Recarntation

 Chapter 1: The Fall the air was thick with the scent of pine and wet earth, the kind of smell that clung to your skin and made you feel like the world was older than it seemed. Arshvick Sharma stumbled along the narrow trail, his sneakers slipping on the slick stones, the beam of his flashlight cutting jagged patterns through the mist. The hill station of Lonavala was supposed to be a quick escape, a weekend of cheap booze and cheaper laughs with his friend Monty. But now, at 2 a.m., with the monsoon drizzle soaking his threadbare jacket and his head swimming from one too many pegs of Old Monk, Arshvick was starting to regret the whole idea.“Monty, you idiot, where are you?” he called, his voice swallowed by the fog. The trail wound up a rocky incline, flanked by gnarled trees that looked like they were reaching for him. He’d lost sight of Monty ten minutes ago when his friend had darted off into the bushes, claiming he needed to “answer nature’s call.” Typical Monty—always the loudmouth, always the one to drag Arshvick into some half-baked adventure. They’d been friends since school, bonded by their shared status as nobodies in a world that didn’t care. Monty was the dreamer, always chasing some get-rich-quick scheme; Arshvick was the quiet one, content to follow along, too tired to argue.He stopped to catch his breath, leaning against a boulder. The cold stone bit into his palms, grounding him for a moment. At twenty-six, Arshvick Sharma was nobody special. A junior clerk at a crumbling insurance office in Mumbai, he spent his days typing numbers into spreadsheets and his nights scrolling through social media, envying lives he’d never live. No family to speak of—his parents had died in a car accident when he was twelve, leaving him to bounce between distant relatives until he was old enough to fend for himself. No girlfriend, no real prospects. Just Monty, a rented one-room flat in Borivali, and a vague sense that life was passing him by.“Arsh! Yo, you alive?” Monty’s voice echoed faintly from somewhere ahead, followed by a cackle. Arshvick sighed, pushing off the boulder. The flashlight beam wobbled as he trudged forward, the trail narrowing until it hugged the edge of a steep drop. Below, the valley was a black void, the kind that made your stomach lurch just looking at it. He wasn’t afraid of heights, but something about the darkness below felt… wrong. Like it was watching him back.“Monty, I’m not climbing up there just to find you passed out in a bush!” Arshvick shouted, his voice cracking. The alcohol was wearing off, leaving a dull throb in his temples. He needed to pee, too, but the idea of stopping here, so close to the edge, made his skin crawl. He glanced around, hoping for a flat patch of ground, but the trail was all rocks and roots, the forest pressing in like it wanted to swallow him whole.“Screw it,” he muttered, stepping closer to the edge. He set the flashlight down, its beam pointing uselessly into the mist, and fumbled with his zipper. The wind picked up, carrying a low, mournful howl that made the hairs on his neck stand up. He shook it off—probably just the booze talking. He aimed into the darkness, the sound of liquid hitting rock oddly satisfying in the silence.Then he heard it. A rustle, sharp and deliberate, from the trees behind him. He froze, mid-stream, his heart kicking up a notch. “Monty?” he called, quieter this time. No answer. Just the rustle again, closer now, like something moving through the underbrush. He zipped up hastily, nearly catching himself in the process, and grabbed the flashlight. The beam swept across the trees, catching nothing but twisted branches and wet leaves.“Monty, if you’re trying to scare me, I swear—” His words cut off as his foot slipped on a patch of loose gravel. He flailed, the flashlight tumbling from his hand, its light spinning wildly as it plummeted into the void. For one sickening moment, Arshvick felt the ground give way beneath him. His arms windmilled, grasping at air, and then he was falling.The world turned upside down. Rocks and sky blurred together, the wind roaring in his ears. He didn’t scream—there wasn’t time. His body hit something hard, a glancing blow that spun him sideways, and then another, sharper impact. Pain exploded in his chest, his head, his legs. The last thing he saw was the black mouth of the valley rushing up to meet him.

Chapter 2: The Stranger in the Mirror the hospital room was a prison of white walls and fluorescent lights, the kind that buzzed just loud enough to keep you from sleeping. Arshvick Sharma lay in his bed, the sheets stiff against his bruised skin, the ache in his ribs a constant reminder of the fall. Five days had passed since he woke up, since that name—Nayantara—slipped from his lips like a ghost escaping a grave. He hadn’t said it again, but it lingered in his mind, sharp and unfamiliar, like a blade he didn’t know he was carrying.Monty sat in the corner, slouched in a plastic chair, scrolling through his phone. His usual chatter had dwindled over the days, replaced by uneasy glances and half-hearted jokes. Arshvick didn’t blame him. Something had changed—something Monty couldn’t quite name but felt all the same. Arshvick felt it too, a shift deep inside, like a door had been unlocked in his head, letting in thoughts that didn’t belong.“You’re quiet today,” Monty said, not looking up from his screen. “You sure you’re okay? Doc says you’re healing like a champ, but you’re acting… I dunno, weird.”Arshvick stared at the ceiling, tracing the cracks in the plaster. “I’m fine,” he said, his voice steadier than it had any right to be. But it wasn’t his voice, not entirely. It was smoother, more precise, with an edge of confidence he’d never had. He caught himself mid-thought, startled by how natural it felt. “Just thinking.”“Thinking about what? That cliff dive you took?” Monty grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You gotta stop scaring me like that, man. I thought I’d be planning your funeral.”Arshvick didn’t answer. His gaze drifted to the small mirror above the sink in the corner of the room. It was smudged, the glass reflecting the dim light in a way that made everything look slightly warped. He hadn’t looked at himself since the accident—not really. But now, he felt an urge, almost a compulsion, to see his own face.He pushed himself up, wincing as his ribs protested. The tubes in his arm tugged, but he ignored them, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Monty looked up, alarmed. “Whoa, what’re you doing? You’re supposed to stay put.”“I need to see something,” Arshvick said, his voice low, almost a growl. He shuffled to the sink, each step a battle against the pain and the weight of his own body. Monty hovered behind him, ready to catch him if he fell, but Arshvick waved him off. He gripped the edge of the sink, his knuckles whitening, and stared into the mirror.The face looking back wasn’t his. Not entirely. The eyes were the same—brown, deep-set—but there was something in them, a sharpness, a hunger. His jaw seemed firmer, his posture straighter, even through the pain. He tilted his head, and the reflection mimicked him, but it felt wrong, like he was watching someone else. A stranger wearing his skin.“Arsh?” Monty’s voice was tentative, closer now. “You good?”Arshvick didn’t answer. A memory flickered, unbidden—a flash of a different mirror, grand and gilded, in a room that smelled of sandalwood and betrayal. A woman’s face, beautiful but cold, her lips curled in a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. A man’s voice, smooth and venomous, saying, “It’s done, Dev. You’re finished.” Blood on a white shirt, spreading like ink. Arshvick’s breath caught, his hands trembling against the sink.“Dev,” he whispered, the name slipping out before he could stop it. His reflection seemed to sharpen, the eyes narrowing, as if acknowledging the name.Monty grabbed his shoulder, spinning him around. “What the hell, man? Who’s Dev? You’re freaking me out.”Arshvick blinked, the hospital room snapping back into focus. The memory—or whatever it was—faded, leaving a dull ache in his skull. He looked at Monty, whose face was pale, his eyes wide with something close to fear. “I… I don’t know,” Arshvick said, but the lie tasted bitter. He did know. Somewhere deep inside, he knew exactly who Dev was.“Sit down before you pass out,” Monty said, guiding him back to the bed. “You’re not right, Arsh. Maybe it’s the concussion. Or, I dunno, maybe you hit your head harder than they thought.”Arshvick let himself be led, his mind racing. Dev. The name felt like a key, unlocking fragments of a life that wasn’t his. A mansion. A company. A woman named Nayantara. A fire. He pressed his hands to his face, trying to block it out, but the images kept coming—sharp, vivid, like they’d been waiting for him to wake up.By the time he was discharged two days later, Arshvick was a stranger to himself. He moved differently, his slouch replaced by a purposeful stride. His speech, once halting and unsure, now carried a rhythm that made Monty do double-takes. They took a bus back to Mumbai, the city’s chaos a stark contrast to the sterile quiet of the hospital. Arshvick stared out the window, the blurred lights of the suburbs reflecting in his eyes. Each jolt of the bus sent a jolt through his mind—more flashes, more pieces of a puzzle he didn’t want to solve.Back in their shared flat, Monty tried to keep things normal. He ordered pizza, cracked open a couple of beers, and put on a Bollywood flick, but Arshvick barely touched the food. He sat on the sagging couch, his gaze fixed on a stack of old newspapers in the corner. Something about them pulled at him, an itch he couldn’t ignore.