The library is rather lively today. The buzz of hushed conversations fills the air, and the smell of freshly brewed coffee wafts in from the nearby café corner. Aman scans the rest lounge, dodging a pile of crumpled papers near the entrance, before his eyes landing on the biggest sofa by the window, now occupied by a group of known faces. They look familiar, but it takes him a moment to connect the dots. His lecture hall had over 500 students, but somehow, he remembers them. Impressive, he thinks. A small victory in this sea of people.
One of the girls on the sofa catches his eye and waves. The others follow suit, turning their heads in sync, signaling him to come over. His stomach tightens slightly. It's either this or the floor. He forces a smile, but it feels a little too forced, like he's putting on a mask that doesn't quite fit.
As he walks over, a strange mix of thoughts swims through his mind. Why are they inviting me? It's not like he's anything special. Maybe they just remembered him from the first induction, or maybe they're just being nice. Either way, he can't shake the nagging feeling that he doesn't quite belong here. Maybe I'm just overthinking it, he tells himself.
He glances around the group, noticing the mix of familiar and unfamiliar faces. It's funny—he's surrounded by people he's seen around campus, but at this moment, they all feel so much more… together than he does. The way they talk, the way they laugh—it's like they've all known each other forever. He doesn't know why it feels so foreign. He wants to fit in. He should fit in. But there's always this gap, this tiny space between him and everyone else that he just can't close.
When he reaches the sofa, he gives a polite nod, shaking hands with a couple of people. He doesn't really know what else to do. His movements feel automatic, like he's following a script he's read a hundred times, but never really understood. Stop being weird, he tells himself. They're just being friendly. Everyone's just being nice.
Ding. His phone buzzes. He glances at it—
"Mum: I'm on my break now, call me when free ;)"
The guilt hits him instantly. He knows he should reply. It's not the message—it's the silence that follows, the unspoken expectation that he'll call. But he doesn't. Instead, he turns his attention back to the group, as though nothing happened. The guilt lingers for a moment but fades, buried beneath the chatter around him.
As he adjusted his laptop screen, one of the girls sitting across from him leaned forward, her chin resting on her hand. "So, Aman, right? What are you studying?"
The question startled him slightly—he wasn't expecting to be addressed so soon. He turned his head toward her, his practiced smile slipping into place. "Yeah, Aman. Computer Science," he said. His voice came out steadier than he expected.
"Oh, nice," she said, nodding. "I'm in Computer Science too. I think we might've had a lecture overlap during induction week?"
"Yeah, I think so," Aman replied, though he wasn't entirely sure. His memory of those first chaotic days was a blur of introductions, awkward icebreakers, and trying not to get lost on campus.
Another voice joined in. "Computer Science, huh? Does that mean you're one of those coding geniuses? Like, hacking into NASA and all that?" one of the guys teased, leaning back into the sofa with a smirk.
Aman chuckled lightly, shaking his head. "Nah, I wish man. Just the dead stuff for now—algorithms, data structures. Maybe NASA's on the horizon, though." The joke landed well enough, earning a few polite laughs.
He asked them a couple of questions in return, like what year they were in and if they had any tips for surviving the semester. The answers flowed easily at first, a gentle back-and-forth as they swapped names and majors, but Aman could feel the rhythm of the conversation beginning to falter. The dreaded pause was coming—the silence where everyone suddenly remembers they don't know each other well enough to keep talking.
It's coming. Abort mission, Aman thought, his smile tightening ever so slightly.
He gave a quick glance at his laptop, as if to remind himself of an imaginary urgent task waiting there. "Anyway," he said lightly, tapping at the keyboard, "I should probably get back to this before I fall behind." It was a flimsy excuse, but no one seemed to mind.
"Yeah, for sure," one of the guys said, already turning his attention back to a conversation with someone else. The group began to splinter off into smaller pockets of chatter, and Aman felt a quiet relief wash over him.
He stared at the blank screen again, fingers hovering above the keys but not tping anything. The hum of voices and the occasional burst of laughter from the group filled the space around him, but Aman felt like he was observing it all through a glass window. He glanced up briefly, catching snippets of their conversation but not really listening. He wasn't sure if he was waiting to be drawn back in or if he was content to stay on the edges.
Social construct, he thought to himself, the corner of his mouth twitching in a faint, private smile. He knew the motions well enough by now—ask a few questions, answer a few in return, and bow out before the cracks start to show. It wasn't bad, really. Just… predictable.
For now, though, the laptop was his shield, and the group was content to let him fade into the background.
Breathe. He tells himself, his chest rising and falling as the voices around him blur into muffled noise. They twist and distort, becoming something far away, almost like waves crashing in the distance. His thoughts start to pull apart, unspooling into fragments he doesn't have the energy to piece together.
This was familiar territory—something he'd mastered as far back as primary school. Drift just enough into a group to blend in, to avoid standing out in the wrong way. It was like an invisible tightrope: not too far where the isolation became obvious, but never too close where people might try to latch on. He'd gotten good at it. Too good, maybe.
Stay just out of reach, he thought, his hands now resting motionless on the keyboard. It wasn't that he didn't want to connect. Sometimes, he thought he craved it more than anything. But every time he got close, every time he felt the warmth of being welcomed in, something inside him pulled back. Like a reflex. Like he was afraid of what would come next—the invitations after school, the texts that would fizzle out into nothing, the awkward encounters that always followed when people realized he wasn't the person they thought he was.
He swallowed hard, his eyes fixed on the blank screen of his laptop. The glow of it reflected faintly in his glasses, a perfect mirror for the expression he wasn't sure he was hiding anymore. This is how it's always been, he thought. And maybe that was okay. Aman's hands hovered over the keyboard, unsure if he should type or just pretend to. He could feel the energy of the group shifting toward something more casual. Conversations splintered and reformed, the hum of overlapping voices becoming clearer.
Aman's hands hovered over the keyboard, debating whether to actually type something or just look busy. The buzz of the group shifted into something more laid-back, with conversations splintering off and weaving back together. The voices felt like background noise, but not in a bad way—just enough to fill the gaps.
"So," one of the girls said, leaning forward with a curious grin. Her curly hair bounced as she tilted her head, looking at Aman like she was trying to figure him out. "You're new, yeah? Go on, tell us about yourself. Where're you from?"
Aman sat up a little straighter, already piecing together the most non-awkward response he could manage. "East London," he said simply. "Born and raised."
"No way, same here!" she said, her grin widening. "Well, sort of. Romford—close enough, innit?"
A guy with wire-rimmed glasses and curly brown hair piped up next, his voice just loud enough to cut through the chatter. "I'm from Leeds. Bit of a trek coming down here, but, y'know, fresh start and all that." He sounded like he'd rehearsed the line a few times.
There was a polite murmur of acknowledgment, but Zara—Aman was pretty sure that was her name—wasn't done. "What do you do, then? Hobbies? We were all chatting about it earlier, so it's your turn now."
Aman hesitated, feeling the group's attention settle on him like a weight. "Uh, I do martial arts," he said after a pause. "Mostly taekwondo and MMA."
Zara's eyebrows shot up. "You're having a laugh! That's sickl!" she said, leaning forward. "Wait, are you, like, proper good? Black belt or something?"
"Yeah, in both," Aman admitted, keeping his voice casual. He wasn't trying to show off, but he could already feel the ripple of interest. One of the lads—tall, built like a rugby player—exchanged a look with someone else in the group. Aman couldn't quite read it, but it made him feel the tiniest bit uneasy.
"Bro, that's crazy," Zara said, clearly impressed. "You must've been at it for ages."
"Yeah, since I was a kid," Aman said with a shrug. "My mum signed me up when I was little to keep me out of trouble. Just sort of stuck with it."
"Fair play to her," Zara said, nodding. "Bet she's annoyed about it now, though?"
"She doesn't say much about it these days," Aman said with a small smile. "But it's useful. Good for staying fit and clearing your head."
