Then...
— CLICK.
The suddenness punched the silence. Naked bulbs flared awake in Colony Heights' stairwells, harsh yellow eyes blinking open one by one. The field gasped. Torch beams wobbled, then died. The generator's distant cough echoed like a beast clearing its throat. Relief washed over the gathered faces a physical wave. Bijoy Banerjee whooped, punching the air. "Victory! Take that, darkness!"
Azmon Khan's guitar strings rang discordantly as his fingers froze mid-strum. He lowered the instrument, the firelight's dance suddenly cheapened by the electric glare. Babin Hussain blinked rapidly, her amber-flecked pupils shrinking back to normal brown. She rubbed her eyes. "Ugh. Civilization returns. Time to upload."
Rupa Mollick didn't move. She stayed curled on the damp grass, staring at the dying fire. The electric light felt invasive, bleaching the shadows where whispers lived. Her scaled palm pulsed faintly against her knee. Relief? More like… interruption.
Azmon Khan carefully banked the smoldering branches, his calloused hands moving with ritual slowness. The fire wasn't just warmth; it was a fragile truce. The power's return felt less like triumph and more like the closing of a parenthesis, a brief, strange intimacy severed. Rupa Mollick finally stood, brushing grass from her shawl. Her eyes met Babin's across the dim courtyard. No words. Just a flicker of understanding. The performance was over. For now.
Darkness reclaimed its throne, but the fire's embers still pulsed low in Azmon Khan's chest, a dull, angry coal where fear should've been. He kicked dirt over the charred branches, his gaze slicing through the electric glare toward Babin Hussain. She was already scrolling, thumb jabbing at her phone like a dagger. "Uploading ghosts?" he muttered, the words gritted against his teeth. Babin didn't look up. "Evidence, Hussain. Unlike your silks." Azmon's jaw tightened. He touched the damp note in his pocket. 'Leave'. It throbbed like a second heartbeat.
He slipped away, the generator's growl fading behind him. The shortcut through Chhattambey Lane smelled of wet jackfruit and despair. Near the moss-eaten gargoyles, a shadow detached itself from the cathedral's deeper gloom. Rafiq Chacha, his face a crumpled map in the dim streetlight, held out a grubby cloth bundle. "For the fire," he rasped, eyes darting nervously.
Azmon unwrapped it. Inside lay seven matchsticks, bound with crimson thread into a crude star. "Protection?" Azmon scoffed. Rafiq gripped his arm, knuckles white. "Not protection. Payment. She likes... patterns." Azmon stared at the frail bundle. The scent of burnt sugar clung to it. He shoved it deep into his pocket, next to the damp note. The stain's perfume.
The next morning at St. Clare's Girls' Academy, the drama noticeboard buzzed like a trapped hornet. Babin Hussain Khan's name stabbed the top line:
NAGIN - BABIN HUSSAIN KHAN (XII-B).
Neelampari froze mid-stride, her tiffin box slipping. Beside her, Champakali hissed, "Impossible! That... that 'fish-market' voice?" Neelampari stared at the pin-pricked paper. Babin? As Nagin? The serpent queen? Her own audition—polished, melodious—flashed through her mind. Rejected. For "Babin". Whose deep hum vibrated drains, not stages.
Neelam sniffed, adjusting the thin cotton band beneath her school hijab. Her eyes sharp as broken glass skimmed Babin's name. "Always knew," she murmured, rubbing the hidden headband through the veil's gauzy blue. "Teacher has soft corner." She paused, letting the poison settle. "For girls without head covers." Champakali stiffened. "Neelam! That's—" "Truth?" Neelam cut in, voice sweetly venomous. "Look at casting. Babin's hair flying loose during assembly yesterday? Mrs. Fernandez smiled. Smiled." She flicked imaginary dust off her uniform sleeve. "Politics of presentation."
Deep down, Neelam knew she was more than the head cover. At home, her closet bloomed like a Pinterest board, layered lace skirts pinned beside screenshots of Princess Papino's gowns. Tonight: a thrifted kimono robe she'd stitch into Lady Kitamoto's battle dress. Because anime costumes weren't pretend; they were armor. Hijab? Just her street skin. Practical camouflage.
She snapped photos: her sewing machine humming under fairy lights. Tilted angle. Filter: "Mystic." Caption: "Real queens stitch their crowns." Upload. Insta. Tumblr. Pinterest. Tagged: #CosplayTruth #HiddenPotential #UnleashTheGeek. Thumb hovered. Post. Heart hammered against ribs. Would they see her? Or just the pixels?
Back in Colony Heights Apartment 3C, the noon sun bled through grimy kitchen windows, painting dust motes gold above two untouched lunch plates. Bablu kicked off his worn sandals—'thwap', 'thwap'—against the peeling doorframe. Chumki trailed behind, her braid unraveling like a frayed rope. Silence swallowed the apartment whole; no clatter of pots, no radio's tinny drone. Only the drip-drip from the bathroom tap echoed Mrs. Das's absence. Bablu sniffed the air: rice, dal, fried bitter gourd. Normal smells. But beneath it, faint as a ghost's breath, lingered river sludge and rust.
They didn't speak. Didn't need to. Bablu tugged at his stiff school shirt buttons, fingers fumbling. Chumki mirrored him, wrestling her navy pinafore straps. Fabric pooled on the cracked linoleum discarded armor. In faded cotton shorts and a too-big T-shirt declaring "I ❤ NY", Bablu padded to the sink. Chumki followed, her bare feet silent.