“Hey, you gonna eat or just stare into space all night?” Monty asked, tossing a pizza crust into the box. “You’re acting like you saw a ghost or something.”Arshvick didn’t answer. He stood, crossing the room to the newspapers. They were months old, yellowing and crumpled, but one headline caught his eye, half-buried under a coffee stain. He pulled it free, his heart pounding as he read: Business Tycoon Dev Malhotra Dies in Fire.The photo below the headline showed a man in his late thirties, sharp-featured, with a jawline that could cut glass and eyes that burned with ambition. Arshvick’s breath hitched. He knew that face. Not from a mirror, but from somewhere deeper, somewhere that made his skin crawl and his chest tighten.“Arsh, what’s up?” Monty was beside him now, peering over his shoulder. “Who’s this guy?”“Dev Malhotra,” Arshvick said, his voice steady, almost reverent. “He was… someone important.”Monty frowned, snatching the paper. “Yeah, I remember this. Big shot CEO, right? His company was all over the news. Burned up in his own mansion. Freaky stuff. Why do you care?”Arshvick didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The article said the fire was an accident, a faulty gas line, but something in him screamed that it was a lie. He saw flames in his mind, heard screams, smelled smoke so real it made him cough. He stumbled back, clutching the edge of the table.“Arsh, seriously, you’re scaring me,” Monty said, grabbing his arm. “You need to see a doctor again. Maybe a shrink. This isn’t normal.”“I’m not crazy,” Arshvick snapped, his voice sharp enough to make Monty flinch. He softened, rubbing his temples. “I just… I need to figure this out.”“Figure what out? You’re talking like you’re possessed or something.” Monty’s laugh was nervous, his eyes darting to the newspaper. “You don’t think you’re, like, this Dev guy, do you?”Arshvick didn’t answer, but the question hung in the air like smoke. He took the newspaper to his room, shutting the door on Monty’s protests. Alone, he sat on the edge of his bed, the article spread out before him. Dev Malhotra, 38, CEO of Malhotra Enterprises. Survived by his wife, Nayantara Malhotra, and cousin, Rajat Malhotra. The words blurred as another memory hit—a woman’s hand slipping a pill into a glass of whiskey, a man’s laugh as a match was struck.He stood, crossing to the cracked mirror above his dresser. The face staring back was Arshvick’s—thin, tired, ordinary. But the eyes… those weren’t his. They were Dev’s, hard and unyielding, promising retribution. He leaned closer, his breath fogging the glass, and for a moment, he thought he saw something move behind his reflection—a shadow, formless but alive, whispering words he couldn’t quite hear.“I’m not you,” he said to the mirror, his voice trembling. “I’m Arshvick Sharma.”The reflection didn’t answer, but the eyes seemed to smile, cold and certain. And deep inside, a voice—not his own—whispered back: Not anymore.

Chapter 3: The Ghost BillionaireThe Mumbai air was thick with the stench of diesel and desperation, a city that chewed up dreams and spat out husks. Arshvick Sharma stood outside the glass-and-steel tower of Pinnacle Financial, his reflection in the polished doors a stranger’s silhouette. Two weeks had passed since his discharge from the hospital, and the world felt like it was tilting beneath his feet. His body was healing—ribs knitting, bruises fading—but his mind was a battleground, torn between the quiet clerk he’d been and the voice that grew louder each day. Dev Malhotra’s voice. It wasn’t just whispers now; it was commands, memories, instincts that didn’t belong to a nobody from Borivali.He adjusted the tie he’d bought from a roadside stall, the cheap fabric itching against his neck. The suit was secondhand, ill-fitting, but it was the best he could manage. Inside his head, Dev sneered at the ensemble—You look like a street hawker playing dress-up—but Arshvick ignored it. He had a plan, or rather, Dev did. The job interview at Pinnacle was a stepping stone, a way to claw back into a world Arshvick had never known but Dev navigated like a shark in bloodied water.The lobby was a cathedral of wealth, all marble and chrome, with air so cold it made his teeth ache. The receptionist, a woman with a smile as sharp as her heels, barely glanced at him as she handed over a visitor’s badge. “Ninth floor,” she said, already turning back to her screen. Arshvick nodded, his steps measured, his posture straighter than it had any right to be. Dev’s influence was seeping into his bones, guiding his movements like a puppeteer.In the elevator, he caught his reflection again. The eyes were the worst part—hard, calculating, not his own. He clenched his fists, willing Arshvick Sharma to stay in control. But the voice was there, low and insistent: You’re wasting time. They’re out there, living on my blood. Nayantara. Rajat. They’ll pay. He shook his head, trying to clear it, but the name Nayantara burned like a brand, conjuring flashes of a woman in silk, her laughter a blade.The interview was a blur. The panel—three men in suits that cost more than Arshvick’s yearly rent—fired questions about financial models, market trends, things he shouldn’t have known. But he did. Words spilled from his mouth, precise and confident, about derivatives and risk analysis, terms he’d never studied but Dev had mastered. The interviewers exchanged glances, impressed despite themselves. By the end, they offered him a junior analyst position on the spot. Low pay, long hours, but a foot in the door of a world where Dev Malhotra had once ruled.Back on the street, the city’s chaos felt distant, like he was watching it through a stranger’s eyes. He needed answers, not just a job. The newspaper article about Dev’s death had been a spark, igniting questions that refused to die. A fire, they’d said. An accident. But the memories—Dev’s memories—told a different story. Betrayal. Murder. A glass of whiskey laced with poison. A match struck in the dark.He pulled out his phone, a cracked relic from three years ago, and searched for Dev Malhotra again. The results were the same: articles about the tragic fire, the loss of a visionary CEO, the rise of his widow, Nayantara, and cousin, Rajat, to lead Malhotra Enterprises. But there were inconsistencies, gaps that nagged at him. The fire was too clean, the investigation too quick. No mention of an autopsy, no whispers of foul play. Dev’s voice growled in his head: They covered it up. They always do.Arshvick found a cyber café, the kind of place where the keyboards were sticky and the air smelled of stale cigarettes. He sat in a corner, hunched over a computer, digging deeper. Social media posts, old news archives, anything he could find. There wasn’t much—Malhotra Enterprises had a PR machine that scrubbed the internet clean—but he found a grainy photo from a charity gala, Dev standing between Nayantara and Rajat. Nayantara was stunning, her smile a mask of charm. Rajat, lean and sharp-eyed, looked like a man who knew too many secrets. Arshvick’s fingers froze on the keyboard as Dev’s voice hissed: They did it. Together.He needed to see them, to know if the memories were real. He typed out an email, his fingers moving with a speed that wasn’t his own, addressing it to Nayantara Malhotra’s public contact at Malhotra Enterprises. The message was simple, posing as a journalist requesting an interview about the company’s future. He hesitated, his cursor hovering over “send.” Dev’s voice pushed him: Do it. They need to know I’m back.He clicked send, his heart pounding. The café’s fluorescent lights flickered, casting shadows that seemed to move on their own. He glanced at the smudged monitor, and for a split second, his reflection wasn’t his. It was Dev—sharp jaw, burning eyes, a ghost staring back. Arshvick blinked, and it was gone, leaving him cold.That evening, he walked to a small temple near his flat, the kind of place where old women prayed for lost sons and young men begged for luck. The air was heavy with incense, the idol of Ganesha glowing under flickering oil lamps. Arshvick didn’t know why he’d come—he wasn’t religious—but something had pulled him here, a need for answers beyond the internet and his own fractured mind.He knelt before the idol, his hands clasped, but no prayers came. Instead, he saw flashes—Dev’s mansion, a room lined with mirrors, a scream cut short by flames. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block it out, but the images were relentless. A hand on his shoulder snapped him back. He turned, expecting Monty, but it was a beggar, his face weathered, his eyes unnaturally bright.“You’re not who you were,” the beggar said, his voice low, almost a chant. “Dev never left. He was sent back for justice.”Arshvick froze, his breath catching. “Who are you? How do you know that name?”The beggar smiled, revealing crooked teeth. “The gods see everything. The soul carries its wounds. You’re his vessel now, but beware—time is short.”Before Arshvick could respond, the beggar shuffled away, disappearing into the crowd outside the temple. Arshvick stood, his legs unsteady, the air suddenly too thick to breathe. He stumbled outside, the city’s noise crashing over him like a wave. He leaned against a wall, his mind reeling. Vessel. Justice. The words echoed, mingling with Dev’s voice, which was louder now, almost drowning out his own thoughts.He walked home in a daze, the streets blurring into a haze of lights and horns. In his room, he avoided the mirror, but he couldn’t escape the feeling that something was watching him. He lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, when a sound made him sit up—a low, guttural whisper, coming from nowhere and everywhere. He turned, heart pounding, and saw his reflection in the darkened window. The shadow behind him was clearer now, a formless shape with eyes that burned like embers.“They burned your soul,” it whispered, the voice both in his head and in the room. “But you’re back.”Arshvick scrambled back, his back hitting the wall. The shadow vanished, leaving only his own terrified face in the glass. He didn’t sleep that night, the whisper echoing in his skull, promising answers, promising revenge.