One of the quieter guys on the floor spoke up, his accent posh and his tone careful. "MMA, though? That's proper intense. You ever, like…" He mimed a clumsy punch and immediately laughed at himself. "Sorry, I sound like a muppet."
Aman chuckled despite himself. "It's not as dramatic as people think," he said. "I've sparred loads, but no cage fights or anything like that. Nothing you'd see on telly."
The group laughed along with him, and the rugby guy—Aman was sure his name was Alex—leaned back, folding his arms with a smirk. "Still, mate. You could probably take anyone here, couldn't you?"
Aman felt a flicker of tension settle in his chest, but he kept his smile polite. "It's not really about that," he said evenly. "Most martial arts teach you how to avoid fights, not look for 'em."
Alex gave a shrug, looking like he was only half-listening, before turning back to his phone. The group let the topic shift naturally, moving on to someone else's hobbies. Aman let out a quiet breath, his fingers tapping aimlessly on the edge of his laptop.
After almost ten more minutes of small talk, the group started thinning out. Some excused themselves to the toilet and never returned and some had afternoon lectures to attend to. The library had started to empty out without Aman noticing. Only Zara, Ollie, Alex, and one other guy remained, the latter having barely said a word the entire time. The atmosphere had shifted subtly, the once lively hum of voices now replaced by a quiet that seemed to stretch a little too far.
Aman glanced at the clock on his laptop. Ten minutes had passed. Maybe more. It felt like a good time to leave, but just as he started to gather his things, Alex leaned forward, his voice low and deliberate.
"Yo, have any of you lot heard about those weird cults popping up everywhere?"
Aman froze mid-movement, his bag half-zipped. Cults? That was…random. He hesitated, one foot metaphorically out the door, but curiosity tugged at him just enough to stay.
Zara frowned, sitting up straighter. "Cults? What're you on about?"
Alex leaned back in his chair, his expression unusually serious. "I'm telling you, it's proper strange. I read about it online the other day. All these weird groups, springing up in random places. America, India, even here in the UK."
Aman raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything. He wasn't new to conspiracy theories; growing up in East London meant overhearing all sorts of mad stories from overexcited uncles in kebab shops. Alex was probably one of those types, the kind who spent too much time on Reddit. Still, something about Alex's tone gave him pause.
"Right," Zara said, dragging the word out. "So, what's so special about these cults? Just people being weird, innit?"
Alex shook his head. "Nah, it's different. All of them—every single one—are connected to some ancient group. Dates back to the dawn of civilization or some mad stuff like that."
Aman chuckled softly, trying to lighten the mood. "What, like the Illuminati or something?"
Alex didn't laugh. His face stayed sharp, his eyes locked on Aman. "Worse," he said flatly.
The room felt colder. Aman noticed for the first time how empty the library had become. The last few stragglers must've left while they were talking. The faint hum of the heating system was the only sound now, the fluorescent lights above casting long, sterile shadows.
"What's this group called, then?" Ollie asked, breaking the silence. His voice was light, but there was an edge to it, like he wasn't sure if he wanted to know the answer.
Alex hesitated, his eyes darting toward the nearest bookshelf as if to make sure they were truly alone. He lowered his voice to barely a whisper. "They're called Umbra Nex. No one knows what it really means, but…"
He didn't get to finish his sentence.
The moment Alex uttered the name, the air itself seemed to shift. The faint whir of the heating cut out. Somewhere, a chair creaked, though no one had moved. Even the usual background noise of the library—the soft rustling of papers, the distant hum of conversation—vanished entirely.
Aman's stomach twisted. The silence wasn't natural. It felt heavy, oppressive, like the room itself had sucked the life out of the air.
"You lot feel that?" Zara said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.
Aman nodded without thinking, his eyes scanning the room. The fluorescent lights flickered for the briefest of moments.
Alex swallowed hard, his earlier bravado shrinking under the weight of the stillness. "I swear, that's what they're called," he muttered.
"Okay, this is creepy," Zara said, folding her arms. "You're messing with us, right?"
Alex shook his head quickly, his Adam's apple bobbing. "No, I'm not. Look, people online say there's something off about this group. Wherever they pop up, weird stuff happens. People go missing. Others claim they've seen... things."
"What kind of things?" Aman asked before he could stop himself.
"Symbols," Alex said, his voice tight. "In places they shouldn't be. Drawn in blood, carved into stone—stuff like that. And people acting weird, like they're... possessed or something. It's all connected to them."
Aman didn't realize he was gripping the edge of the table until his knuckles turned white. He wanted to brush it off as nonsense, to laugh it away like Zara was trying to. But that name—Umbra Nex—echoed in his head, sticking to his thoughts like tar.
"I think we should stop talking about this," the quiet guy said suddenly, speaking for the first time all evening. His voice was calm but firm, his gaze fixed on Alex.
"Why?" Alex asked, his tone defensive.
The guy didn't answer. He just looked at Alex for a long moment, then at Aman, and finally at Zara. His eyes lingered on each of them as if weighing something. "Just drop it," he said finally.
No one argued.
Aman glanced at his laptop, the clock ticking quietly in the corner of the screen. He didn't know why, but he suddenly felt like he didn't want to stay in the library any longer than he had to.
The atmosphere had shifted dramatically. What was once a bustling hub of chatter and shuffling papers had turned eerily silent, as if the library itself had suddenly lost its breath. The warm hum of activity was replaced by an oppressive stillness.
Everyone in the lounge started packing up, no announcements, no rush—just an unspoken agreement that it was time to leave. Aman didn't realize he was gripping the edge of his laptop until his knuckles turned white. He was the first to rise, his instincts screaming at him that something wasn't right. It wasn't fear exactly—more like every nerve in his body had gone rigid, and his senses were magnifying every flicker of movement, every distant creak of a chair.
He didn't know how to describe it, but it felt like his skin, brain, and even the hair on the back of his neck were all screaming the same thing: stay alert.
The others were slower to notice. Aman turned to them, his eyes narrowing, scanning their faces. They were still moving casually—Zara was stuffing her laptop into her bag, Ollie muttering something about getting a pint later, Alex leaning back as if this was just another day.
"Wait," Aman said sharply, raising his hand. His voice cut through the quiet like a blade.
The group froze, their confusion plastered across their faces. Zara furrowed her brows. "What is it?" she asked, her voice softer than usual.
"Just… wait." Aman glanced around the room. It wasn't just their corner of the library—the whole place was deserted. Rows of chairs stood empty, books lay abandoned on tables, and the distant front desk was vacant. The faint overhead hum of fluorescent lights buzzed louder in his ears.
They exchanged uneasy glances. "Bro, you're freaking me out," Ollie said, but his voice wavered slightly.
Aman's gaze didn't falter, his jaw tightening as he scanned the empty space. "Something's… off," he said, his tone firm but low. "I can't explain it, but just—just stop for a second. Don't move."
His words carried enough weight to make them listen. Zara clutched the strap of her bag tighter, glancing over her shoulder as if expecting someone—or something—to appear. Even Alex, always the picture of unbothered confidence, looked uneasy now.
Aman's eyes darted to the far side of the room. For a brief second, he thought he saw something—no, felt something. A shadow where there shouldn't have been one, a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye. He turned quickly, but there was nothing there.
Zara broke the silence. "Aman, you're acting like you've seen a ghost."
"No," Aman muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "Not a ghost. Worse."
The group's unease deepened. The quiet had grown so heavy it felt like it was pressing down on them, thick and suffocating. A sudden, faint noise—like a chair scraping in the distance—made them all flinch.
"What the hell is going on?" Alex said, standing now, his eyes darting nervously around.
Aman didn't answer. He couldn't. His gut was screaming, but his brain was struggling to put the pieces together. Something was wrong with this place. And whatever it was, they weren't supposed to be there when it arrived.
