' But controlling thunder feels impossible. It wants to go everywhere at once. One wrong move and I'm the one who gets hurt. Or worse—someone else."
He looked up at you again, hesitant.
Arjun: "You said… come to you if I want to get strong?"
A small, crooked smile tugged at his mouth—like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to hope.
Arjun: "I'm not busy. Mom thinks I'm at extra study class anyway. Where do you usually go? The rooftop of C-block? Or that empty parking lot behind the old generator room? Everyone says it's haunted but it's just rats."
He paused, then added quickly, almost embarrassed:
Arjun: "And… if we train or whatever… you won't laugh if I mess up and shock myself again, right?"
The corridor was completely empty now. Even the kids who were peeking earlier had scattered—probably to spread the news that Amitesh (the guy who slapped a Fire Force kid like he was swatting a fly) just invited a thunder kid to hang out.
He gave a small, hesitant nod.
"Okay," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "I… I'll think about it."
I didn't push. Just turned and started walking.
'Man this kid talks a lot'
Behind me, I heard his sneakers scuff against the concrete as he finally headed the other way—toward the exit, toward home.
For now, that was enough
Somewhere down the hall you could hear distant shouting—sounded like more Fire Force kids arguing about who was going to "teach you a lesson later." They hadn't learned yet.
----
The evening sun had already dipped below the jagged skyline of the city, leaving the rooftop of Building C bathed in that bruised purple light that makes everything look half-dream, half-warning. Amitesh sat cross-legged near the low parapet, back against a rusted water tank, one knee drawn up while he idly flicked tiny tongues of flame between his fingertips like someone playing with a lighter that refused to die.
The metal door at the far end gave a long, complaining creak.
Footsteps—hesitant, scuffing—approached.
Amitesh didn't turn around right away. He let the silence stretch just long enough to make it awkward.
"So," he said at last, voice lazy, "finally decided to stop running and show up."
Arjun stopped a few meters away, hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched like he was bracing for a lecture.
He didn't answer. Just stood there, sneakers squeaking faintly on the concrete as he shifted his weight.
Amitesh finally glanced over his shoulder, one eyebrow climbing. "What, cat got your tongue? Or are you practicing for the silent monk audition?"
Arjun swallowed. "I… came."
"Wow. Medal ceremony's next week." Amitesh unfolded himself and stood, brushing dust off the seat of his pants.
"Alright, enough standing around like lost puppies. Let's start. How many push-ups can you do?"
Arjun blinked. "Thirty."
Amitesh tilted his head so far it looked like he was trying to drain water out of one ear. "Huh. Just thirty?" He let the word hang there, dripping with theatrical disbelief. "Did you even try to do more, or did you hit thirty and think, 'Yep, that's the meaning of life right there'?"
Arjun's ears went pink. "That's the best I can do," he muttered. Then, a spark of defiance flickered in his eyes. "You're talking big. How many can you do?"
Amitesh shrugged, casual as if he were discussing the weather. "Fifty."
Arjun's mouth twitched upward into a small, triumphant smile. Got him.
"Finger push-ups," Amitesh added, deadpan.
The smile evaporated faster than water on a hot pan. Arjun's face went from smug to something resembling a kid who just realized the free candy van was actually a dentist's mobile clinic.
"Finger… push-ups?" he repeated, voice cracking on the last word like thin ice.
"Yeah." Amitesh dropped smoothly to the ground, balanced on the tips of his index and middle fingers, thumbs tucked in. He started knocking out reps with the bored ease of someone folding laundry. "One. Two. Three…"
Arjun stared, mouth slightly open.
"Twenty," Amitesh continued, not even breathing hard. "Twenty-one… You gonna stand there gawking or join the party, Thunder Boy?"
Arjun looked down at his own hands as though they had personally betrayed him. "I'm gonna break every bone from the wrist to the elbow."
"Probably," Amitesh agreed cheerfully, switching to one hand without missing a beat. "But at least it'll be an interesting way to go. Better than getting slapped around by Fire Force rejects for the rest of your life, right?"
Arjun groaned, dragging both hands down his face. "You're evil."
"I'm motivational," Amitesh corrected, popping back to his feet in one fluid motion. He dusted his palms together.
"Come on. Drop and give me ten normal ones first. We'll work up to the finger torture later. Baby steps. Very tiny, very pathetic baby steps."
Arjun sighed like a man condemned, but he lowered himself to the concrete anyway, palms flat, back straight(ish).
"One…" Amitesh counted, circling him like a particularly sadistic coach. "Two… Don't sag, you're not a hammock… Three… Wow, I've seen wet noodles with better form…"
By the time they hit seven, Arjun was already wheezing.
"Eight… Come on, channel that inner thunder. Pretend the ground insulted your mom."
Arjun let out a strangled laugh mid-push-up and promptly face-planted.