Chapter 4: The Devil in SilkThe city of Mumbai pulsed like a living thing, its arteries clogged with traffic and ambition. Inside the glass fortress of Malhotra Enterprises, Nayantara Malhotra sat at the head of a sleek conference table, her silk saree catching the light like liquid obsidian. At thirty-four, she was a vision of elegance—high cheekbones, eyes that could charm or destroy, and a smile that hid more than it revealed. Across from her, Rajat Malhotra leaned back in his chair, his sharp suit and sharper grin marking him as a man who thrived on control. The boardroom was a theater of power, and they were its stars, celebrating the final transfer of Dev Malhotra’s empire into their hands.“To Dev,” Rajat said, raising a glass of champagne, his voice dripping with mock reverence. “The man who built it all… and left it to us.”Nayantara’s lips curved, but her eyes were cold. “To us,” she corrected, clinking her glass against his. The board members—suits with nervous smiles—joined in, their laughter a thin veneer over their unease. Dev’s death had been a tragedy, the papers said, but the speed with which Nayantara and Rajat had seized control raised whispers. Whispers they’d silenced with money, charm, and threats.As the meeting ended, Nayantara’s assistant slipped her a note. Her eyes flicked over it, and her smile tightened. A journalist—some nobody named Arsh Sharma—had requested an interview. She crumpled the paper, tossing it into the bin. “Another vulture,” she muttered, but something about the name nagged at her, a faint unease she couldn’t place.Rajat caught her expression. “What’s wrong?”“Nothing,” she said, too quickly. “Just tired of the press sniffing around.”He smirked, leaning closer. “Let them sniff. They’ll find nothing but ashes.”Across the city, Arshvick Sharma sat in a dimly lit cyber café, the hum of outdated computers a backdrop to his racing thoughts. The job at Pinnacle Financial was a start, but it wasn’t enough. Dev’s voice was relentless now, a constant drumbeat in his skull: They’re laughing at you. They took everything. Find them. Make them pay. Arshvick’s hands shook as he typed, his fingers guided by a knowledge he shouldn’t have. He wasn’t just Arshvick anymore—he was a vessel, a ghost wearing a clerk’s skin.He’d spent days digging into Malhotra Enterprises, using Dev’s instincts to navigate financial records and obscure forums. The company’s public face was flawless, but there were cracks—offshore accounts, hushed lawsuits, a whistleblower who’d vanished. Arshvick’s email to Nayantara had been a test, a way to gauge her reaction, but he needed more. He needed leverage.The idea came from Dev, a whisper that felt like a command. Blackmail. Not crude, not obvious, but surgical. He hacked into an old email account he shouldn’t have known existed—one Dev had used for private deals. Inside were messages, contracts, secrets only Dev could know. Arshvick’s heart pounded as he drafted an anonymous email to the company’s lawyer, a man named Vikram Sethi, whose name surfaced in Dev’s memories like a stain. The email was simple: I know what you did to Dev Malhotra. The truth is in the vault. Pay, or it goes public.He attached a single file—a scanned document detailing a shady land deal Dev had opposed, one Nayantara and Rajat had pushed through after his death. Arshvick didn’t know how he knew the vault’s location or its contents, but the memory was vivid: a hidden safe in the Malhotra mansion, behind a painting of a tiger. He hit send, his breath shallow, the café’s flickering lights casting shadows that seemed to watch him.Nayantara’s office was a shrine to her new power, all glass and minimalist elegance, with a view of Mumbai’s skyline that screamed wealth. She stood by the window, her phone pressed to her ear, her voice low and sharp. “Vikram, what is this email? Who sent it?”On the other end, Vikram Sethi sounded rattled, his usual composure fraying. “I don’t know, Nayantara. It came from an encrypted server. They mentioned the vault—specific details. This isn’t some random crank.”Nayantara’s grip tightened on the phone. The vault. Dev’s private safe, the one he thought she didn’t know about. She’d never found it, never cracked its secrets, but she’d assumed it burned with him. “Find out who it is,” she snapped. “And make it go away.”She hung up, her mind racing. Rajat entered without knocking, his grin fading when he saw her face. “What’s got you spooked?”“Someone knows,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “About Dev. About us.”Rajat’s eyes narrowed. “Impossible. We were careful. The fire—”“Wasn’t enough,” she cut in. “They mentioned the vault. Only Dev knew about it.”Rajat’s face paled, but he recovered quickly, his voice hardening. “Then we find them. And we bury them, too.”Arshvick left the café, the city’s heat wrapping around him like a shroud. His cheap suit was damp with sweat, but his steps were steady, driven by a purpose that wasn’t his. He walked past a newsstand, pausing when he saw a headline about Malhotra Enterprises’ latest acquisition. Nayantara’s face stared back from the photo, her smile as sharp as ever. Dev’s voice roared in his head: She’s wearing my life like a trophy.He needed to see her, to confront the woman whose name burned in his soul. But Dev’s instincts warned him to be careful, to play the long game. He bought the newspaper, tucking it under his arm, and headed to his flat. Monty was out, probably chasing another half-baked scheme, leaving the place quiet except for the hum of the ceiling fan.Arshvick sat at the kitchen table, spreading out the newspaper. He read every word about Nayantara and Rajat, their polished lies about carrying Dev’s legacy. Each sentence fueled the fire in his chest, a rage that wasn’t his but felt like it. He closed his eyes, and the memories came again—Dev’s memories. A dinner party, Nayantara’s hand brushing his, her perfume heavy with deceit. Rajat’s laugh, low and mocking, as he poured another drink. A sudden dizziness, a burning pain, then darkness.When he opened his eyes, the room felt different—colder, heavier. He stood, drawn to the cracked mirror above the sink. His reflection was there, but so was something else—a shadow, faint but growing, its edges pulsing like a heartbeat. “They burned you,” it whispered, the voice clearer now, almost his own. “But you’re not done.”Arshvick stumbled back, his heart racing. He needed to act, to do something before Dev consumed him entirely. He remembered the lawyer’s email, the threat he’d sent. It was a start, but it wasn’t enough. He needed proof, something undeniable. The vault. The thought hit him like a lightning bolt. If he could find it, he could unravel everything.The next morning, a courier arrived at Nayantara’s office. She opened the package, her hands steady despite the unease gnawing at her. Inside was a single item: a blood-stained cufflink, its silver glinting under the light. She froze, recognizing it instantly. Dev had worn it the night he died, a gift from her, engraved with their initials. She’d thought it was lost in the fire.Her phone rang, Vikram’s name flashing on the screen. She answered, her voice a hiss. “What is this, Vikram? Who’s doing this?”“I don’t know,” he said, his voice shaking. “But they’re not bluffing. We need to find that vault before they do.”Nayantara dropped the cufflink, her breath shallow. For the first time since Dev’s death, she felt something she hadn’t in years: fear. Not of the law, not of the press, but of something else—something that shouldn’t be possible. She looked at her reflection in the glass desk, and for a moment, she thought she saw him—Dev, his eyes burning, watching her from the other side.!