Aman raised his hand, palm outward, signaling everyone to be quiet. The group, despite having only known him for twenty minutes, fell silent. There was something about the way he carried himself—something steady, commanding—that told them to listen.
For Aman, his heart was racing, pumping adrenaline through his veins. His training had conditioned him to assess and react, and every instinct screamed to bolt for the emergency exit. His athleticism gave him the confidence to know he could make it, no question. But as his eyes flicked to the others—Zara gripping her bag like a lifeline, Ollie's face pale, Alex shifting his weight uneasily, and the quiet guy still frozen in place—he knew they couldn't keep up. Abandoning them didn't sit right with him, even if they were strangers. They were his shield, his buffer to blend into this new world of university life. He wasn't about to lose that on day one.
Oddly enough, he wasn't scared. His body hummed with tension, but his mind was still, calm as a leaf on water. It wasn't courage—it was something deeper, something instinctive, like a switch in his brain had flipped. He scanned the library again, his sharp eyes locking onto every corner, every shadow, as if tracking an unseen predator.
The emergency exit caught his attention, and he kept glancing back at it. It was too far to make a break for without exposing themselves, but more than that, something about it gnawed at him. It wasn't safety. It was a threshold, and he couldn't shake the feeling that something—or someone—was already standing just beyond it, closing in.
He clenched his jaw, stepping forward slightly, shielding the group without thinking about it. The air around them felt thicker now, charged with something electric and wrong.
"What's going on?" Zara whispered, her voice trembling.
Aman didn't answer immediately, his eyes narrowing as he focused on the exit. "I don't know," he said finally, his voice low but steady. "But we're not alone."
The room seemed to hold its breath, the oppressive silence making every sound sharper. A faint creak echoed from somewhere distant, followed by a soft, rhythmic tapping—impossible to place, but growing louder, closer.
Aman's hand curled into a fist. He didn't know what was coming, but one thing was certain—he wasn't about to let it catch them off guard.
Aman's eyes darted to the reception desk, sitting ominously at the far end of the library. It, too, was empty, the chair pushed back slightly as if someone had just stepped away. His hand rose again, signaling the others to move—slowly, carefully—toward it.
No one argued at first. The group moved in a tight, nervous cluster, their footsteps muted against the carpet. Aman kept his position at the rear, his eyes glued to the emergency exit. Every muscle in his body was taut, his instincts sharpening as though they were expecting something to burst through at any moment.
Alex was the first to break the silence, whispering harshly, "This is fucking stupid. Everyone probably went to their classes or something. It's nothing."
The quiet guy—whose name Aman still didn't know—glanced over his shoulder, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Even the staff? Yeah, sure, mate. Makes perfect sense."
Alex glared but didn't say anything else. His confidence wavered, and though he tried to act nonchalant, Aman could see the way his hands fidgeted, the subtle twitch in his jaw. He was scared, too, even if he wouldn't admit it.
Reaching the reception desk, Aman's mind raced. His heart thudded, steady but loud. He pulled his phone from his pocket to call someone—anyone—but the screen stayed black. Dead.
"What the fuck?" he muttered under his breath.
Zara was already checking her own phone. "Mine's dead, too," she whispered, holding it up.
One by one, they all pulled out their devices, only to find the same thing. No signal. No battery. Nothing. The silence grew heavier, tension coiling tighter around the group.
Aman's eyes narrowed. He didn't like where this was heading. His gaze shifted to the landline phone sitting on the desk, an outdated relic that somehow felt like their last lifeline. Without hesitation, he reached for it, lifting the receiver to his ear.
Before he could dial, a sound stopped him cold.
A whisper.
It was faint, almost inaudible, but it slithered into his ear like ice water, sending chills cascading down his spine. His grip on the receiver tightened instinctively as the sound grew clearer—a fragmented, distorted voice, speaking in a language he didn't recognize.
"What is it?" Zara asked, her voice trembling.
Aman didn't answer. He couldn't. His eyes widened, his throat tightening as the whisper morphed, shifting into something darker, guttural, like it was crawling through the phone line itself.
Aman's grip on the receiver tightened, his mind racing as the eerie whisper slithered through the phone line. The voice wasn't clear at first, more like a faint murmur scraping against his ear, but as it grew louder, it was unmistakable. Cold. Calculating.
"You won't die if you follow what I am about to tell you."
Aman's heart skipped a beat, his jaw clenching involuntarily. His body instinctively went rigid, every muscle coiled, ready for whatever was coming. His voice, though steady, carried an edge of disbelief. "And what might that be?"
The pause that followed felt like an eternity. The voice spoke again, this time more distinct, more deliberate.
"Kill the guy in the black hoodie, and you might walk free."
Aman's breath hitched. His eyes shot across the group, landing on Ollie. The color had drained from his face, leaving him ghostly pale. Aman's gaze hardened. Even if this was some twisted prank, it had gone too far. There was no way this was a joke anymore.
He turned back to the phone, his voice sharp, almost a growl. "Might?"
The whispering voice answered with a faint, cold chuckle that sent a fresh wave of unease crawling up Aman's spine.
"Might. He he he…"
Aman's mind spun, his thoughts colliding in a disorienting whirl. What the hell is this? He was too aware of Ollie's pale face, of the fear creeping into the others' expressions. He didn't know what this was, didn't know who was behind it or what they wanted, but one thing was certain: he couldn't let this happen.
Without a word, Aman dropped the receiver back onto the cradle, his pulse hammering in his ears. The room was heavy with tension, everyone's eyes locked on him now. He could feel the air thickening around them, like something was pressing in from every side. The quiet guy was shifting uncomfortably, Zara's hands were trembling as she clutched her bag, and Alex—despite his earlier bravado—was looking between Aman and Ollie with a nervous flicker in his gaze.
Aman exhaled sharply, his voice low and steady as he finally spoke. "No one's killing anyone." His words were blunt, final, like a command he knew had to be obeyed.
Zara blinked in confusion. "What? What does that even mean?"
"Whatever's happening, it's not real," Aman said, his words a mixture of defiance and disbelief. He glanced at Ollie again, his chest tightening as Ollie looked like he was about to collapse. "We're not killing anyone."
Ollie, wide-eyed and shaking, whispered hoarsely, "What if it's real? What if it's not a joke?"
Aman's eyes flickered toward the exit again. His gut told him they had to get out, but the voice—that voice—was still ringing in his head, a constant echo. They couldn't leave without knowing what the hell was going on, without getting answers. The game had just changed, and now the stakes were too high to ignore.
"We need to stick together," Aman said, trying to steady his own pulse. He met each of their eyes, grounding them with his unwavering gaze.
The sudden gust of wind sliced through the room, sharp and cold, making everyone flinch as if the temperature had dropped several degrees in a heartbeat. The emergency exit door—still a fair distance away—had swung open with unnatural force, as if something—or someone—had wrenched it open from the other side. The sound of the door slamming against the wall echoed like a death knell in the otherwise still room.
Aman's heart lurched as his eyes snapped toward the exit. The shape standing just beyond the door was indistinct, but there was something about the way they stood that made his skin crawl. The figure didn't move, didn't seem to breathe. It was as if they were waiting, watching, scanning the room. They didn't belong.
They're looking for us.
Aman's mind screamed at him to act. He barely registered the others as his body instinctively moved into action. His hand shot out, and he signaled for them to get down—fast, quietly. His voice was barely a whisper, but it carried an urgency that none of them could ignore.
"Behind the desk. Now."
His heart was pounding in his ears, but his movements were deliberate, precise, even though his body was thrumming with adrenaline. He darted towards the desk at the far end of the room, eyes never leaving the shadowed figure standing still by the open exit. He could feel the others scrambling behind him, their feet padding softly against the floor as they took cover.
Zara was the last to reach the desk, her breath quick and shallow, and she huddled close to Aman, her eyes wide with panic. The quiet guy—the one who had barely spoken—was already ducked low behind the desk, his eyes glued to the open doorway.
