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The cemetery is shrouded in an eerie darkness, illuminated only by a nearby streetlamp's dim, wavering light. The fog swirls around Ayan's feet as he walks toward the gate, his eyes scanning the surroundings with suspicion and resolve.
A figure emerges from the shadows—a young boy, who was earlier seen hammering nails. He stands still, his posture enigmatic. Ayan approaches, his voice cutting through the stillness.
"Where can I find Satpal?"
The boy's gaze is steady, his expression inscrutable. "I am Satpal."
Ayan blinks, momentarily confused. "Guru Satpal?"
The boy nods solemnly. "Yes, I am Guru Satpal."
Ayan's curiosity deepens. "Do you practice black magic?"
The boy shakes his head. "No."
Ayan's brow furrows. "I saw you performing rituals in the slum."