Chapter 5: The Hidden VaultThe Mumbai night was a beast, its humid breath heavy with the scent of rain and exhaust. Arshvick Sharma stood in the shadows of a quiet street in Bandra, his heart pounding like a war drum. The Malhotra mansion loomed before him, a fortress of glass and stone, its windows dark except for the faint glow of security lights. It was a place he’d never been, yet every detail felt familiar—the curve of the driveway, the iron gates, the tiger mural on the eastern wall. Dev’s memories were a map burned into his mind, guiding him to this moment.He wore a borrowed jacket, a cap pulled low over his eyes, and carried a fake press pass Monty had scrounged from a shady contact. The pass was flimsy, but it was enough to get him past the guard at the gate, who barely glanced at it before waving him through. “Journalist, huh?” the guard muttered, his eyes on his phone. “Don’t touch nothing.”Arshvick nodded, his throat tight. He wasn’t Arshvick Sharma tonight—not entirely. Dev’s presence was stronger now, a tidal wave in his skull, urging him forward with a mix of rage and purpose. The vault, Dev’s voice whispered. It’s all there. The truth. Their lies. Arshvick’s hands trembled as he crossed the lawn, the grass damp under his sneakers. He felt like a thief, a ghost, a man walking on borrowed time.The mansion’s side entrance was hidden behind a row of bougainvillea, just as Dev remembered. Arshvick’s fingers found the loose panel in the wall, a secret passage Dev had used to slip in and out unnoticed during late-night deals. The panel clicked open, revealing a narrow corridor that smelled of dust and old money. He stepped inside, the darkness swallowing him, his phone’s flashlight casting a weak beam across chipped paint and cobwebs.His heart raced as he navigated the passage, Dev’s memories guiding his steps. A left turn, then a staircase down to the basement level. The air grew colder, heavier, as if the house itself knew he was here. He emerged into a small chamber, its walls lined with bookshelves that hid the real prize. Behind a painting of a snarling tiger—Dev’s favorite—was the vault. Arshvick’s breath caught as he pushed the painting aside, revealing a steel door with a combination lock.His fingers moved on their own, spinning the dial with a precision that wasn’t his. 12-05-85. Dev’s birthday. The lock clicked, and the door swung open with a low groan. Inside was a treasure trove of secrets: a stack of documents, a USB drive, a voice recorder, and a small leather notebook. Arshvick’s hands shook as he grabbed them, stuffing them into his backpack. The documents were wills, contracts, proof of deals Nayantara and Rajat had buried. The USB drive—he didn’t know what was on it, but Dev’s voice growled: Everything they stole.The voice recorder was heavier, its weight more than physical. Arshvick pressed play, and Dev’s voice filled the chamber, deep and commanding, nothing like his own. “If you’re hearing this, I’m dead,” the recording began. “Nayantara and Rajat—they planned it. The poison was hers, the fire was his. They wanted the company, the money, my life. Don’t let them win.” The recording cut off with a crackle, and Arshvick’s blood ran cold. It was real. All of it.He closed the vault, his mind reeling. He needed to get out, to process this, to plan. But as he turned to leave, the lights in the chamber flickered, then died. The darkness was absolute, pressing against his skin like a living thing. His phone’s flashlight sputtered, casting wild shadows that seemed to move on their own. A whisper cut through the silence, low and guttural, not in his head this time but in the room. “Time is running out…”Arshvick froze, his breath shallow. The air grew colder, the shadows thicker. He swung his phone around, the beam catching nothing but empty shelves. Yet he felt it—a presence, watching, waiting. Dev’s voice was silent now, as if cowed by something greater. Arshvick backed toward the passage, his heart hammering, when he heard footsteps above—heavy, deliberate. Security? Nayantara? He didn’t wait to find out.He bolted through the passage, the backpack heavy against his spine. The footsteps grew louder, echoing in the mansion’s vast halls. He burst out into the night, the bougainvillea scratching his arms as he ran for the gate. The guard was gone, the street empty except for the hum of distant traffic. Arshvick didn’t stop running until he reached a bus stop, collapsing onto a bench, his chest heaving.He clutched the backpack, the weight of the vault’s contents grounding him. The will, the USB, the recorder—they were weapons, proof that could destroy Nayantara and Rajat. But the whisper lingered in his mind, a warning he couldn’t shake. Time is running out. For what? Justice? Revenge? Or something darker?Back in his flat, he locked the door, his hands still trembling as he emptied the backpack onto the table. The notebook was the last thing he opened, its pages filled with Dev’s precise handwriting—names, dates, deals. One entry stood out, written in red ink: Rajat’s ritual. The tantric promised my soul would burn forever. He lied. Arshvick’s stomach churned. Ritual? Tantric? The words felt like a key to a door he wasn’t ready to open.He looked up, catching his reflection in the window. The shadow was there again, clearer now, its eyes burning like coals. “You’re not done,” it whispered, and this time, Arshvick didn’t argue. He wasn’t sure who he was anymore—Arshvick or Dev—but he knew one thing: he was in too deep to turn back.

Chapter 6: Two Minds, One BodyThe fluorescent lights of the Borivali flat buzzed like a swarm of angry insects, casting a sickly glow over the cluttered kitchen table. Arshvick Sharma sat hunched over the spoils from the Malhotra mansion vault, the documents, USB drive, and voice recorder spread out like evidence in a crime scene he didn’t fully understand. The leather notebook lay open, Dev Malhotra’s red-inked words glaring up at him: Rajat’s ritual. The tantric promised my soul would burn forever. He lied. The sentence gnawed at him, a riddle wrapped in dread. His hands trembled, not from fear but from the weight of two lives colliding in his skull.It had been three days since he’d broken into the mansion, and Arshvick was unraveling. Sleep was a stranger, replaced by dreams that weren’t his—flames licking marble walls, Nayantara’s cold smile, Rajat’s hands slick with blood. Each night, he woke gasping, his reflection in the darkened window showing eyes that weren’t his own. Dev’s eyes, sharp and vengeful, staring back from a face that still looked like Arshvick Sharma. But the lines were blurring. His voice, once soft and hesitant, now carried Dev’s cadence, clipped and commanding. His hands moved with a precision he’d never had, typing code he didn’t remember learning, navigating financial records like a seasoned predator.Monty had noticed. “You’re not you, man,” he’d said that morning, his voice thick with worry as he watched Arshvick pore over the vault’s documents. “You’re acting like some… I don’t know, some corporate hotshot. What’s with all this?” He’d gestured at the papers, the laptop open to encrypted files Arshvick had cracked with ease. Arshvick had brushed him off, but Monty’s words stung. He wasn’t sure who he was anymore, only that Dev’s presence was growing, a tide threatening to drown him.He pushed the notebook aside and plugged the USB drive into his laptop. The screen flickered, revealing folders labeled with dates and cryptic names: Project Asha, Triton Deal, Black Lotus. Dev’s voice whispered in his head: Open Black Lotus. That’s where they hid it. Arshvick clicked, his heart pounding as files loaded—bank transfers, emails, a video. He hesitated, then played the video. It was grainy, security footage from a room he recognized from Dev’s memories: a study in the Malhotra mansion. Dev sat at a desk, his face drawn, speaking to the camera.“If you’re watching this, I’m gone,” Dev’s voice said, steady but laced with urgency. “Nayantara and Rajat—they’re planning something. I found evidence. Offshore accounts, a deal with Triton Corp. They’re bleeding the company dry. If I confront them, I don’t know what they’ll do. But I won’t let them win.” The video cut off abruptly, Dev’s face frozen mid-sentence.Arshvick’s chest tightened. The evidence was damning, but it wasn’t enough—not yet. He needed more, something to tie Nayantara and Rajat to Dev’s murder. But the more he dug, the less he felt like himself. His reflection in the laptop screen caught his eye, and he froze. The face was his, but it moved before he did, the lips curling into a smirk that belonged to Dev. “You’re wasting time,” the reflection said, its voice echoing in the room, not just his head. “They’re laughing at us.”He slammed the laptop shut, his breath ragged. The room was silent, but the air felt charged, like the moment before a storm. He stood, pacing, trying to anchor himself in Arshvick’s life—his shitty job at Pinnacle, his friendship with Monty, his empty flat. But Dev’s memories were louder, brighter, drowning out the mundane. A boardroom argument. A poisoned drink. A fire that wasn’t an accident. And that word—ritual—circling like a vulture.He needed answers, not just from documents but from something deeper. The beggar’s words at the temple haunted him: You’re his vessel now. Vessel for what? Justice? Revenge? Or something worse? Arshvick grabbed his jacket, ignoring the ache in his ribs, and headed out. He’d heard of a tantric priest in Dadar, an old man who dealt in spirits and secrets. If anyone could explain what was happening to him, it was someone who walked the line between worlds.The tantric’s shop was a narrow slit between a paan stall and a tailor, its entrance draped in faded red cloth. Inside, the air was thick with incense and something darker, like the smell of earth after a grave is dug. The priest, Baba Vishal, sat cross-legged on a mat, his eyes milky but sharp, as if he saw more than the living. Beads and bones hung from the walls, and a small altar flickered with oil lamps, casting shadows that danced like ghosts.