Her gaze drifted back to the lock, a mix of irritation and disbelief on her face. Maybe she should just grab a hairpin and try picking it, like they always did in movies.
Except... there was one tiny problem: Divya didn't know how to pick a lock. She'd tried once after watching a tutorial online, and it had ended in absolute disaster. Not only had she broken the pin inside the lock, but she'd rendered the thing permanently jammed—even the key couldn't save it after that.
And knowing her luck, if she tried it now, she'd probably snap the pin with her supernatural strength and make things worse. No, there was no way she was taking that chance.
She dropped the box back onto the bed and folded her arms, glaring at it like it had personally insulted her. This isn't over, you stupid box.
As Divya paced the room in agitation, her fingers drumming anxiously against the stubborn, locked box in her hands, her breath came in shallow gasps. The silence of the small room seemed to amplify her frustration, the tension tightening like a noose. She glanced at the bed, at the scattered grass, then back to the box as if the answers would suddenly appear.
Her pulse quickened when she heard it—faint, deliberate footsteps echoing through the corridor outside. They were slow, measured, and unhurried, sending a shiver down her spine. Her body stiffened, the box now feeling unbearably heavy in her hands.
The footsteps grew louder, and Divya's mind raced. She looked at the box, at the door, at the cluttered room. Panic clawed at her chest, her breathing ragged. She had seconds to act, but what could she do? There was nowhere to hide.
"What do I do? What do I do?" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the deafening thud of her heart.
Her eyes darted to the rope lying discarded by the bed. In a flash of desperation, she snatched it up and clumsily tied it around the box, her fingers trembling. The knots were messy, but it didn't matter. She had no time.
Then, the first knock.
Thuk. Thuk.
Divya froze, the rope slipping from her grasp as the sound echoed through the small room. It wasn't a polite knock—it was deliberate, commanding. A shiver ran down her spine, and her throat tightened.
Before she could react, the second knock came. But this time, there was no pause for an answer.
BAM!
The door exploded inward with brutal force, the wood shattering into jagged shards that scattered across the floor.
An old man, perhaps in his sixties, entered the room, his bald head catching the sunlight streaming through the broken doorway, giving it an almost ethereal glow. Behind him, two younger men dressed in plain blue robes followed, their expressions stoic and their swords resting ominously at their waists. Their hands were clasped behind their backs, a silent display of discipline and quiet authority.
The old man's steps faltered the moment his gaze landed on Divya. There she was, standing precariously on one foot, her hands clasped together in prayer, her eyes shut tight as if she were trying to summon some divine intervention. The sight was so absurd that the old man's brow furrowed in both confusion and irritation.
"What... is she doing?" he muttered under his breath, glancing back at the two men behind him. They exchanged a brief, puzzled look but said nothing, their discipline keeping them silent even in the face of such a bizarre scene.
Divya, meanwhile, pretended not to notice their presence, continuing her improvised prayer. In truth, her heart was racing, her mind scrambling for a way out of the situation.
Thank God.
Sweat dripped down Divya's forehead, and not the elegant, glistening kind they write about in romance novels. No, this was the "oh-my-god-I'm-about-to-get-caught-and-my-life-is-over" kind. If anyone realized where she'd stashed the box, it was game over. Thankfully, her panicked brain had decided to work at the last second. The box was tied securely under her robes, snug between her legs. Uncomfortable? Absolutely. Genius? Also yes.
The thick, flowy fabric of her robes was doing wonders at hiding the box, but boy, was it hard to stand properly. The awkward weight pressed against her thighs, forcing her to bend her knees ever so slightly. If she tried to stand straight, the bulge might show, and that would be the end of her impromptu career as an amateur thief-slash-escape artist.
She adjusted her stance and muttered under her breath, "Who knew robes were this multifunctional? Fashion, humility, and portable storage—disciples have been onto something all along."
"Why are you standing like that?" the old man asked sharply, his bald head gleaming like a polished apple in the sunlight.
Hearing the old man's voice, Divya stiffened, her movements awkward as she slowly turned to face him. Her eyes were red-rimmed, the faintest hint of tears clinging to the corners, giving her the appearance of someone either deeply emotional or terribly guilty. She clasped her hands together, forcing a tremble into her voice as she said, "Oh, Guide Master..." She dipped into a shallow bow, though her stance was strange—unbalanced, as if she was trying to keep herself from falling over.
The old man frowned, his sharp eyes scanning her from head to toe. "Why are you standing like that? And what exactly are you praying for?" His tone was blunt, tinged with suspicion, though his expression betrayed a hint of curiosity.
Divya hesitated, her mind scrambling for a believable excuse. She lifted one hand to cover her eyes dramatically, as though overcome with emotion. "It's nothing... really," she murmured, her voice soft but strained, like someone carrying the weight of the world. "I was just... praying for the sick to find peace. And for my father and sister... that they might live happy lives once I'm... gone."
The old man's frown deepened as he studied her. "Gone? What nonsense are you talking about? You're still here, alive and standing in front of me." His gaze sharpened, and his eyes flicked down to her oddly stiff posture. "What's wrong with your legs? Why are you standing so funny?"