Aman's pulse drummed in his neck, but he forced himself to stay silent, his breath slow and controlled. He pressed himself flat against the side of the desk, hands clenched into fists at his sides. His eyes flicked over to the exit once more. The figure hadn't moved. The room had grown unnervingly quiet, the only sound now being the wind howling faintly through the open door.
Aman didn't dare breathe too loudly. He was acutely aware that this wasn't a game. It wasn't some sick prank. Whoever—or whatever—was out there was looking for them, and their lives hung on a thread.
Seconds stretched into minutes. The tension was suffocating. Aman's thoughts raced, but the one thing he could focus on was the figure at the door. They hadn't budged. Had they seen them? Were they waiting for something?
A soft, almost inaudible shuffle from the back of the room made Aman freeze, his senses sharpening instantly. It was the sound of someone stepping carefully, deliberately. Someone else? Or was it just a trick of his mind? He glanced at the others—Zara, Ollie, the quiet guy—none of them moved, all of them crouched low, their eyes wide, hearts pounding with fear.
The figure outside didn't seem to notice their movement. Instead, they tilted their head slightly, as though sensing something, as though they could hear their every breath. Aman's stomach twisted. They knew.
In the fragile silence, Aman realized one terrifying truth. This wasn't just a random occurrence. Something or someone had been waiting for this moment. For them.
And now, they had to survive.
The figure's voice sliced through the stillness, cold and unnervingly familiar. "Hiding won't benefit you…"
Aman's breath caught in his throat. It was the same voice. The voice from the landline. The one that had sent a chill down his spine just moments ago.
"Aman…"
His name echoed in the air, laced with something sinister, something that felt more like a command than an observation. The world seemed to tilt for a second. How does it know my name?
Aman could feel the weight of the others' eyes on him, their gazes burning into his back, but he didn't dare turn around. It was as if something in his chest had frozen him in place, his body unwilling to obey his instincts to move, to flee. He didn't want to be the center of attention right now, but he couldn't shake the feeling that this moment had somehow always been leading to him.
The figure's words hung in the air like a dark omen. "I have been watching you for a long time... waiting."
Aman's heart pounded against his ribs, the blood in his veins turning to ice. What the hell does that mean?
His mind raced to make sense of it, but the more he tried, the less it made sense. Watching him? Waiting?
He could hear his pulse thrumming in his ears, the silence around him almost deafening. This can't be real. This has to be some sick prank, a game, something… But the voice was too real. The tension in the room was too palpable. Aman couldn't breathe without tasting the fear in the air.
He glanced at Zara, who was barely holding it together, her hands trembling at her sides. Ollie looked like he was about to faint, and the quiet guy hadn't even moved an inch. They were all looking at him, waiting for him to say something—anything. But how do you respond to a voice that knows your name, that claims it has been watching you for who knows how long?
The figure's silhouette remained still in the doorway, its presence almost suffocating, like it was pressing in on them from all sides. A creeping sensation of dread settled over Aman. He couldn't see the figure clearly, but the outline was enough to send a shiver down his spine.
Aman's voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper. "Why... Why me?" The question felt stupid, but it had to be asked. Why was he the one being singled out?
The figure seemed to pause, almost as if considering how to respond, the wind still howling softly through the open door. "You're the key," the voice finally responded, colder than before, its words hanging heavily in the air. "The one who can tip the balance."
Aman's mind spun, the weight of those words pulling him deeper into confusion. The key? What balance? What does any of this have to do with me?
He wanted to shout, to demand answers, but the words caught in his throat. Something about the way the figure spoke, the way it knew him—it felt like his life had already been set on a path he couldn't change. Like his fate had been woven into something much bigger than himself.
Zara's voice, a mere tremor in the dark, broke through the silence. "What does that mean? What balance?"
The figure didn't answer. Instead, it slowly began to step back, its form almost blending into the shadows of the hallway outside. A chilling laugh echoed in the distance, the sound of it vibrating against the walls, sending a fresh wave of panic through Aman's chest.
Then, in the same eerie whisper, the figure spoke one last time. "We'll meet again soon. And when we do, you'll understand."
With that, the figure was gone, as quickly as it had appeared, leaving nothing behind but the gust of wind and the lingering sense of something terrible just out of reach.
The silence in the room was deafening.
Aman remained frozen behind the desk, his mind whirling. The others didn't dare move. The only thing that seemed real now was the bone-deep fear that had lodged itself into his gut.
"What the hell just happened?" Ollie's voice cracked as he finally found the courage to speak.
Aman didn't have an answer. He didn't even know where to begin. The only thing he knew was that whatever had just happened… it wasn't over.
Five minutes passed, but to Aman, it felt like hours. The silence of the library still hung heavy in the air, and despite the chaos of what had just transpired, it was as though the building itself was holding its breath. He finally gathered enough courage to stand up, his legs unsteady as if they'd been locked in place for far too long. He wasn't stupid enough to use the emergency exit. That door had been too ominous, too... inviting. Instead, he headed toward the front entrance, his steps cautious, as if the very air around him might shatter at any moment.
The moment he pushed the door open, a gust of wind hit him like a slap across the face. It was unnaturally strong, making him shield his eyes with his arm. The chill cut through him immediately, biting at his skin. His heart raced, but he squinted into the night, trying to see through the haze of the wind. When he finally opened his eyes, the street outside looked... ordinary. The world was moving again. People walked briskly, lost in their own routines. Cars were honking at each other in the gridlocked traffic, drivers impatient, pedestrians walking by without a care.
Aman blinked, as though he had woken from a bad dream. Was this real? Was everything back to normal? The chaotic moments in the library felt like some fever dream, fading quickly the moment the outside world greeted him with its normal, bustling noise. He stood there for a moment, a small breath of relief escaping his lips, his heart still pounding in his chest.
Then, just as the weight of the last few minutes seemed to lift, it hit him. The others. They were still inside. They had gone through the same nightmare, the same terrifying whisper on the phone. Aman's throat tightened. He turned on his heel and went back inside, the door clicking softly behind him as he reentered the library.
The air inside was still eerily silent, and it didn't take long before Aman realized that the strange wind hadn't just affected him. As if on cue, Ollie stepped out of the room, his face pale, lips thin with nervous tension. Alex followed right behind him, though he had his hands stuffed into his pockets, posture stiff. Neither of them said a word as they passed Aman, their gazes fleeting but understanding.
Zara stepped out last, her breath steady but shallow, like she was trying to hold herself together. She paused, then took a deep breath, giving Aman a polite smile that didn't reach her eyes. It was a smile of someone trying to convince themselves that everything was okay, when deep down, they knew it wasn't. She nodded curtly before turning and walking away, her footsteps echoing softly in the otherwise silent library.
Aman watched her leave. The others hadn't looked back. No one had said anything. He understood, though. No words needed to be exchanged. They would probably never speak to him again. This wasn't a bonding experience. This was an experience they all wanted to erase from their memories. He wouldn't blame them. He didn't even want to think about what had just happened, let alone talk about it. But he knew one thing for sure: the terrifying reality of what had occurred would never leave him.
He stood there for a long moment, his thoughts spiraling, until a single, almost forgotten detail pierced through the fog. The mystery man. The quiet guy who had never said much, never revealed much. The one who had stood there through everything without a single change in expression. He didn't even know the guy's name. But they had gone through the same nightmare together.
Aman turned around, his mind still racing, only to find that the man hadn't left. He was still there, standing by the reception desk, staring at nothing in particular. The man's expression remained unreadable, his face as blank as it had been through the entire ordeal. It was unnerving, the way he seemed so calm in the wake of everything that had just happened.
The silence stretched on between them, thick and suffocating, until the man finally spoke. His voice cut through the air like a dull knife.
"So," the man said slowly, dragging out the word, his tone detached but laced with something deeper. Something almost resigned. "What we gonna do?"