“You carry two souls,” Baba Vishal said before Arshvick could speak, his voice a low rasp. “One is yours. The other… it burns with purpose.”Arshvick’s throat went dry. He sat across from the priest, his hands clenched. “I don’t understand what’s happening to me. I’m… changing. There’s someone else in my head. Dev Malhotra. He died, but he’s here.” He gestured to his temple, his voice cracking. “I need to know why.”The priest leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “A soul does not return without reason. A wrong was done, a debt unpaid. You are the chosen vessel, boy. Dev Malhotra’s spirit clings to you, but it is not alone. Others follow—shadows drawn to unfinished business.”Arshvick’s skin prickled. “Shadows? What does that mean?”Baba Vishal reached for a small brass bowl, tossing in a pinch of ash. The flames flared, casting jagged shapes on the walls. “When a soul is torn from life unjustly, it leaves a wound in the world. Dev’s death was no accident. A ritual was performed, meant to bind his soul, to burn it forever. But it failed. The gods sent him back for justice—but beware. Souls do not return alone. Something else came with him.”Arshvick’s heart pounded. “Something else? Like what?”The priest’s eyes darkened. “A shadow. A hunger. It feeds on vengeance, and it will not stop until the debt is paid—or until it consumes you both.”The room seemed to shrink, the air heavy with the weight of the priest’s words. Arshvick saw it then, in the corner of his vision—a flicker of movement, a shadow with burning eyes, watching from the altar’s edge. He blinked, and it was gone, but the chill remained. “How do I stop it?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.“You don’t,” Baba Vishal said. “You finish what Dev started, or you lose yourself to him. But choose quickly. The shadow grows stronger.”That night, Arshvick’s dreams were a battlefield. He was Dev, standing in a room of mirrors, each one showing a different death—poison, fire, a knife in the dark. Nayantara’s laughter echoed, Rajat’s hands dripped blood, and the shadow was there, always behind him, whispering, Finish it. He woke screaming, his reflection in the window smirking back, Dev’s eyes in his face.He stumbled to the bathroom, splashing water on his face, but the reflection didn’t change. “You’re not me,” he said, his voice shaking. The reflection laughed, low and cold. “I’m more you than you are,” it said, and the mirror cracked, a single jagged line splitting his face in two.

Chapter 7: The Murder MemoryThe air in the Dadar backroom was suffocating, thick with the tang of camphor and something metallic, like blood Arshvick couldn’t shake from his mind. He sat on a woven mat in a circle of flickering candles, their flames casting jagged shadows across the walls of the cramped, windowless space. Across from him, Meera Saxena, a wiry woman with eyes that seemed to peer into his very soul, watched him with a mix of skepticism and curiosity. She was no tantric priest, but a psychic healer Monty had tracked down, known for pulling truths from the veil of the living and the dead. Arshvick didn’t believe in psychics, but he was desperate. The cracked mirror in his flat, the voice that wasn’t his, Dev Malhotra’s memories bleeding into his own—they’d pushed him to this edge. He needed to know what Dev wanted, why he was here, and what “the shadow” Baba Vishal had warned him about really meant.“You’re carrying a weight,” Meera said, her voice low, almost swallowed by the hum of a ceiling fan. She wore no beads or robes, just a plain kurta, but her presence was heavy, like she’d seen things she couldn’t unsee. “It’s not just grief or trauma. It’s… someone else. Someone angry.”Arshvick’s throat tightened. “I’m not here. for therapy. I need answers. There’s a man—Dev Malhotra. He’s in my head. His thoughts, his memories. I need to see what happened to him.”Meera’s eyes narrowing slightly, studied him. “Memories that aren’t yours are rare. If they’re real, they’ll fight to be seen. But it’s dangerous. You might not like what you find out.”“I don’t have a choice,” Arshvick said, his voice sharper than he intended, Dev’s edge creeping in. “It’s not just him. There’s something else—something following me. I need to know why.”Meera nodded, gesturing for him to close his eyes. She placed a small brass bowl between them, filled with water and floating herbs, and began to chant softly, words Arshvick didn’t understand but felt in his bones. The candles flickered, the room growing colder despite the Mumbai heat seeping through the walls. Arshvick’s pulse quickened as Meera’s voice grew louder, pulling him into a trance he couldn’t resist.“Focus on him,” she said. “On Dev. Let him come forward.”Arshvick tried, but it wasn’t hard—Dev was already there, clawing at the edges of his mind. The room faded, replaced by a flash of marble floors, the clink of glasses, the scent of sandalwood and whiskey. He was Dev now, standing in the Malhotra mansion’s dining room, a crystal chandelier glittering above. Nayantara sat across from him, her silk saree catching the light, her smile a blade. Rajat leaned against the bar, pouring a drink, his eyes glinting with something darker than mischief.“You’re quiet tonight, Dev,” Nayantara said, her voice honeyed but cold. “Something on your mind?”Dev’s hands tightened around his glass, his voice steady but laced with suspicion. “You know what’s on my mind. Triton. The accounts. You think I wouldn’t notice?”Rajat laughed, low and mocking. “Always the watchdog, cousin. Relax. Have a drink.”The memory shifted, the edges blurring. Arshvick—no, Dev—felt a wave of dizziness, the room spinning as he sipped the whiskey. Nayantara’s face swam before him, her smile widening, predatory. “You should’ve let it go, Dev,” she whispered, her voice close, intimate. “You should’ve trusted me.”Pain exploded in his skull, a sharp crack as something heavy—Rajat’s hand, a blunt object—slammed into the back of his head. Dev stumbled, blood warm against his neck, his vision darkening. Nayantara’s laughter was the last thing he heard before the world tilted, and then—fire. The smell of gasoline, the roar of flames, the searing heat consuming his skin. He screamed, but no sound came, his body trapped as the mansion burned around him.Arshvick jolted back to the present, his scream tearing through the room. The candles had gone out, the brass bowl overturned, water pooling on the mat. Meera was slumped forward, her face pale, her breath ragged. “No,” she gasped, clutching her chest. “It’s too much… too strong…”“Meera?” Arshvick scrambled to her side, his hands shaking. “What’s wrong?”Her eyes, wide with terror, met his. “He’s not alone,” she whispered. “Something… something came with him. It saw me.” Her body convulsed, a sharp cry escaping her lips, and then she went still, her eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.Arshvick froze, his heart hammering. He checked her pulse—nothing. Meera Saxena was dead, her heart stopped as if crushed by an unseen hand. The room was silent, but the air was alive, heavy with a presence that wasn’t Meera, wasn’t Dev, wasn’t him. He backed away, his gaze darting to the shadows, where something moved—formless, with eyes like burning coals.“Leave me alone!” he shouted, his voice breaking. The shadows didn’t answer, but the presence retreated, leaving a chill that sank into his bones. He stumbled out of the shop, the Mumbai night swallowing him as he ran, Meera’s death a weight he couldn’t shake.Back in his flat, Arshvick locked the door, his hands trembling as he leaned against it. The memory of Dev’s death played on a loop—Nayantara’s poison, Rajat’s blow, the fire that wasn’t an accident. It was real, undeniable, but it came with a cost. Meera’s face, frozen in terror, haunted him. Whatever had followed Dev wasn’t just a shadow—it was a predator, and it had killed her for seeing too much.He avoided the mirror, knowing what he’d find: Dev’s eyes, the shadow behind him. But he couldn’t avoid the truth. Dev’s murder wasn’t just a crime; it was a wound in the world, and he was its vessel. Baba Vishal’s warning echoed: Something else came with him. Arshvick didn’t know what it was, but he felt it now, a hunger that wasn’t his, watching from the edges of his soul.He sank onto the couch, the vault’s contents still on the table. The voice recorder, the USB, the notebook—they were weapons, but against what? Nayantara and Rajat, or something darker? Dev’s voice was quiet now, as if cowed by Meera’s death, but Arshvick knew it wouldn’t stay silent for long. He was losing himself, piece by piece, to a man who refused to stay dead.