Amitesh crouched beside him, grinning wide enough to show teeth. "See? Already improving. You went from thirty to faceplant in under a minute. Progress."
Arjun rolled onto his back, staring up at the darkening sky, chest heaving. "I hate you."
"You'll thank me later," Amitesh said, offering a hand. "When you're not getting jumped in hallways anymore. Now get up. We're doing it again. Slower this time. And if you whine, I'll make you do them on your forehead."
Arjun took the hand and let himself be hauled upright. He looked tired, embarrassed, and—for the first time—maybe a little bit determined.
"Fine," he muttered. "But if I die, I'm haunting you."
"Deal," Amitesh said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Ghosts are great
spotters. Now move it, Sparkplug.
Night's young and your arms are still pathetic."
The rooftop air had cooled into that crisp evening bite, the kind that nipped at your skin like an overeager puppy, but Amitesh barely noticed. He paced in front of Arjun, who was sprawled on the concrete like a starfish that had washed up after a particularly bad storm—arms trembling, face flushed, sweat beading on his forehead despite the chill.
"Alright, Thunder Boy," Amitesh said, clapping his hands together with the enthusiasm of a game show host announcing a consolation prize. "Push-ups are cute and all—builds character, or at least some biceps—but let's get to the real fireworks. Your element.
Thunder. Lightning. The stuff that makes gods jealous and hair stand on end. Show me what you've got."
Arjun pushed himself up on wobbly elbows, looking less like a budding elemental warrior and more like a kid who'd just survived a surprise math test. "What… now? Here?" He glanced around the rooftop, at the scattered debris, the old satellite dishes rusting in the corners, and the distant hum of the city below. "I told you, it's useless indoors. Or… up here. Metal everywhere. I'll probably zap us both into next week."
Amitesh rolled his eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn't pop out and roll off the edge. "Excuses, excuses. You're like that one uncle at family gatherings who blames the traffic for being late when he lives next door. Come on—start small. Make a spark. Not a thunderstorm, just a little zap. Pretend you're trying to light a birthday candle with your finger."
Arjun hesitated, then extended his hand, palm up. He squinted in concentration, brows furrowing like he was solving quantum physics. A faint crackle hummed in the air, and then—poof—a tiny blue arc jumped between his thumb and index finger. It fizzled out almost immediately, leaving behind the faint smell of ozone and a look of mild disappointment on Arjun's face.
"That's it?" Amitesh burst out laughing, doubling over like he'd just heard the world's worst pun. "That wasn't thunder, that was a polite cough from a shy storm cloud! I've seen static from wool socks with more attitude. Try again. Bigger. Channel your inner angry weatherman."
Arjun's cheeks burned redder than a tomato in a fire drill. "Hey, it's not that easy! You try controlling something that wants to fry everything in sight, including me!" He shook out his hand, wincing as a residual spark nipped his fingertip. "Last time I pushed it, I ended up with singed eyebrows and a headache that felt like a marching band in my skull."
"Eyebrows grow back," Amitesh said with a shrug, still chuckling. "And headaches? That's just your brain leveling up. Watch this." He snapped his fingers, conjuring a small flame that danced harmlessly atop his palm like a well-trained pet. "See? Control. Fire listens to me because I don't let it boss me around. Thunder's the same—it's wild, sure, but you've got to rein it in.
Think of it like herding cats. Electric cats. With attitude problems."
Arjun groaned but straightened up, determination flickering in his eyes like that elusive spark. "Fine. Herding cats. Got it." He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and focused. The air hummed again, louder this time. Static built, making the hairs on Amitesh's arms stand at attention. Then—crack!—a bolt of blue-white energy shot from Arjun's hand, arcing wildly toward the nearest metal pole.
It hit with a satisfying zap, sending a shower of sparks cascading down like malfunctioning fireworks. But the bolt didn't stop there—it bounced, ricocheting off a vent pipe and zinging straight back toward them.
"Whoa!" Amitesh dove sideways, tackling Arjun to the ground just as the errant lightning scorched the spot where they'd been standing. The concrete smoked faintly, and a nearby pigeon exploded into panicked flight, feathers everywhere.
They lay there for a second, tangled in a heap, before Amitesh popped his head up. "Okay, that was… impressive. In a 'let's-not-die-today' kind of way." He grinned, helping Arjun to his feet. "See? Progress! You went from birthday candle to accidental assassin. Next time, aim it. Visualize the path. Don't let it play pinball with the rooftop."
Arjun dusted himself off, wide-eyed but laughing—a shaky, adrenaline-fueled chuckle. "I almost barbecued us! You're a terrible trainer. What if that hit you?"
"Then I'd be extra crispy, and you'd owe me a new shirt," Amitesh shot back, unfazed. "But hey, no pain, no gain. Or in your case, no zap, no zap… whatever. Let's try again. This time, target that old bucket over there. And if you miss and hit me, I'll make you do finger push-ups with weights. Deal?"
