A low murmur echoed in Rohan's mind.
"I wouldn't recommend that."
And the world shifted.
He froze in his tracks, eyes locked on Mark—the man he had once admired, trusted, and now despised. The anger bubbling in his veins was seconds away from boiling over. Rohan had fully intended to walk up and kick him out of the funeral. But that voice—calm, calculated, eerily familiar yet never heard before in his life, in its confidence—cut through his rage like a blade through mist.
He spun around.
No one.
The crowd had gathered in tight circles around his mother and Arya. He was standing at a distance, alone. The chill in the air did little to explain the cold sweat forming on his skin.
"Who said that?" Rohan muttered, the words falling from his lips like a breath he didn't realize he was holding.
Silence.
A trick of the mind?
He clenched his fists. Was he really going crazy? Was grief eating him alive from the inside out?
Then, again.
"You are not crazy," the voice replied, dry and mildly annoyed. "I'm your gift from Lord Supreme, MahaVishnu. Think of me as the bridge between your mortal mind and the infinite knowledge of the Library."
Rohan stiffened. "Gift?"
"DivineLink. But you can call me DL. Everyone else eventually does." The voice responded, irritation faintly laced in its tone. "I am your personal system interface—manager of your soul-bound connection to the Brahmāṇḍa Jñāna Kośa—the Library of the Cosmos."
Rohan blinked. "Wait, you mean you're Prajwal?"
DL burst into what could only be described as sarcastic laughter. "Oh, this is rich. This dumb mortal thinks Prajwal—a direct disciple of Chitragupta, the celestial accountant who meticulously records every karma of every being in existence—would be assigned to babysit him. At his beck and call. Incredible."
It paused just long enough to twist the knife.
"Next, you'll be telling me Yamraj himself is your Uber driver to hell."
Rohan scowled. "Well, you are at my beck and call. So maybe you're not that important after all."
A pause. "Touché," DL replied with mock pride. "Maybe you're not as dense as you look. But let's not push your luck.I'm here because someone has to babysit you while you play cosmic dress-up."
Rohan's scowl deepened as he looked back toward Mark, still standing among the mourners, shaking hands like nothing had happened. The fury hadn't left him.
"I was going to beat the shit out of that traitor. Why'd you stop me?"
"Because while you see a traitor, the world sees a grieving man — the man your father trusted enough to be the godfather to Mark's son. His business partner. His oldest friend. The man who cried beside your mother at the hospital. You walk up and punch him now, and the story becomes: 'Delgado boy snaps at funeral,' Not 'CEO's friend sold out his legacy.'"
Rohan clenched his jaw, forcing stillness into his muscles, the way he used to hold his ground on penalty kicks.
But this wasn't a game.
"You're right. I need to rein in my emotions. But I can't forgive him," he said, his voice low. "Not for standing there. Like nothing happened. Like he didn't sell out my father for thirty pieces of silver. Like he didn't rip us apart, destroy my family, and feel nothing."
DL's tone shifted subtly. "Don't always assume that what you think is true … is TRUE."
That made Rohan pause.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
DL didn't answer the question directly. Instead, he added, "By the way, I know you don't want to, but it would be wise not to object to your move to India. You might be able to avoid someone's untimely death."
Rohan narrowed his eyes. "I don't care what I have to do. I'm not letting Arya or Mom die like they did before."
DL's tone turned cold, the humor vanishing without warning. "That's not who I'm talking about."
For the first time, the sarcasm vanished.
And in its place was something worse.
Pity.
A chill slid down his spine as the weight of DL's pity settled over him like a shadow.
Just then, his mother's voice broke through the fog.
"Rohan, come here, beta."
He walked over and stood beside her and Arya. His sister's hand gripped his tightly. She had been crying again.
Veena addressed the crowd softly, "Thank you all for coming today. It means a lot to our family."
And so, it began.
One by one, people walked up to offer their condolences. Polite. Formal. Detached.
Empty.
"Call us if you need anything."
"You're in our prayers."
"Let us know if—"
Empty words.
Rohan stood there, still and numb. He had heard these words before. Maybe not the exact ones, but the same hollow cadence. They hadn't meant a damn thing then. They didn't now. Back then, too consumed by grief, he hadn't questioned them. Now, his eyes were open.
When Hector's company crumbled, when the lawsuits hit, when his name was dragged through the media—none of these people had offered a damn thing. No visits. No calls. No support.
Just silence.
And now? Just words. Polished and meaningless.
Then came that bastard.
Mark… and the stranger.
Standing beside Mark—almost too perfectly poised—was a man Rohan didn't recognize. Dressed in a tailored black suit with sharp, angular features, he exuded an air of calculated control. His eyes, dark and unreadable, locked onto Rohan for a fraction of a second, and in that moment, it felt as though the man could see right through him.
Rohan noticed his mother's face change the moment she saw them together. Her jaw tensed. Her smile froze. Her grief, until now a quiet river, suddenly churned with something darker.
The stranger was tall, sharply dressed, and calm to the point of arrogance. A slight smile curled at the corners of his lips as he reached into his pocket and handed Veena a card.
"My condolences," he said in a voice like oil over glass. "Call me if you ever need… options."
The pause after the word was deliberate. Surgical.
The word lingered.
Veena's eyes flicked to the card. She took it, glanced at the print, and then—without hesitation—crushed it in her hand and dropped it on the ground.
Veena's voice stayed velvet-smooth. But her eyes? Daggers.
"Thank you for your… concern," she said, with a calm that could shatter steel.
Rohan was stunned. Was that really Mom? The same woman who had cried herself to sleep every night after Hector's death?
He looked down. The crumpled card lay near his shoe. The card glared up at him like a curse. A serpent coiled in paper.
NeoTech.
The name hissed through his veins like poison.
His breath caught.
NeoTech. That name was etched into his nightmares. They had bought out his father's company for pennies, gutted it, and left them to burn.
His glare snapped to the stranger, his fists trembling.
The man raised an eyebrow and turned to Mark.
"Well then," he said with a smirk. "I suppose that's my cue to leave. You know how to contact me."
He gave Veena a polite nod and added, "I'll wait by the car, Mark."
And just like that, he walked away.
Veena turned to Mark, her voice low and tight with fury.
"How could you bring him here? After everything he did to Hector?"
Mark couldn't meet her eyes.
"They left me no choice," Mark murmured, his voice barely audible.
His eyes flickered—shame, maybe. Or something darker.
"I just hope one day… You'll see why I did it."
Rohan did not.
And the rage in his heart, no matter how tightly he gripped it, was starting to slip through the cracks once more.
*********************************************************************************************************
Some of you might be unfamiliar with the figures of Chitragupta and Yamraj.
Yamraj
He is the God of Death—not evil or malicious, but the divine judge who oversees the end of one's mortal life and the transition of the soul. Think of him not as a demon, but as a cosmic administrator. His role is to uphold Dharma by ensuring souls face the consequences of their actions, both good and bad.
Yamraj doesn't decide who lives or dies randomly — he follows a deeper order, one that's tied to karma, rebirth, and the soul's journey.
Chitragupta
Chitragupta is the celestial record-keeper assigned to Yamraj. He keeps track of every individual's karma — their deeds, intentions, sins, and virtues — across lifetimes. His ledger determines whether a soul is to be rewarded, punished, or reincarnated under specific circumstances.
In some texts, Chitragupta is seen as almost bureaucratic in his precision — meticulous, fair, and unshakeably bound to truth.He is also believed to be born from Brahma's mind and soul, making him unique among the celestial beings.