Chapter 8: The Digital TrailThe Mumbai dawn was a bruise on the horizon, smearing the sky with gray and gold as Arshvick Sharma sat hunched over his laptop in the dim light of his Borivali flat. The air was stale, heavy with the scent of cold coffee and fear. Meera Saxena’s death two nights ago had left a scar on his psyche, her lifeless eyes a constant reminder of the cost of digging too deep. The psychic’s warning—Something else came with him—echoed alongside Dev Malhotra’s voice, which was quieter now but no less insistent. Arshvick’s hands shook as he plugged the USB drive from the Malhotra vault into his laptop, its contents a lifeline and a curse.He hadn’t slept since the session, hadn’t looked in a mirror, hadn’t answered Monty’s increasingly frantic calls. The flat felt like a cage, the walls closing in with every shadow that flickered in his peripheral vision. He knew it was there—the thing Baba Vishal had warned about, the thing that killed Meera. It wasn’t just Dev’s soul haunting him; it was something darker, a presence that fed on vengeance and watched him with burning eyes.The USB drive whirred to life, folders spilling across the screen: Black Lotus, Triton Deal, Voice Logs. Arshvick clicked on the voice logs first, his heart pounding as Dev’s voice filled the room, calm but edged with steel. “March 12th. Nayantara’s meeting with Triton was off the books. She thinks I don’t know. Rajat’s in on it—always has been. If I confront them, I need to be ready for anything.” Another file, dated a week later: “They’re moving money through shell companies. I have proof. If I die, it’s them.” The recordings were a roadmap to betrayal, each one a nail in Nayantara and Rajat’s coffin.Arshvick’s fingers moved with Dev’s precision, uploading the files to an anonymous server he’d set up using skills he didn’t remember learning. He posted snippets to obscure forums, X accounts with cryptic handles, and whistleblower sites, careful to mask his IP. The video from the vault—Dev’s last testament—was the centerpiece, its grainy footage of him accusing Nayantara and Rajat now circulating in the digital underbelly. By noon, the posts were gaining traction, whispers of scandal spreading across X. Malhotra Enterprises cover-up? one user posted. Dev Malhotra’s death wasn’t an accident, another claimed, linking to the video.Arshvick leaned back, his pulse racing. He was poking a hornet’s nest, and he knew it. Dev’s voice purred in his head: They’re squirming now. Keep pushing. But the victory felt hollow. Meera’s death weighed on him, and the shadow’s presence was a constant pressure, like a hand on his throat. He glanced at the window, half-expecting to see those burning eyes, but it was just his reflection—Arshvick’s face, Dev’s gaze.His phone buzzed, a blocked number flashing on the screen. He hesitated, then answered, his voice low. “Hello?”Silence, then a whisper, cold and deliberate, like a blade sliding across stone. “I buried you. Why are you back?”Arshvick’s blood ran cold. The voice was male, familiar in a way that made his skin crawl—Rajat. He gripped the phone, Dev’s rage surging through him. “You didn’t bury me well enough,” he said, the words slipping out in Dev’s clipped tone. The line went dead, but the whisper lingered, a promise of violence.He stood, pacing the flat, his mind a storm of fear and purpose. He needed to protect himself, to protect Monty. His friend had been distant since Meera’s death, but Arshvick knew he was in danger. Monty had been asking too many questions, digging into Arshvick’s late-night trips and cryptic behavior. As if on cue, the door burst open, and Monty staggered in, his face bruised, his shirt torn.“Arsh!” Monty gasped, clutching the doorframe. “Some guys jumped me outside the bar. They knew about you—asked where you were, what you were doing. I didn’t tell them nothing, but—”Arshvick’s stomach dropped. “Who were they?”“I don’t know, man! Big guys, suits. Looked like they meant business.” Monty sank onto the couch, wincing. “What the hell’s going on, Arsh? You’re into something bad, aren’t you?”Arshvick didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Dev’s voice was loud now, drowning out his own thoughts: They’re coming for you. Strike first. He grabbed the notebook from the vault, flipping to the red-inked page about Rajat’s ritual. The tantric lied. Whatever Rajat had done, it hadn’t just killed Dev—it had unleashed something else, something that was now stalking Arshvick.He looked at his hands, expecting them to be his own—calloused, ordinary. But for a moment, they were different—charred, skeletal, then normal again. He blinked, his breath shallow, the room spinning. The shadow was closer now, its presence a weight in the air. “Monty,” he said, his voice trembling, “you need to stay away from me. It’s not safe.”Monty’s eyes widened. “What? No way, man. I’m not leaving you to deal with this alone.”But Arshvick wasn’t listening. He was staring at the window, where his reflection stood, motionless, even as he moved. The shadow was there, behind him, its eyes glowing like embers. “They’ll pay,” it whispered, and this time, Arshvick wasn’t sure if it was Dev or something worse.