Arjun nodded, still buzzing with energy—literal and figurative. For the first time, the fear in his eyes was mixed with something electric: excitement. The training had just begun, and the rooftop was about to become a very shocking place.
The rooftop had gone quiet after the near-miss lightning bounce, save for the low city drone far below and the occasional pop of cooling metal from the vent pipe Arjun had accidentally scorched. Both of them were still catching their breath—Amitesh leaning against the parapet with arms crossed, Arjun sitting on an overturned crate, knees bouncing like he was still wired from the adrenaline.
Amitesh watched him for a long moment, the grin fading into something more serious.
"Alright, listen up, Sparkplug," he said, voice dropping the playful edge. "Before we do any more zapping, we need to fix the biggest problem you've got. And it's not your aim. It's not even the fact that your thunder currently behaves like a drunk toddler with a taser."
Arjun looked up, wary. "Then what is it?"
"You." Amitesh pointed one finger straight at Arjun's chest. "You're a grown-ass adult—well, close enough—and you're still letting a pack of snot-nosed kids treat you like their personal chew toy. That's not a thunder problem. That's a spine problem."
Arjun flinched, gaze dropping to the concrete between his sneakers. "It's not that easy. They come in groups. They're loud. They—"
"Exactly," Amitesh cut in. "They're loud. And you're quiet. They swarm like flies because flies only land where they think the food won't swat back." He pushed off the wall and stepped closer, crouching so they were eye-level. "You need to stop looking like prey. You need presence. The kind that makes people think twice before they open their mouths."
Arjun frowned. "Presence? Like… what, walk taller?"
"More than that." Amitesh stood up again, rolling his shoulders like he was shaking off invisible weight. "Watch."
He turned toward the empty rooftop, took one slow breath, then changed. Nothing dramatic—no glow, no sudden wind—just a subtle shift. Chin up a fraction, shoulders squared without looking forced, eyes half-lidded in that bored-but-dangerous way street dogs have when they've already won a few fights. When he spoke again, his voice carried differently: low, unhurried, every word landing like it had already decided it was the last one anyone would say on the subject.
"Imagine this," he said, turning back to Arjun. "You're walking down the corridor tomorrow. Same Fire Force idiots step up. Same stupid grins. And instead of shrinking, you stop. Look at them. Really look. Like they're beneath you. Like you've already decided how this ends and it's boring."
He demonstrated, letting his gaze drift over an imaginary group, slow and unimpressed.
"Then you say—calm, clear, no shouting—something like…" Amitesh's voice dropped even lower, almost conversational. "'Don't mess with me, kid. I was walking these halls while you were still drinking your mother's milk.'"
Arjun blinked. Then snorted despite himself. "That's… savage."
"It's true," Amitesh said, shrugging.
"You're older. You've got more years, more scars, more everything. Stop acting like they're the big bad wolves. They're puppies who've never been kicked hard enough to learn manners."
Arjun rubbed the back of his neck, half-smiling, half-embarrassed. "I can't just… say that. They'll laugh."
"Let them." Amitesh's eyes glinted.
"Laughing is what they do right before they realize the joke's on them. The second you stop flinching, stop explaining, stop running—that's when the dynamic flips. You don't need to zap them every time. Sometimes just standing there like you could, and choosing not to, is scarier than any bolt."
He stepped back, giving Arjun room.
"Try it. Right now. Stand up. Pretend I'm one of those Fire Force clowns. Say the line. Mean it."
Arjun hesitated, then rose slowly. He squared his shoulders—awkward at first, then a little steadier. Took a breath. Looked straight at Amitesh and tried.
"Don't… mess with me, kid." His voice cracked on the first word, then steadied. "I was walking these halls while you were still drinking your mother's milk."
It came out quieter than Amitesh's version, but there was something there—a flicker of steel under the nerves.
Amitesh nodded once. "Better. Still sounds like you're asking permission, though. Say it again. Like you already know they're going to back down. Like it's already over."
Arjun exhaled through his nose, shook out his arms, then tried once more.
"Don't mess with me, kid. I was walking these halls while you were still drinking your mother's milk."
This time the words landed flat and final. No question mark at the end. Just fact.
A slow grin spread across Amitesh's face. "There it is. That's the presence. Say it enough times—out loud, in your head, in the mirror if you have to—and it stops being a line. It becomes who you are when you step into a room."
He clapped Arjun on the shoulder.
"Now. Back to thunder. But this time, when you aim, I want you picturing those idiots' stupid faces right in the center of your target. Channel the annoyance. Let it ride the current.
Confidence isn't just talk—it's voltage."
Arjun cracked his knuckles. Tiny blue sparks danced between them, brighter than before.
"Alright," he said, voice steadier. "Let's fry that bucket."
Amitesh stepped aside, arms folded, already smirking.
"Attaboy. Show me what a grown adult with a spine and a storm can do."