We? When did 'we' become a duo? I don't even know your name. Aman's mind churned with thoughts, the weight of the last hour settling in his chest like a slow, heavy pulse. The adrenaline that had kept him sharp was now giving way to doubt and unease. He glanced at the guy, the so-called "mystery man," who had been eerily composed throughout the entire ordeal.
Before Aman could say anything, the guy stuck out his hand, breaking the tense silence.
"Yousuf," he said with a slight smirk. "You can call me Jay, Jim, or whatever… suits you."
Aman blinked, thrown off by the sudden introduction. Yousuf? That's it? Just like that? For a fleeting moment, a ridiculous thought crossed his mind—Did he just read my mind? He dismissed it almost immediately, scoffing internally at himself. Still, there was something unnervingly smooth about Yousuf, as if this situation wasn't as alien to him as it should have been.
With a subtle shake of his head, Aman reached out and shook the offered hand. Yousuf's grip was firm but unhurried, like he had all the time in the world.
"How are you not more freaked out about what just happened?" Aman asked, his voice steady but laced with genuine curiosity.
As soon as the words left his mouth, they hung in the air, challenging him. How am I not more freaked out? The question bounced back into his own head. He thought back to the emergency exit slamming open, the disembodied voice on the phone, and the figure that seemed to look directly into his soul. And yet, during all of that, he hadn't panicked. If anything, he'd been calm—too calm.
He realized with an unsettling clarity that he'd felt more in control facing the bizarre and potentially life-threatening situation than he ever did in a crowded lecture hall or a casual conversation with classmates. Why did danger feel less intimidating than making small talk? What kind of person finds comfort in chaos? The thought made his stomach tighten, but before he could unpack it further, Yousuf's voice cut through his spiraling thoughts.
"Not my first brush with the supernatural," Yousuf said casually, his tone carrying an edge of suppressed excitement. "But this one? This was much closer than anything before."
Aman's eyebrows shot up. "Supernatural?" He repeated the word slowly, tasting it, testing its weight. It felt absurd to even say it out loud, and yet… it didn't feel wrong. His mind replayed the last hour in flashes—the shadowy figure, the cryptic warnings, the sudden shift in reality—and he couldn't argue with Yousuf's assessment.
Yousuf, meanwhile, looked almost pleased with himself, as if he'd been waiting for Aman to catch on. His excitement bubbled just beneath the surface, betrayed only by the subtle bounce of his knee and the glimmer in his eyes.
Aman studied him more closely now, searching for any hint of insincerity. Who was this guy? And more importantly, why did he seem so at ease with the inexplicable? Aman didn't know what unnerved him more—the supernatural events they'd just experienced or Yousuf's unnervingly casual demeanor in the aftermath.
"Alright," Aman finally said, narrowing his eyes slightly. "So if this isn't your first 'brush,' you've got some explaining to do."
Yousuf's grin widened slightly, as if he'd been waiting for this moment. "Oh, I've got plenty to explain," he said, leaning back against the reception desk with a confidence that bordered on arrogance. "But the real question is—are you ready to hear it?"
Aman clenched his jaw, feeling a mix of apprehension and curiosity rising within him. Am I ready? Do I even have a choice? He wasn't sure if he wanted answers or if he just wanted to get as far away from Yousuf and the library as possible. But something told him that walking away now wouldn't be the end of it. Not by a long shot.
Yousuf gestured toward one of the sofas nearby, the same ones Aman had sat on just minutes ago, but it felt like a lifetime had passed. His casual movement was out of sync with the weight of what had just happened. Aman hesitated for a second, his feet feeling rooted to the floor. He glanced around the library, his gaze darting from corner to corner, half-expecting to see something—or someone—out of place.
But the library was alive again.
Students lounged in chairs, some chatting animatedly in groups while others hunched over textbooks or scrolled through their phones. Laughter rippled across the space, a sharp contrast to the suffocating silence from before. Over at the help desk, a librarian with glasses perched precariously on her nose was typing away on a computer, completely oblivious to anything amiss. The clatter of mugs and cutlery from the café in the corner punctuated the air.
No panic, no alarms, no emergency exits banging open. Everything was back to normal. Perfectly, impossibly normal.
Aman's heart thudded loudly in his chest as he scanned the room again, searching for some flaw in this fabric of normalcy. But there wasn't one. It was as if the last fifteen minutes had been plucked from existence and stuffed into some dark, unknowable void. His grip tightened on the strap of his backpack, his knuckles going pale.
No matter how you look at it, there's no way to rationalize this, he thought. This… this can't be real.
Yousuf, however, was acting as though they'd just walked in from a boring lecture, not the surreal nightmare they'd experienced. He threw himself onto the sofa with a kind of practiced ease, sprawling across it and testing out a few positions to find the one that let him appear the most nonchalant. He crossed one leg over the other, leaning back as if they were about to have a casual chat over coffee.
The sight made Aman's stomach churn. How is he so relaxed? he wondered, his mind racing as he lowered himself reluctantly onto the seat across from Yousuf. The sofa felt soft, almost unnervingly so, and for a second, Aman had to suppress the urge to recoil. It was too comfortable. Too safe. Like it was trying to convince him that everything was fine when he knew it wasn't.
Yousuf let out a contented sigh, finally settling into his spot. He glanced at Aman, the faintest trace of a smirk playing on his lips. "You don't look too thrilled to sit down," he said, his voice light, almost teasing.
Aman ignored the comment, his eyes darting back to the bustling library. He felt like an outsider looking in, like the room itself was a film set and he was the only one who hadn't been handed the script. His fingers twitched against his knee, a subconscious attempt to ground himself. But nothing felt real.
"Look around," he muttered, more to himself than to Yousuf. "None of this makes sense. How… how is everyone just—" He gestured vaguely at the students laughing and chatting nearby. "How can they not know what just happened?"
Yousuf shrugged, as if the question didn't warrant much thought. "Because for them, nothing did happen."
Aman whipped his head around to face him, his eyes narrowing. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means," Yousuf said, leaning forward slightly, "that whatever we went through? That was just for us. Special delivery, mate." He tapped his temple as if to emphasize the point.
Aman felt his chest tighten again, the words sinking in like stones. He wanted to argue, to tell Yousuf how ridiculous he sounded, but… he couldn't. Because deep down, some part of him agreed. Whatever that voice on the phone had been, whatever that shadowy figure outside the emergency exit wanted—it had been meant for them.
"Why aren't you freaking out?" Aman asked again, his voice sharper than he intended.
Yousuf raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. "Because freaking out doesn't help, does it? And besides," he added, reclining once more, "this isn't exactly my first rodeo."
Aman's pulse quickened. "What do you mean by that?"
Yousuf waved a hand dismissively. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. We'll get to that eventually."
"Eventually?" Aman echoed, his frustration bubbling to the surface. "You're acting like this is normal. Like this happens every other weekend."
Yousuf gave a low chuckle, the sound irritatingly calm. "Not every weekend," he said. "But more often than you'd think."
Aman felt a sharp pang of unease. He didn't know what scared him more—the memory of the last fifteen minutes or the thought that, for Yousuf, it was just another footnote in an already bizarre life.
Before he could press further, Yousuf's smirk faded, replaced by a more serious expression. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and locking eyes with Aman.
"But let's be real here," Yousuf said, his voice dropping slightly. "You're not exactly normal yourself, are you?"
Aman's breath caught in his throat. He didn't respond, but the question lingered, heavy and unspoken, as the world around them continued to carry on as if nothing had happened.
Yousuf leaned forward slightly, his eyes glinting with an intensity that immediately put Aman on edge. "That guy we just encountered? He's one of them."
Aman blinked, trying to keep up. "One of who?"
"The Umbra Nex," Yousuf said, as if the name should have explained everything.