Chapter 9: The RevelationThe Mumbai skyline glittered like a mirage of ambition, but in Arshvick Sharma’s cramped Borivali flat, the world felt like it was closing in. The air was thick with the stench of fear and burnt coffee, the laptop screen casting a ghostly glow over the scattered papers from the Malhotra vault. Arshvick’s hands hadn’t stopped shaking since Monty’s battered arrival last night, his friend’s bruised face a stark reminder that Nayantara and Rajat weren’t just ghosts in his head—they were predators, and they were closing in. The anonymous posts he’d seeded online were spreading like wildfire across X, forums buzzing with speculation about Dev Malhotra’s death. Murder, not accident, one post read, linking to the grainy video of Dev’s last testament. The public was hungry for scandal, but Arshvick felt the shadow’s hunger too—a dark, insatiable thing that watched him from every reflective surface.Monty sat on the couch, an ice pack pressed to his swollen jaw, his eyes darting between Arshvick and the locked door. “You gotta tell me what’s going on, Arsh,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Those goons weren’t random. They knew your name. They knew you. What the hell did you do?”Arshvick didn’t answer right away. Dev’s voice was a low growl in his mind: He’s a liability. Cut him loose. But Arshvick shook it off, clinging to the part of himself that still cared about his friend. “I’m trying to fix something,” he said finally, his voice a mix of his own hesitance and Dev’s steel. “Something big. People got hurt—killed. I can’t stop now.”Monty’s face hardened. “You’re not making sense, man. You’re talking like some vigilante. This isn’t you.” He paused, his gaze softening. “But I’m not bailing. Whatever this is, I’m in. Just… don’t shut me out.”Arshvick nodded, guilt twisting in his gut. He didn’t want Monty involved, not after Meera’s death, not with the shadow’s presence growing stronger. But he needed help, and Monty was all he had. “Okay,” he said, handing Monty the leather notebook from the vault. “Start with this. Look for anything about a ritual, something Rajat Malhotra did. It’s connected to… to what’s happening to me.”Monty took the notebook, flipping through it with a frown. “Ritual? Like, black magic stuff? You’re losing it, Arsh.”Before Arshvick could respond, his phone buzzed—an email notification from an unknown address. He opened it, his heart pounding as he read: Arsh Sharma, we need to talk. I know what you’re doing. Meet me at the old textile mill, 9 p.m. Come alone. —M.S. The initials hit him like a punch. Meera Saxena was dead, so who was this? Dev’s voice hissed: It’s a trap. But it’s also a chance.“Who’s M.S.?” Monty asked, peering over his shoulder.“I don’t know,” Arshvick lied, his mind racing. “But I’m going.”The textile mill was a decaying relic on the city’s edge, its rusted gates and crumbling walls a monument to forgotten industry. Arshvick arrived under a moonless sky, the air heavy with the threat of rain. His flashlight beam cut through the darkness, illuminating broken machinery and graffiti-stained walls. Dev’s instincts guided him, his steps sure despite the fear clawing at his chest. The shadow was here too—he felt it, a cold weight at his back, its burning eyes watching from the corners.A figure emerged from the shadows, a woman in her fifties, her face lined but fierce, her eyes sharp with recognition. “You’re not what I expected,” she said, her voice low. “But I see him in you. Dev.”Arshvick’s breath caught. “Who are you?”“Meera Saxena,” she said, and before he could protest, she raised a hand. “Not the psychic. That was my niece. I’m Meera Saxena, ex-CFO of Malhotra Enterprises. I’ve been in hiding since Dev died. When I saw your posts online, I knew it was him—somehow, through you.”Arshvick’s mind reeled. Another Meera. Dev’s memories stirred, confirming her identity—a loyal ally, pushed out by Nayantara and Rajat. “Why did you contact me?” he asked, his voice tinged with Dev’s authority.“Because you’re stirring up trouble, and I want in,” she said, her eyes blazing. “Dev was murdered. I tried to warn him about Nayantara and Rajat, but he didn’t listen. Then I heard rumors—Rajat was dabbling in things he shouldn’t. Occult rituals, a tantric he paid to curse Dev’s soul. I thought it was nonsense, but after what happened to my niece…” Her voice broke, but she straightened. “The ritual failed. Dev’s back, isn’t he?”Arshvick nodded, his throat tight. “He’s in me. I don’t know how, but he is. And something else—something worse.”Meera’s face paled. “The tantric warned Rajat that binding a soul could summon something else. A shadow, he called it. If it’s here, you’re not just fighting Nayantara and Rajat. You’re fighting whatever they unleashed.”The air grew colder, the shadows thicker. Arshvick felt it—the presence, closer now, its whisper a blade in his ear: They’ll burn for this. He glanced at a broken window, catching his reflection. Dev’s face stared back, the shadow behind him clearer, its form almost human, its eyes glowing like embers.“We need to move fast,” Meera said, handing him a flash drive. “This has my evidence—financial records, emails, proof of their crimes. Use it with what you have. But be careful. They know you’re coming.”As she spoke, a low rumble echoed through the mill—footsteps, heavy and deliberate. Arshvick’s pulse spiked. “Go,” he whispered, pushing Meera toward the exit. “I’ll handle this.”She hesitated, then nodded, disappearing into the night. Arshvick turned, his flashlight catching a glint of metal—a knife, held by a man in a suit, one of the goons who’d attacked Monty. “You’re a hard man to find, Sharma,” the goon said, stepping closer. “Boss wants a word.”Arshvick’s body moved before his mind caught up, Dev’s instincts taking over. He dodged the knife, grabbing a rusted pipe from the floor and swinging it hard. The goon crumpled, groaning, but more footsteps echoed—others were coming. Arshvick ran, the shadow’s whisper urging him on: 

Chapter 10: The Fire ReturnsThe Malhotra mansion stood like a monument to greed, its marble facade gleaming under the Mumbai night sky, alive with the glitter of a gala in full swing. Chandeliers cast golden light through towering windows, and the laughter of the city’s elite spilled onto the manicured lawns. Inside, Nayantara Malhotra and Rajat Malhotra played their roles to perfection—gracious hosts, untouchable heirs to Dev Malhotra’s empire. But beneath their polished smiles, tension simmered. The anonymous posts on X, the leaked video, the blood-stained cufflink—they were cracks in their carefully constructed facade, and they knew it.Arshvick Sharma stood at the edge of the lawn, hidden in the shadows of a banyan tree, his heart pounding like a war drum. He wore a tailored suit stolen from a boutique job at Pinnacle Financial, a black mask covering half his face, blending with the gala’s masquerade theme. The fake press pass had gotten him past the gate, but it was Dev’s instincts that guided him now—every step, every glance calculated, driven by a rage that wasn’t entirely his. The vault’s contents burned in his backpack: the will, the USB drive, the voice recorder, Meera Saxena’s flash drive. Tonight, he would confront them, in the very place where Dev had died.The air was thick with jasmine and champagne, but Arshvick felt a colder undercurrent, a whisper of the shadow that had followed him since Meera’s death. They’re here, Dev’s voice hissed in his mind. End it tonight. Arshvick’s hands clenched, his reflection in a nearby fountain showing Dev’s eyes in his face, the shadow’s burning gaze just behind. He wasn’t sure who was in control anymore—Arshvick or Dev—but he couldn’t turn back.He slipped through a side entrance, the same secret passage he’d used to find the vault. The corridor was dark, but Dev’s memories lit the way, guiding him to the grand hall where the gala pulsed. He emerged behind a velvet curtain, the crowd a sea of masks and glittering gowns. Nayantara stood on a raised platform, her voice smooth as she toasted the company’s future. Rajat was at her side, his eyes scanning the room, always watching.Arshvick moved through the crowd, his mask a shield, his heart racing. He caught fragments of conversation—whispers about the online leaks, rumors of murder. The seeds he’d planted were growing, and Nayantara’s tight smile told him she felt the noose tightening. He reached the bar, slipping a USB drive—loaded with Dev’s video and Meera’s evidence—into the AV system, set to play on a loop when the moment was right.He approached Nayantara first, his voice low, Dev’s cadence overtaking his own. “Mrs. Malhotra, a moment?” She turned, her eyes narrowing behind her jeweled mask. “Do I know you?” she asked, her voice cold but curious.“You knew my employer,” Arshvick said, the lie smooth. “Dev Malhotra. He left something for you.”Her face paled, but she recovered quickly, gesturing for him to follow her to a private alcove. Rajat joined them, his grin sharp as a blade. “What’s this about Dev?” he asked, his tone too casual.Arshvick removed his mask, letting them see his face—Arshvick’s face, but with Dev’s eyes. “You thought the fire was enough,” he said, his voice low, venomous. “But Dev knew. The poison. The ritual. The vault.”Nayantara’s breath hitched, her hand gripping Rajat’s arm. “Who are you?” she whispered, but her eyes betrayed her—she knew. Rajat’s grin vanished, replaced by a snarl. “You’re the one stirring up trouble. Sharma, right?”Before Arshvick could respond, the AV system crackled, and Dev’s voice boomed through the hall: “If you’re watching this, I’m dead. Nayantara and Rajat—they planned it.” The crowd gasped, heads turning as the video played, Dev’s face accusing his killers from beyond the grave. Chaos erupted, guests murmuring, phones recording.Nayantara’s face twisted with rage. “Stop it!” she hissed, but Arshvick was already moving, dragging them toward the basement chamber where Dev had died. The crowd parted, too shocked to intervene. The chamber was as he remembered—marble, mirrors, the smell of ash lingering. He locked the door behind them, his hands steady despite the fear clawing at him.“You killed him,” Arshvick said, Dev’s voice overtaking his. “You poisoned him, burned him, thought you’d won.”Rajat laughed, but it was brittle. “You’re insane. Dev’s dead. You’re just some nobody with a grudge.”Nayantara’s eyes were wild, her voice a hiss. “You’re not him. You can’t be. He’s gone!”A crackle filled the air, the smell of smoke rising. Arshvick’s heart stopped as flames licked the walls, impossible, unexplainable. The mirrors reflected fire, and in them, he saw the shadow—taller now, its form almost human, its eyes blazing. Nayantara screamed, “He’s a ghost!” Rajat backed away, his face pale, as the fire spread, unnatural, alive.Arshvick stood frozen, the shadow’s whisper deafening: Finish it. The flames didn’t touch him, but they closed in on Nayantara and Rajat, who clawed at the locked door. The mirrors cracked, one by one, and in the shards, Arshvick saw Dev, standing behind him, his face a mask of vengeance.“You burned me,” Dev’s voice said, through Arshvick’s lips. “Now you burn.”