She climbed onto the wobbly wooden stool Bablu dragged over, its legs screeching protest. The tap coughed brown sludge before sputtering clear. Bablu cupped icy water, splashed his face. Chumki copied, scrubbing fiercely with small palms. Water dripped from their chins onto the floor, darkening the dust into tiny, temporary stars.
Silence stretched. Thick. Heavy. Like monsoon air before the downpour. Bablu sniffed. Rice, dal, fried bitter gourd, the ghost of their mother's cooking. Underneath? Something else. Metallic. Wet-earth wrongness. He glanced at Chumki. Her eyes, wide and dark as jamun fruit, met his. No words. Just the drip-drip-drip from the tap's loose neck. Bablu grabbed the blue-checkered dish towel, rough as burlap. He dried his face. Chumki held out her hands. He wiped them carefully, finger by finger. Her skin felt cool. Too cool.
Slumping onto the frayed rug near the kitchen entrance, Bablu pulled his battered maths notebook towards him. Chumki scrambled beside him, dragging her own book, a colourful Bengali primer smudged with crayon marks. The pages felt stiff. Unused. Bablu stared at Problem 7: "If a train travels 60 km in 3/4 hours…" He chewed his pencil stub. Numbers jumbled like ants on pavement. Chumki traced her finger over a picture of a "kumir"—crocodile—her lips moving silently. "Koo...mir," she whispered. The word hung fragile in the quiet.
Downstairs, the generator's growl shuddered through the floorboards. Bablu glanced at Chumki. Her brow furrowed in fierce concentration. He nudged her gently. "Train... speed... how?" Chumki looked up, eyes wide. She shrugged, small shoulders lifting. "Dunno. We shall ask Rafiq-uncle? He drives tempo." Bablu snorted. "Tempo not train." But the thought stuck. Rafiq Chacha knew engines. Knew distance. Knew things schoolbooks didn't.
Chumki tugged Bablu's sleeve. "Kumir," she whispered again, pointing at the picture. "Like Bhuiyan-uncle saw?" Her finger traced the crocodile's jagged teeth. Bablu's skin prickled. Bhuiyan-uncle's frozen face flashed before him—mouth open, eyes wide as jamuns. Just like the kumir. Chumki leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. "Saw scales. By water tank. Shiny." Bablu froze. Scales? The word slithered into the silence between them. He remembered the slick, oily patch near Mrs. Das's door yesterday. The smell. Rust and river.
Somewhere in the better part of the city, where streetlamps glowed like captive moons and polished cars purred past gated driveways, Aleksi sat cross-legged on a velvet-upholstered window seat. Outside, rain streaked the bulletproof glass in silver ribbons, blurring the neon glow of downtown into a watercolor smear.The penthouse smelled of lemongrass disinfectant and loneliness.
His mother's latest acquisition, a holographic aquarium projecting shimmering koi across the ceiling flickered as a notification chimed on her abandoned tablet: 'Revenue Stream Gamma: +₳12,879.' Aleksi traced a phantom scale on the cold windowpane with his fingertip. Six years old, and he'd learned early: money was the ghost that haunted empty rooms.
His stomach cramped. Not hunger, the gnawing ache came later, but the memory of yesterday's rebellion. A stolen square of dark chocolate, bitter and rich, smuggled from Pearl's purse. The aftermath had been swift, violent: vomiting into the gold-plated toilet bowl, shaking like a leaf in a storm while Pearl watched, her face carved from marble. "No," she'd whispered, her voice colder than the marble floor.
"Never again." Not chocolate. Not tomatoes hiding in sauces like landmines, not garlic woven into stews like poison threads. Even flour, innocent, powdery flour became concrete in his gut. His diet was a minefield mapped by doctors and desperation, boiled chicken, steamed zucchini, rice so white it glowed. Freedom tasted like cardboard.
Tonight's moon climbed higher, a swollen pearl floating in the polluted city haze. Aleksi pressed his forehead against the cool glass. Pearl hadn't called. Not yesterday. Not today. Her last text blinked accusingly from the tablet screen: "Meeting ran late. Sleep well. Nanny has dinner." 'Dinner.' The word mocked him.
A tray of steamed fish and cucumber slices waited untouched on the dining table, gleaming under recessed lights like something alien. Nurse Anya with soft hands, sad eyes had placed it there hours ago. "Try, Aleksushka," she'd urged, her Russian accent softening the plea. He'd shaken his head. The scent of dill made his throat tighten. He'd retreated to the window seat, hugging his knees.
Outside, the city glittered like spilled jewels. Yet Aleksi saw only the moon. The same moon that silvered the scales of river nagins, whispered to werewolves in forests, turned vampires into hunters. It watched Pearl's sleek car vanish into neon tunnels. It watched Mrs. Das scrub phantom stains in Colony Heights. It watched Moyna—somewhere—uncoiling. Folklore wasn't just stories; it was the moon's breath frosting reality's windowpane. And tonight, its light felt like a searchbeam. Hunting him.
Aleksi pressed his palm flat against the cool glass. The holographic koi swam through his reflection. Below, the city throbbed: engines, sirens, the distant pulse of music from a rooftop club. Normal sounds. Yet beneath them… a hum. Like the vibration before a subway train bursts from its tunnel. It resonated in his teeth. Aleksi remembered Pearl's warning after the chocolate, "Your body screams danger before your mind knows why." He hadn't understood then. Now, the hum deepened. Danger wasn't just tomatoes or garlic. Danger was coming.