Aman's brain stuttered, the words bouncing around his skull like loose marbles. His mind raced back to Alex's earlier ramblings—the cults, the conspiracies, the strange name. "They're real?" he blurted out, his voice coming out louder and more frantic than he intended.
Yousuf's lips curled into a knowing smirk, as though he'd been waiting for this exact reaction. "Oh yes, very much so," he said, his tone carrying a hint of superiority. "The Umbra Nex have gone by many names throughout history, but that one—Umbra Nex—that's the one that sticks the most."
Aman stared at him, his throat dry. The words sounded ridiculous, like something out of a poorly written fantasy novel, but there was something in Yousuf's delivery—something calm, measured, and far too self-assured—that made Aman hesitate to dismiss it outright.
Yousuf continued, clearly relishing the moment. "They were a group of highly powerful individuals—people who wielded abilities that regular humans can't even begin to comprehend. We're not talking parlor tricks here; we're talking the kind of power that rewrites the rules of reality. Creating pocket dimensions, for example."
Aman stiffened, his thoughts slamming to a halt. Pocket dimensions? The pieces began to fall into place, uncomfortably so. He thought back to the eerie silence of the library, the unnatural way time seemed to stop, the oppressive feeling of being trapped in a space that didn't belong in the real world.
"You're saying…" Aman began, his voice low, "that we weren't in the real world just now?"
Yousuf nodded, his expression grim. "Exactly. That library? It wasn't the library. It was… somewhere else. Somewhere they put us. Their playground, so to speak."
Aman's stomach churned. He felt like the ground beneath him was shifting, the foundations of reality cracking under the weight of Yousuf's words.
"But that's not all," Yousuf said, leaning back again as if he were delivering a lecture. "The Umbra Nex weren't just… random weirdos with godlike powers. They were organized. At one point, they acted as a shadow government, pulling the strings behind multiple countries. Kings, presidents, dictators—they all answered to the Umbra Nex, whether they knew it or not."
Aman's head spun. He felt like he was drowning in information, each new revelation pushing him further below the surface. "You're saying they… they controlled the world?"
"For a time, yes," Yousuf said, his tone casual, almost dismissive. "But things didn't last forever. Power like that tends to make enemies, and eventually, enough people banded together to take them down. There was a war—or so the stories go—and the Umbra Nex were supposedly wiped out."
"Supposedly," Aman repeated, the word catching in his throat.
Yousuf nodded. "Ever since then, they've gone quiet. Some people believe they disbanded, faded into obscurity. Others think they've just been lying low, biding their time, gathering their strength." He paused, his eyes locking onto Aman's with unnerving precision. "And after what we just went through, I'd say the latter's more likely, wouldn't you?"
Aman tried to process the deluge of information, but his mind refused to cooperate. It felt like he was being force-fed the plot of some over-the-top fantasy series, complete with ancient cults, shadow governments, and godlike powers.
"This is insane," Aman muttered under his breath, more to himself than to Yousuf. "It's ridiculous. There's no way any of this is real."
Yousuf raised an eyebrow, his smirk returning. "And yet," he said, gesturing around the bustling library, "here we are. You experienced it, same as I did. Unless you've got a better explanation for what just happened?"
Aman opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. The truth was, he didn't have a better explanation. No rational way to make sense of the impossible.
His hands tightened into fists, his nails digging into his palms. "Why us?" he asked finally, his voice barely above a whisper.
Yousuf's smirk faltered, just for a moment. "That," he said, his tone unusually serious, "is the question, isn't it?"
Aman's trail of thoughts came to an abrupt halt. He fixed his gaze on Yousuf, his curiosity and frustration bubbling to the surface. "Wait—before anything else, who are you? And how the hell do you know all this?"
Yousuf's smirk faltered, fading into something far less assured. His shoulders sagged slightly, and his eyes drifted away, focusing on a far corner of the library as if trying to distance himself from the question.
Aman frowned. He could tell it was a sensitive subject, but this wasn't the time for tiptoeing around someone's feelings. His life—their lives—had just been threatened, and he wasn't about to let social politeness get in the way. "I need answers," Aman pressed, his voice firm.
Yousuf straightened slightly, clearing his throat as though bracing himself. "My…" He paused, his voice dropping to a quieter tone. "My parents were killed by them."
Aman blinked, his breath catching. Oh… Maybe I shouldn't have pushed. Guilt flared briefly in his chest, but he shoved it aside. He didn't apologize—he couldn't afford to—but his voice softened. "I'm… I'm sorry."
Yousuf shook his head, dismissing the sentiment with a bitter half-smile. "Happened when I was fourteen," he said, his tone steadier now but no less grim. "They barged into my house one day, just like that. No warning, no reason—at least none that made sense to me back then." His voice cracked slightly at the end, but he pressed on, refusing to let the emotions take over.
He didn't need to finish his sentence. Aman pieced it together in his head, the unspoken details painting a horrifying picture. Though he wasn't fond of Yousuf's smug and arrogant demeanor, Aman couldn't help but feel a pang of pity for him now. No kid should have to go through that.
For a moment, his own memories betrayed him, dragging him back to a time he'd worked so hard to bury. He could still see his father's lifeless body, the echoes of his mother's cries ringing in his ears. The cold weight of helplessness pressing down on his chest. Aman squeezed his eyes shut, shoving the memory back where it belonged. Not now.
Yousuf continued, oblivious to Aman's internal struggle. "My dad… he worked as a banker—or at least, that's what I thought. My whole life, that's all I knew. He'd go to work, come back late, always too tired to talk. Just a regular, boring job, right?"
Aman nodded silently, though Yousuf wasn't looking at him. The detached tone in Yousuf's voice, the way he spoke as if reciting someone else's life—it was too familiar. Aman knew that kind of distance only came from living with the scars for years.
"But after he and my mum were killed," Yousuf continued, "it wasn't the police or detectives who came to the house. It was…" He hesitated, his expression darkening. "A group of masked men. They didn't say who they were, just that they were there to clean up the mess. They took the bodies—my parents' bodies—right out of the house. Didn't even let me bury them."
Aman's stomach churned. He couldn't imagine the rage, the helplessness Yousuf must've felt. But Yousuf wasn't done.
"One of them," Yousuf said, his voice dropping even lower, "put his hand on my shoulder. I'll never forget what he said." He scoffed bitterly, shaking his head. "He said, 'I'm sorry for your loss, but believe me, the ones who did this will pay.'"
Aman frowned. That didn't sound like the kind of thing a cold, calculating group would say. It sounded almost… personal. "Who was he?" Aman asked carefully.
"I don't know," Yousuf admitted, his voice laced with frustration. "But he said something about my dad being a great warrior. Some kind of hero. I didn't believe it at first—hell, I didn't even understand it—but after what I've seen… I guess it makes sense."
Aman's mind churned, trying to make sense of it all. He looked at Yousuf, who now seemed far less smug, far less sure of himself. The arrogance was gone, replaced by a simmering anger that burned just beneath the surface. Aman could see it now—the same weight he carried on his own shoulders, the same haunted look that came with losing something you could never get back.
Yousuf's voice softened, almost as if he were speaking more to himself than to Aman. "Ever since that day, I've been trying to figure it out. Who they were. Why they did it. What they wanted." His eyes finally met Aman's, his gaze hard and unrelenting. "And now they're back. Whatever they want this time, it's big. Bigger than anything they've done before."
Aman sat back, his mind reeling. He still didn't trust Yousuf—not entirely—but he couldn't ignore the weight of his words. Whoever these people were, they weren't playing games.
The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken fears. Finally, Aman broke it, his voice quiet but steady. "So what do we do now?"
Yousuf gave a bitter laugh, running a hand through his wavy black hair. "I asked you that first, mate."