Chapter 11: The JudgmentThe Malhotra mansion was a pyre, flames licking the marble walls of the basement chamber like the jaws of some ancient beast. The air was thick with smoke and the acrid stench of burning silk, the unnatural fire spreading faster than it should, as if guided by a will beyond physics. Arshvick Sharma stood at the center of the inferno, untouched by the heat, his eyes locked on Nayantara and Rajat Malhotra. They clawed at the locked door, their screams swallowed by the roar of the blaze. The mirrors lining the walls were shattered, their shards reflecting not just the fire but something else—a shadow with burning eyes, its form now almost human, towering behind Arshvick like a judge from the underworld.Nayantara’s mask of elegance was gone, her face twisted in terror as she pressed against the door. “You’re not real!” she shrieked, her voice breaking. “Dev’s dead! You’re just a ghost!” Rajat, his suit singed, swung wildly at the air, as if he could fight the flames or the shadow or the truth staring him down. “This is impossible!” he roared, but his eyes betrayed him—guilt, fear, and the dawning realization that the past had come to collect.Arshvick’s body felt like a stranger’s, Dev Malhotra’s presence a tidal wave drowning his own thoughts. His voice, when he spoke, was Dev’s, low and merciless. “You poisoned me. You burned me. You thought you could erase me.” He stepped closer, the flames parting around him, the shadow’s whisper a chant in his skull: Justice. Now. “But I came back.”The gala above had descended into chaos, the guests fleeing as Dev’s video looped on the AV system, his accusations of murder echoing through the mansion. Sirens wailed in the distance, too late to save the truth from spreading. The fire was no accident, just as Dev’s death hadn’t been, and the world would know it. But here, in this chamber, it wasn’t about the world—it was about judgment.Rajat lunged at Arshvick, a desperate snarl on his face, but the ceiling groaned, and a burning beam crashed down, pinning him to the floor. He screamed, the sound raw and animalistic, as the flames closed in. “It wasn’t my idea!” he gasped, his eyes darting to Nayantara. “She planned it! She wanted you gone!”Nayantara whirled on him, her fear giving way to fury. “Liar!” she spat, but her voice cracked, her guilt laid bare. She turned to Arshvick, her eyes pleading. “Dev, please… I loved you. I didn’t want to—”“Don’t,” Arshvick cut her off, Dev’s rage surging through him. “You loved my money. My power. You killed me for it.” The shadow loomed larger, its burning eyes fixed on her, and Nayantara screamed, collapsing to her knees, her hands clawing at her face as if she could tear away the truth.The fire roared, the chamber a furnace, but Arshvick felt a coldness spreading through him. His body was weakening, blood seeping from a wound he hadn’t noticed, his vision blurring. Dev’s soul was fading, its purpose nearly fulfilled, but it was taking Arshvick with it. He staggered, the shadow’s whisper softening: It’s done. The flames began to die, unnaturally fast, leaving only smoke and ash.Nayantara was alive, curled into a ball, sobbing, her mind shattered by what she’d seen. Rajat was gone, his body buried under the debris, the fire’s judgment final. Arshvick stumbled toward the door, unlocking it with trembling hands, the mansion’s halls now a labyrinth of smoke. He didn’t know how he made it outside, the cool night air a shock against his skin. He collapsed on the lawn, blood pooling beneath him, his breath shallow.The sirens were closer now, red and blue lights cutting through the haze. Arshvick’s eyes drifted to the sky, the stars blurred by smoke and pain. He felt Dev’s presence slipping away, a weight lifting but leaving him hollow. It’s over, Dev’s voice said, faint now, almost gentle. You did it.But Arshvick wasn’t sure what he’d done—or what it had cost. The shadow was gone, its burning eyes no longer watching, but he felt its mark on him, a scar on his soul. He crawled toward a temple across the street, its small spire a beacon in the chaos. The steps were slick with rain that had started to fall, washing away the ash. He collapsed at the entrance, his blood staining the stone.A priest emerged, his face weathered, his eyes kind but knowing. He knelt beside Arshvick, his hand gentle on his shoulder. “Justice is served,” the priest said, his voice soft but carrying the weight of truth. “The soul may choose peace or purpose. What do you choose?”Arshvick’s lips moved, but no sound came. He saw Meera Saxena’s lifeless face, Monty’s bruises, the fire that had consumed Rajat. He saw Dev’s life, stolen, and his own, nearly lost. Peace or purpose? He didn’t know. His eyes closed, the rain cold against his skin, and for a moment, he felt nothing at all.

Chapter 12: The Man Who ReturnedThe Mumbai rain fell in sheets, washing the city clean of ash and secrets, but not of memory. Arshvick Sharma sat on a wooden bench outside a small charity office in Bandra, the scent of wet earth mingling with the faint incense from a nearby temple. Six months had passed since the fire that consumed the Malhotra mansion, since Rajat’s death under burning debris and Nayantara’s descent into madness, her screams of “Dev is watching me!” echoing through the psychiatric ward where she now lived. The world had moved on, the scandal of Malhotra Enterprises fading into headlines and hushed whispers, but Arshvick carried the weight of that night like a stone in his chest.His body had healed—ribs mended, wounds scarred—but the toll was deeper, etched into his soul. Dev Malhotra’s presence was gone, or so he told himself. The voice that had driven him, the rage that had fueled him, had faded in the temple that night, leaving only silence. Yet Arshvick wasn’t the same. The clerk from Borivali was a ghost now, replaced by a man who moved with purpose, who spoke with a confidence he hadn’t earned. He’d used Dev’s hidden wealth, uncovered in the vault’s documents, to set up a trust for victims of corporate fraud, a quiet act of justice that felt like a debt repaid. The irony wasn’t lost on him—he was living Dev’s legacy, whether he wanted to or not.The office behind him buzzed with activity, volunteers sorting files, answering calls. Monty was there, too, his bruises long healed, his usual grin tempered by a new wariness. He’d stayed, despite everything, helping Arshvick navigate the fallout of that night. The leaked evidence—Dev’s video, Meera Saxena’s records—had torn Malhotra Enterprises apart, its assets frozen, its boardroom a graveyard of reputations. Nayantara’s institutionalization was the final nail, her ravings dismissed as madness but chilling to those who knew the truth. Arshvick hadn’t visited her. He couldn’t. The memory of her face, twisted in terror, was enough.He leaned back, the rain dripping from his umbrella, and watched the street. Life went on—rickshaws honking, vendors shouting, the city’s pulse unbroken. But he felt a hollowness, a question unanswered. The shadow—the thing Baba Vishal had warned about, the thing that killed Meera—was gone. Or was it? Some nights, he woke with a start, certain he’d seen burning eyes in the dark. Some days, he caught a glimpse of Dev in his reflection, a flicker of a man who refused to stay dead.His phone buzzed, a message from Meera Saxena, the ex-CFO who’d survived the shadows and helped him expose the truth. The trust is making waves. You did good, Arsh. He smiled faintly, but the praise felt wrong. Was it him, or Dev? The line between them was blurred, a wound that hadn’t healed.He stood, walking toward the temple across the street, its spire a quiet anchor in the chaos. The priest who’d found him that night, bleeding and broken, was there, sweeping the steps. The old man looked up, his eyes kind but piercing. “You chose purpose,” he said, as if continuing a conversation from months ago. “But the soul is never truly free.”Arshvick nodded, his throat tight. He didn’t need to ask what the priest meant. He felt it—Dev’s lingering presence, not as a voice but as a shadow in his bones, a promise that some wrongs were never fully righted. He turned to leave, his reflection caught in a puddle on the ground. For a moment, it was just Arshvick—tired, older, but himself. Then, as the rain rippled the surface, Dev was there, his eyes sharp, watching, waiting.Arshvick walked away, the city’s hum swallowing his footsteps. He didn’t look back, didn’t need to. Some souls never leave. They just wait for the next wrong… to return again.