Chapter 1: Monsoon Fracture
The rain came down like it had a personal grudge against the city. Sheets of it hammered the cracked asphalt, turning every pothole into a small, angry lake. Arjun gripped the steering wheel tighter, knuckles white against the worn leather wrap he'd taped on last month when the original one split. His Bajaj autorickshaw coughed through another flooded stretch of road, headlights cutting weak yellow beams into the dark. Another night, another empty back seat after the last passenger bailed two blocks early because "it's too wet, bhaiya, I'll walk."
He muttered a curse under his breath—half Punjabi, half exhaustion—and flicked the wipers again. They squeaked like they were judging him. Fair enough. Thirty-two years old, still driving the same rattling tin can his father used to run before the accident that left the family with nothing but debt and a dented frame. Arjun had promised himself he'd get out of this grind someday. Buy a proper car, maybe even a small flat that didn't smell like damp walls and yesterday's dal. Promises were cheap, though. Rain made them cheaper.
He was idling at a red light that blinked more than it stayed solid when the rearview mirror flickered. Not the usual smear of water—just a glitch, like someone had paused reality for half a second. Then the air inside the cabin thickened. The smell of wet earth mixed with something sharper, metallic, almost like ozone after lightning. Arjun blinked hard. Probably just fatigue playing tricks.
But when he looked back at the mirror again, there was someone in the back seat.
A woman. Not a fare he'd picked up. No door had opened, no one had climbed in. She sat perfectly still, wrapped in dark silk that caught the dashboard glow like liquid night. Her face was sharp—high cheekbones, eyes so dark they swallowed the light. In her hand, a thin blade curved like a crescent moon, edges shimmering with faint purple veins that pulsed once, twice.
Arjun's heart slammed against his ribs. "Hey—how the hell did you—"
"You," she said, voice low and rough, like wind scraping over broken glass. "Are the fracture."
The word landed heavy. Fracture. It echoed in his skull, stirring something buried deep—memories of his father's last ride, the screech of tires on wet road, the silence after. Arjun swallowed. "Lady, I think you got in the wrong ride. Get out before I—"
Her hand moved faster than he could track. Fingers clamped onto his shoulder through the thin shirt. Heat exploded through him—not burning, exactly, but alive. Like swallowing fire that decided to live inside his veins instead of killing him. His vision doubled for a heartbeat: the street outside stayed rainy Delhi chaos, but overlaid on it was something else. Lanterns floating in mist, stalls made of shadow and smoke, voices haggling in languages he almost understood.
Power. Raw and hungry. It tasted like the first drag of a cigarette after a long shift—sharp relief mixed with the promise of worse to come.
Arjun jerked free, breath ragged. His hand shot up on instinct, palm out. The air in front of him rippled, folding like wet paper. Her blade slashed forward—and passed right through where his chest had been a second ago. It emerged behind her instead, nicking her own arm. A thin line of dark blood welled up, hissing faintly against the seat.
She hissed back, more surprised than hurt. "Unblooded... yet you weave?"
"Weave?" Arjun laughed, short and shaky. "I drive people around for a living. If this is some kind of prank—"
The woman vanished. Just gone. No smoke, no sound. The cabin snapped back to normal—rain drumming on the roof, wipers squeaking, meter ticking over to another useless rupee. But his skin still buzzed. And in the quiet, a whisper crawled up from somewhere inside his head. His father's voice, rough from too many bidis: Drive careful, beta. Roads don't forgive mistakes.
Arjun stared at his hands. They looked the same—callused, grease-stained. But he felt the shift. Something had cracked open. And whatever it was, it wasn't closing again anytime soon.
He put the rickshaw in gear and pulled away from the light. The storm seemed louder now, like the city itself was breathing harder. He didn't know what the hell had just happened. Assassin? Hallucination? Bad chai? Didn't matter. One thing was clear: tonight wasn't ending with an empty fare sheet and another night staring at the ceiling.
Somewhere in the dark ahead, the veils were thinning. And Arjun—whether he liked it or not—was about to step through.
End of Chapter 1
Something special from author:
Echo in the Downpour
Father's laugh drowned in the skid,
Now it rides the wipers' beat.
Rain brings ghosts, not absolution—
Only fire in the blood,
A blade of memory sharp enough to cut both ways.
Drive on, beta. The veil waits.