Aman sat on the edge of the sofa, his elbows resting on his knees, his fingers interlaced tightly as he stared at the ground. His thoughts tangled like a knot he couldn't untie. Every word Yousuf had said echoed in his head, like a bell tolling louder with each repetition. Umbra Nex wants you. The phrase rattled in his brain, leaving an ache he didn't know how to soothe.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he exhaled deeply and looked up at Yousuf. "I… I just need some time," he admitted, his voice low and steady, though the tension underneath was unmistakable. "I need to process what just happened before I even think about what I'm supposed to do… if I can do anything at all."
Yousuf studied him for a moment, the guarded look on his face softening just a little. He sighed, leaning back on the sofa, his hands resting on the arms of the chair. "I understand," he said quietly, his tone carrying the weight of someone who truly did. "When it happened to me—when my parents…" He hesitated, swallowing hard. "I didn't speak to anyone for months. The guys—" his lips curled into a bitter smile, "—they framed it up as a kidnapping. Said my parents were taken by some foreign gang. That's the story I was supposed to believe, anyway."
Aman's chest tightened. His situation couldn't even compare to Yousuf's, and yet, here Yousuf was, sharing his tragedy with such raw honesty. Aman felt the weight of guilt pressing down on him, guilt for even feeling overwhelmed when Yousuf had endured so much worse.
"But one thing's for sure," Yousuf continued, his voice gaining an edge of certainty as he leaned forward, "those Umbra Nex guys? They want you."
Aman's head snapped up, his heart sinking. Yousuf got up from the sofa, pacing slightly. "I genuinely thought they were here for me today. To finish what they couldn't last time." He stopped and turned to face Aman, his expression grave. "Until the guy said your name."
Aman blinked, stunned into silence. His mouth opened, but no words came out. It wasn't because he was hiding anything—it was because he genuinely didn't know how to respond to that. What could he say to something like that? His entire life, he'd prided himself on his ability to stay unnoticed, to fly under the radar. And now? He'd been singled out by a group that Yousuf claimed would stop at nothing to get what they wanted.
Yousuf stepped closer, his tone serious but not unkind. "Be careful," he said, his gaze locked on Aman's. "Once they set their eyes on something… they don't stop. No matter how brutal the way is."
Aman nodded slowly, his throat dry. His mind was a whirlwind of questions, fears, and doubts, but one thing was clear—this wasn't something he could run from. Even if he didn't want to admit it yet, some invisible force had already pulled him into a world he never asked to be a part of.
After bidding farewell to Yousuf, Aman stepped out of the library. The air hit him like a cold slap to the face, biting at his exposed skin. The sun had already disappeared behind a shroud of thick December clouds, leaving the city cloaked in premature darkness. Street lights flickered to life, their orange glow reflecting off the damp pavement. Aman pulled his jacket tighter, shoving his hands into his pockets as he started walking.
He hated December. It wasn't just the cold; it was how the darkness seemed to stretch out endlessly, as though the night was swallowing the day whole. Not even 4 pm, he thought bitterly, glancing at the time on his phone, which thankfully wasn't dead anymore. His footsteps echoed faintly against the pavement, the usual bustle of the city oddly subdued, as if the world was still catching its breath after whatever he'd just walked away from.
The walk to the station felt agonizingly long, his thoughts looping back to the strange encounter in the library. Why would they be targeting me? He searched his memory for answers, combing through his 19 years of life for anything—anything at all—that could justify being hunted by what Yousuf called Umbra Nex.
His mind kept drawing blanks. His life had been painfully ordinary. Sure, he'd faced his fair share of struggles—losing his dad, watching his mum juggle two jobs to keep the household afloat, navigating life as a second-generation immigrant in East London—but nothing remotely close to the kind of stakes Yousuf had described. There were no shadowy organizations lurking in the margins of his memories, no dark family secrets that he knew of.
Or was there?
Aman frowned, his breath puffing out in small clouds in front of him. He thought back to what Yousuf had said about his dad being the reason for their attack. That his dad had been something more than just a regular banker. Could that be the case for him too? After all, he'd barely known his dad. The man had been absent for most of Aman's life, only reappearing sporadically before disappearing again like a ghost. And then, when he'd finally decided to stick around, he'd died.
Was he hiding something?
The question hung heavy in Aman's mind as he neared the train station. Maybe his mum would have answers. She didn't talk much about his dad—at least not beyond the usual anecdotes—but maybe that was intentional. Maybe there was more to the man than she'd ever let on.
Aman took a deep breath as he approached the station entrance, the fluorescent lights casting an artificial glow over the scene. He was relieved to see that he'd made it before the rush hour chaos began. For now, the platform wasn't crowded, and he wouldn't have to cram himself into a packed carriage.
The rhythmic hum of a train approaching echoed through the station, and Aman stepped closer to the edge of the platform. The cold metal of the ticket barrier still lingered on his fingertips, and his head felt heavy with unanswered questions. As the train pulled up, he took one last look at the world outside the station. The city lights blurred into streaks of orange and white, like smudges on a canvas. It was as if nothing extraordinary had happened, as if the last few hours hadn't flipped his life upside down.
As Aman entered the train, he scanned the carriage for a decent spot, his tired eyes darting past clusters of seats. He instinctively avoided the corners crowded with drunk homeless people and the acrid smell of piss that clung to certain areas. He found a seat near the door, as far as possible from the chaos, and sank into it with a relieved sigh.
The cold metal of the seat pressed against his back, making him shift uncomfortably, but the exhaustion that had been weighing him down all day started to seep into his bones. His body felt heavy, his limbs sluggish. Today has been too much, he thought, resting his head against the cold window. The gentle rocking of the train, paired with the rhythmic screech of the wheels, lulled him into a hazy state. He didn't even realize when his eyelids had closed completely.
It felt like a fleeting second—an instant of peace—but when he opened his eyes, something was wrong. The dim fluorescent lights overhead flickered slightly as the train screeched to a stop. Aman looked out the window, his heart sinking as he realized he'd missed his station.
"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, straightening in his seat. He rubbed his face to shake off the lingering grogginess. His mind began calculating how far he'd gone. Thankfully, he wasn't too far ahead—just one stop over. It wouldn't take long to walk back. Great. Just great.
As the train doors closed again and it continued toward the next station, Aman's muscles started to relax. But then... something clawed at the edges of his awareness.
The silence.
It wasn't just the absence of chatter or the faint hum of distant conversations. It was the oppressive kind of silence, the kind that presses against your eardrums and makes you hyper-aware of your own breathing. Slowly, his eyes scanned the carriage.
It was empty.
Utterly empty.
Aman froze, his blood turning ice-cold. His heartbeat quickened as his thoughts spiraled. This wasn't normal. The last time he'd noticed something like this was... the library. That suffocating stillness, the eerie quiet that felt like it was holding its breath, waiting to pounce.
Why again? his mind screamed. His throat went dry. What do they want from me? If they were going to kill me, why not do it in the library? Why drag it out?
He swallowed hard, his eyes darting to every corner of the carriage, looking for something—anything—that could explain what was happening. The sound of his own pulse thudded in his ears.
Then, from behind him, a voice.
"Calm down."
Aman flinched so hard he nearly leapt out of his seat. His breath caught in his throat, and his body twisted around in a single jerky motion to face the source.
Sitting a few rows behind him, legs casually crossed, was a man. Aman hadn't heard him enter, hadn't noticed him when he'd first boarded. He wasn't even sure how long the man had been there.
The man looked ordinary at first glance—dressed in a simple button-down shirt and jeans—but there was something unsettling about his presence. His posture was too relaxed, his gaze too steady. He met Aman's wide-eyed stare with a calm, almost amused expression.
"How... how did you get here?" Aman stammered, his voice cracking.
The man leaned back, tilting his head slightly as if studying Aman. "I've been here the whole time."
"No, you haven't," Aman shot back, panic creeping into his voice. "I—this train was empty. I checked."
The man's lips curled into a faint smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Empty? Or were you just too busy panicking to notice?"
