04/10/2018
Thirty floors above. Director's Office.
The hallway outside was a hushed artery of steel and glass, invisible to the rest of the world. The door bore no logo, no name—only a single brass plaque:
"Operations – Clearance G Only."
Not even a fingerprint scanner. Just silence and presence.
Inside, the air was cooler. Denser. As if it carried the weight of decisions made behind sealed doors.
Director Rena Thakur looked up from a dossier filled with encrypted cables and intercepted dispatches. Her posture was immaculate—civilian clothes, but unmistakably military in bearing. Eyes sharp as if she hadn't blinked in hours.
Vijay stepped in, spine straight, heartbeat punching in his throat, a black folder in one hand and a secure USB drive in the other. His palms were sweating, though the room was cool. The USB and printouts in his hand felt heavier than they should've. Like they carried the weight of something still undefined.
"This better be worth my lunch break," she said dryly, not looking up yet. "I get fifteen minutes between satellite briefings and counter-intel summaries."
Her voice was crisp, the kind that made men pause mid-sentence. On the wall behind her hung a single framed quote—attributed to none. It read:
"We do not defend borders. We defend futures."
Vijay placed the USB and metadata printouts gently on the teak desk. "Ma'am. I believe this is credible."
She glanced up. One eyebrow lifted—not surprise. Evaluation.
"Everyone thinks theirs is credible, Agent Kumar. Tell me why yours is different."
"No name. No digital footprint. No traceable ingress. The encryption's a custom hybrid—not military, but not civilian either. There are annotations in the code—handwritten logic trees, iterative cycles—like someone designed it, not copied it. And…"
He hesitated, then committed.
"It's a fourth-generation fighter jet engine, Ma'am. A design we haven't seen before. Possibly an indigenous prototype. Thrust-optimized. Minimal IR bleed. Notes use Indian atmospherics, not American models."
Rena didn't blink.
"Walk with me."
She stood, grabbed her blazer without breaking stride, and led him out into a corridor flanked by armoured glass. Through it, the heart of the agency's most secure facility pulsed like a neural core—labs, server vaults, secure terminals. Down below, technicians monitored incoming chatter across dozens of channels—satellite sweeps, deep web intercepts, radar shadows. Every screen flickered with live feeds of unspoken wars.
The air smelled faintly of ozone, like static before a storm.
"Do you know how many tech hoaxes we receive in a fiscal quarter?" Rena asked, her voice carrying in the silence like a scalpel slicing through fog.
"Thousands," Vijay answered.
"Correct. Thousands. From smugglers. Troll farms. Overzealous hobbyists. Some of it good… most of it is garbage. And do you know how many make it to this floor?"
"One percent."
She stopped walking. Turned to face him, her heels clicking against the composite floor.
"And you believe this is your one percent?"
Vijay didn't flinch. "I know it is."
She studied him. Not his face, but his conviction—like she was scanning his soul for rust.
"Let's talk about that after verification. If you're right, then what you've just delivered won't just move a file up the chain…"
"…it'll shift the axis this country spins on."
She turned and resumed walking. This time, slower. Intentional.
"And Agent Kumar," she called back, without turning,
"If this turns out to be legitimate, cancel your vacation. You just stepped into the deepest shadow RAW walks in."
Elsewhere…
Rohan stared at the darkened terminal. The message had been sent. Scrubbed, routed through layers of obfuscation DL had walked him through—onion routers that bounced the data across multiple encrypted layers like a digital relay race, dead-drop mail relays that mimicked disposable addresses, and metadata erasers that rewrote his digital fingerprints line by line until even he couldn't trace them back.
Still, his hands shook slightly.
"DL… they'll respond, right?"
"Not immediately. But they've received it. The message was delivered through an official channel. No leaks. No tracebacks."
Rohan exhaled slowly. It felt like standing on the edge of a skyscraper in a thunderstorm.
"Now we wait. And while we wait… we build," DL said. "You need to learn Python, Kali Linux, basic ethical hacking protocols, and darknet navigation. We will not contact them again until you're credible enough to talk face-to-face."
Rohan frowned. "You said Python first. Why that?"
"Python is the foundation," DL replied. "It's a scripting language, easy to read but powerful enough to automate tasks, write exploits, or manipulate systems. Think of it as the Swiss Army knife of hackers."
"And Kali Linux?" Rohan asked.
"A customized operating system. Built for penetration testing—basically, legal hacking. It comes preloaded with tools to probe, exploit, and secure systems. If you want to understand how attackers think, you need to use what they use."
Rohan nodded, scribbling the names in a corner of his notebook.
"You also need TOR and I2P," DL continued.
"Deep web stuff?" Rohan guessed.
"Dark web," DL corrected. "TOR stands for The Onion Router. It hides your location by bouncing your traffic through a network of volunteer-run nodes. I2P is a more decentralized version—used for hidden services. You'll need both to explore the unindexed web safely."