Aman's mind raced, but his thoughts were a tangled mess. He couldn't make sense of anything anymore. All he knew was that something wasn't right—something about this man, about this train, about this entire day.
"Who are you?" Aman demanded, his voice rising as he tried to steady himself. His hands gripped the edges of his seat, knuckles white.
The man chuckled softly, the sound low and unsettling. "That's a good question. But the better one is... who are you, Aman?"
The use of his name felt like a slap. Aman's stomach churned, his heart pounding so hard it was a wonder the man couldn't hear it.
"I don't—what do you mean? What do you want from me?" Aman's voice cracked, desperation seeping into his tone.
The man's smile widened, but it still held no warmth. "Oh, it's not about what I want. It's about what they want."
Aman's mouth went dry. His brain screamed at him to run, to get off this train as soon as the doors opened at the next station. But his body wouldn't move, frozen in place under the man's unyielding gaze.
Aman's brain shifted into overdrive, desperately trying to piece together this stranger's role in the madness that had taken over his life. The man's voice wasn't the same as the one in the library, that much he was sure of. This was someone else entirely. And though his presence was unnerving, his actions—or lack thereof—suggested he didn't intend to harm Aman. Not yet, at least.
That realization didn't exactly soothe Aman's nerves, but it was enough to keep him from bolting out of his seat. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to think logically. The man sat there casually, his body language open but unreadable. It was almost like he wanted Aman to study him, but every time Aman tried to gauge him, the man's neutral expression gave nothing away.
"Let me guess," Aman said, his voice deliberately steady, masking the chaos in his mind. "You're not the one from the library, are you?"
The man's lips twitched into a smile—not the unnerving smirk from before, but something more genuine this time. "Smart lad," he said, his tone faintly amused.
Aman leaned back in his seat slightly, though he remained on edge. "And if I had to take another wild guess," he continued, his voice gaining a faint edge of confidence, "you guys aren't even on the same team."
The man chuckled softly, the sound almost pleasant. "You catch on quick," he said, his gaze steady. "That'll serve you well... assuming you make it out of all this alive."
Aman narrowed his eyes at the man, his mind racing again. The words were ominous, but the tone in which they were delivered lacked malice. If anything, the man sounded... amused. Like he was enjoying some private joke at Aman's expense.
"Right," Aman muttered, deciding to take the risk. He shifted in his seat, leaning forward slightly, and sat down directly across from the man. If this guy wasn't going to hurt him—yet—then maybe he could get some answers.
The man didn't seem fazed by Aman's bold move. If anything, he looked pleased, like Aman had just passed some kind of unspoken test.
"You seem to be some sort of very powerful individual to be able to do... whatever this is," Aman said, gesturing vaguely around the empty train car.
The man tilted his head, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. "And you seem surprisingly calm for someone who's being hunted by one of the most dangerous organizations in existence."
Aman's stomach tightened, but he forced himself not to react. "I wouldn't say I'm calm," he said, his tone clipped. "I'm just... running on fumes at this point."
The man nodded, as if he understood. "Fair enough. It's been a long day for you, hasn't it?"
Aman shot him a look. "That's putting it mildly."
For a moment, the two of them sat in silence, the steady hum of the train's engine the only sound in the otherwise empty carriage. Then the man leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, his expression shifting to something more serious.
"Look, Aman," he said, his tone softening. "I know you don't trust me, and that's fine. But I'm not your enemy. In fact, I might be your only ally right now."
Aman frowned, his skepticism written all over his face. "And why exactly should I believe that?"
The man let out a small sigh, running a hand through his hair. "Because if I were your enemy, you'd already be dead."
Aman blinked, his body stiffening. The words were blunt, but the man said them with such casual confidence that they sent a chill down Aman's spine.
"Relax," the man said quickly, raising his hands in a gesture of peace. "I'm not here to scare you. I'm here to help. Or at least... to give you a fighting chance."
Aman's brow furrowed. "Help? Why? What's in it for you?"
The man hesitated for a moment, as if debating how much to reveal. Then he leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. "Let's just say I have my reasons," he said cryptically. "Reasons that align with keeping you alive. For now."
Aman didn't like the vagueness of that answer, but he decided to let it slide for the moment. He had bigger questions. "Who are you, anyway?" he asked, his voice firm.
The man gave him a small, enigmatic smile. "You can call me Ezra."
"Ezra," Aman repeated, testing the name on his tongue. It didn't mean anything to him, but it felt important somehow. "And how do you know about all of this? About... them?"
Ezra's smile faded slightly, replaced by a more somber expression. "Let's just say I've been watching them for a long time," he said. "Long enough to know how dangerous they are. And long enough to know that if you're on their radar, you're in serious trouble."
Aman's chest tightened at Ezra's words. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Why me? What do they want from me?"
Ezra studied him for a long moment, his eyes sharp and calculating. "That," he said finally, "is the million-dollar question. But whatever it is, it's big. And if you want to survive, you're going to need to start asking yourself some hard questions. About your past. About your family. About who you really are."
Aman's stomach churned. He thought back to what Yousuf had said earlier, about how his own father's past had put a target on his family's back. Could it really be the same for him? His mother and sister's faces flashed before his eyes.
Ezra must have seen the turmoil on Aman's face, because his voice softened slightly. "Look," he said, "I know this is a lot to process. But you don't have to figure it all out right now. Just... keep your eyes open. Stay sharp. And trust no one."
"Not even you?" Aman asked, raising an eyebrow.
Ezra smirked. "Especially not me."
As the train slowed to a halt at the next station, Ezra leaned forward and pulled a small card from his pocket. He held it out to Aman, who eyed it warily.
"I'd like you to come to this address," Ezra said calmly. Before Aman could protest, he added, "And yes, I know this is the last thing a sane person would do."
Aman raised an eyebrow. "At least you're self-aware."
Ezra chuckled softly, the sound almost disarming. "But if you want to survive—and I mean truly survive—you'll need answers. This place can provide them."
Aman hesitated, staring at the card for a moment before reluctantly taking it. He turned it over in his hand but didn't bother to read it just yet. With a quiet sigh, he slipped it into his pocket.
Ezra stood as the train doors slid open, his movements deliberate but unhurried. "Take your time," he said, his tone almost casual now. "I know this is a lot to process. If I'm not mistaken, you're in your first year, right? Very important time in your life."
Aman blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone. Why was this man speaking so casually now, like they were old acquaintances?
"But bear in mind," Ezra added, his voice taking on a sharp edge as he stepped toward the door, "if you do visit, your life will change forever."
And with that, Ezra stepped off the train, disappearing into the shadows of the platform without a backward glance.
For a moment, Aman just sat there, staring at the empty space where Ezra had been. Then, slowly, life returned to the train. The faint chatter of passengers, the shuffle of footsteps, and the low mumbling of the drunk who had sprawled across a nearby seat. Aman almost felt relieved to see him.
"He could've at least made the train take me back home," Aman muttered under his breath, shaking his head as he realized he was now even further from home than before.
With a heavy sigh, he stepped off the train and began the long walk back. His fingers instinctively brushed the card in his pocket as his mind churned with questions.
As Aman walked back home, his footsteps echoing in the quiet evening, his mind remained a whirlwind of thoughts. He couldn't shake the nagging feeling that this was only the beginning of something much bigger—something that wasn't going to let go easily.
His fingers nervously brushed against the card in his pocket, as if it held some kind of power that could change everything. With a reluctant sigh, he pulled it out and stared at it, the stark white surface almost gleaming under the streetlights. Hesitantly, he read the contents.
A number and an address: 56 Humming Street.
The words felt like they were seared into his brain. His first instinct was to pull out his phone and look up the address—how far was it? Should he even bother going? But as his fingers hovered over the screen, a wave of hesitation swept over him. To search would mean he was considering going, and that terrified him.
He flipped the card over, hoping for some clarity. Instead, one word was scrawled on the back in a hasty script: Keepers.