He paused, then added, "Hash cracking, cryptography, packet sniffing—these are your forensic tools. Hash cracking helps reverse encrypted data like stolen passwords. Cryptography helps protect your own data. And packet sniffers let you see the raw information flowing through a network—like listening in on a digital conversation."
Rohan's head buzzed, overwhelmed but intrigued.
"And social engineering?" he asked.
"People are the weakest link in any system," DL said. "If you know how they think, what they fear, how they're likely to act—you can bypass any firewall. That's social engineering."
Rohan let it sink in. "That's… a lot."
"It's a new world," DL said simply. "And offline—your body is your second system."
DL's tone shifted, lower and sharper.
"Physical conditioning: so, you don't collapse when it matters. Reaction time: so, you can read a room, dodge a blow, or spot a tail. Awareness drills: because the one who sees first, survives."
Rohan felt his stomach tighten. This wasn't just simulation anymore.
"Counter-intelligence 101," DL continued. "Tail spotting, brush passes, dead drops."
"I get it," Rohan said. "Like spy stuff."
"Like survival stuff," DL corrected. "Because if RAW ever contacts you, it means you're on their radar. But before they hand you a contract… they'll test you."
Rohan was silent.
DL spoke again, softer now, almost like a mentor.
"Pattern disruption, Rohan. That's the key. Never go to the same café twice. Change your routes. Use burner devices. Don't become predictable. Because they will watch. And if you impress them—they'll offer protection. If not…"
Rohan looked down at his hands. They had held toy jets once. Now, they were holding fire.
"You are establishing a precedent," DL said. "A signature. A legend in the making. You're not just sending files anymore. You're sending a message—that you exist, that you're capable, and that you're prepared to be useful."
He paused.
"They'll find everything about you eventually. Your school. Your friends. Even this laptop."
Rohan felt a lump form in his throat.
"But if we do this right," DL continued, "they'll see you not as a threat… but as an asset."
Rohan nodded, the weight of it all pressing down—but it wasn't crushing. It was crystallizing.
For the first time in his life, he wasn't just reacting to the world.
He was building a path through it.
"And most importantly—balance," DL added. "Live your life kiddo, your family is beginning to worry about your recent behaviour, it has been two months since your father passed away. For you it may have felt longer due to Dream Space, but for everyone else it's still fresh. Just a month after moving to India, you had your mid-term exams, and after that you started doing weird stuff on your laptop and talking to yourself. They are going to think you are going cuckoo."
"You are a normal teenager now, so live your life accordingly. Don't take the burden of the whole world on your shoulders. I am here to assist you." a hint of compassion and care in the usual stoic, and sarcastically cold AI.
"How do I… live a life after all this?"
"Start with breakfast."
He blinked again.
"Then tell your mom you're okay. Talk to your grandfather. Jog in the mornings. Spend time with friends. Watch a bad movie. Laugh. Grieve. Heal."
"You're still Rohan. Not a ghost in the machine."
"Strange, isn't it? An AI reminding a boy to eat breakfast."
A realm beyond time—where stars spiral like incense smoke, where galaxies pulse like heartbeats, where silence speaks louder than sound.
Verneya stood upon the Veil of Realms, his form shimmering with silver and indigo light, eyes holding the knowledge of millions of timelines. Beside him, appearing like a thousand suns collapsed into one serene presence, was MahaVishnu, resting upon the Ananta Shesha, the endless serpent, watching the ever-turning wheel of creation.
The Divine Attendant, Verneya, watching the translucent pool that reflects not water, but timelines—ribbons of fate threading through reality. MahaVishnu, draped in light, watches in still silence.
Verneya said, "He's starting to notice… the irregularities."
He turns; voice laced with quiet accusation. "Why did you lie to him, MahaVishnu? You told him he'd return to his world, that he could save them. You knew that wasn't possible. Even you… should not reverse time."
MahaVishnu spoke softly, his voice ancient and resonant, like the echoes of galaxies folding in on themselves. "No, Verneya," he said, his tone lined with weariness. "I should not. Time is a current no hand should grasp—not even mine. But I did not lie. Not fully. I gave him hope. I gave him… choice."
Verneya stood still, his expression unreadable, though a flicker of something stirred beneath the calm—concern, perhaps, or the weight of a question long carried. "You promised him a return," he said finally. "But this world… this one isn't his. It's close, eerily close. But not the same. Why the illusion? Why place him in a parallel world and cloak it in falsehood?"
MahaVishnu's gaze dropped to the starlit expanse below, as though even he sought refuge in silence. "Because the truth," he said, "would have shattered what little remained of him. He believes he was sent back in time, to his world, to rewrite fate. But in his original timeline, his death was final. Absolute. His body cremated; his soul reaped. The wheel turned. His karmic cycle fulfilled. There was no vessel to return to. No thread left unspooled."
Verneya's eyes widened, the implications dawning upon him. "Then how…?"
"There exists not one, but two worlds," MahaVishnu continued, "fragments of fractured reality—anomalies in the multiverse. Like every world in the whole multiverse, in those worlds too, Rohan was fated to die that very morning, crossing the street on his way to school. A different car, a slightly mistimed signal, the same tragic end. Paying his karmic debt and attaining moksha. But there… in that sliver of reality, he survived."
He paused, as if allowing the stars themselves to breathe.
"But survival," he said, "came with a price."
"In the first, Rohan who was fated to die as in all others, survived. And in surviving, he paid a price more brutal than death. His karma, settled in one stroke by death in every other world, had nowhere to go. And so, it descended—like a curse—on the ones he loved. A mother who withered from grief she could never understand. A sister who died suffering, her light extinguished before it ever found its path. A grandfather who faded not from age, but from heartbreak. That boy lived… yes—but in ruins. Neglected, abandoned, tormented by guilt and silence. He stopped looking at the sky. He became a shadow."
Verneya's voice trembled. "And the second world?"
"The second was darker still," MahaVishnu said. "There too, Rohan lived. But unlike the first, his soul did not break—it twisted. With his family shattered, no light to guide him, he descended into a life of violence, deception, and cold ambition. A life that consumed others as it unravelled. In one world, he was hollow. In the other, he was corrupted. There exists no universe, not one, that could carry the weight of his karma and his survival. Either he died, or reality itself was warped around his continued existence."
A long pause. The stars themselves seemed to fall still.
Verneya whispered, "Then… how is he here?"
MahaVishnu's voice was gentle, but unrelenting. "Because in that first world—the one where he survived and suffered—his father did not. The boy lived. But the father died. When I revealed the truth to the souls of Veena, Hector, little Arya, and his grandparents—that Rohan's death was not just an end, but a release—they begged me. Pleaded that his final moments not be those of agony and loneliness. They did not ask for his life. Only for peace."
He lifted his eyes again, their depths reflecting countless lives lived and lost. "I told them the truth: that in every known parallel world, Rohan perished that day—except one. A world in which he lived, only to suffer. Hector… the father, understood. He proposed an exchange. Rohan's soul, in place of that world's Hector and his own along with everyone else. That Rohan might awaken not into paradise, but into a reality with a chance to heal. He knew what the cost would be. They all did."
"To abandon karma is to unmake the self," MahaVishnu said. "Not rebirth. Not moksha. Just… dissolution. And still, they chose it."
MahaVishnu continued, his voice quiet but unwavering.
"His father died for him not once, but thrice. Once in the world where Rohan's body failed. Again, when he surrendered his soul. And finally, in this timeline—where another Hector bore the burden of fate."
He looked away, as if unable to meet Verneya's gaze.
"Each death, a deeper echo of the same love."
MahaVishnu's gaze dimmed, a shadow of grief flickering across his timeless visage. "I could not bear to tell Rohan that the price of his second chance was not divine intervention—but the obliteration of those who loved him most. So, I gave him a simpler story. That time had rewound. That he could fix what was broken. Because sometimes… a lie is the gentler kindness."
Verneya turned away, the great nebulae of the upper realms stretching beyond the edge of his vision. "But you must tell him, eventually," he said. "He deserves to know. He deserves the truth."
MahaVishnu nodded slowly. "He will. When he's ready. Not as a grieving son… but as the architect of something greater. Of a world yet to be born. Until then, we let him build. We let him dream. And when the moment comes—when he stands at the edge of destiny—I will be there. And together… we will face the truth."
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Author's Note:
If you're confused, allow me to clarify. Across the vast multiverse, in every known universe, Rohan was destined to die. His karmic cycle was meant to end with that one tragic morning. But an anomaly occurred. Two universes diverged from the cosmic script.
In the first, which we'll refer to as the Past Universe, Rohan miraculously survived—but at a terrible cost. His father died in his place, and over the years, his entire family followed: one by one, consumed by grief, fate, and unspoken sorrow. Rohan lived on, hollowed by their absence. In 2025, alone and exhausted, he died too.
In the second, the Present Universe, both Rohan and his father survived. But survival did not bring peace. This Rohan was not broken, but twisted. Neglected and emotionally exiled, his life spiraled into darkness. This world didn't offer death—it offered corruption.
When the truth of these timelines was revealed to the souls of Rohan's departed family in the Past Universe, they made an impossible plea—not for resurrection, but for a second chance. A peaceful ending. A healing path.
It was Hector—the father from the Past Universe—who offered the exchange: their souls, and the soul of Hector from the Present Universe, in return for Rohan's restoration. A merging of Rohan's fractured selves, drawn from both worlds, into one unified existence with the potential to live, to heal, and to choose differently.
In effect, Hector died three times: once in body, and twice in soul. All so his son might live a life not defined by death or despair, but by the possibility of redemption.