The night air hung heavy with the scent of rain-soaked mud, wild jasmine vines, and the faint smoke from distant cooking fires. It was already 9:30 PM in the year 2050, and the narrow dirt road cutting through the Birju family's jungle felt even darker than usual. Moonlight struggled to pierce the thick canopy of ancient sal trees and overgrown bamboo, casting long, jagged shadows that danced across the path like restless ghosts. Ruban trudged along slowly, his 120-kilogram frame making every step a deliberate effort. His heavy belly strained against the faded cotton kurta he wore, sweat already soaking through the fabric despite the cool evening breeze. At 38 years old, he had long stopped caring about how his body looked or how loudly the wooden planks of his old sandals creaked under his weight. Life was suffering enough without worrying about that.
He had stopped midway, frozen in place not by exhaustion—though he was always tired—but by a sound that cut straight through the quiet jungle night.
A familiar voice. The voice of his fiancée.
It wasn't coming from the road ahead or the fields behind him. It drifted clearly from the crumbling old house right beside the path—the abandoned brick-and-mud structure that once belonged to the Birju family. The place had stood empty for over a decade now, its walls cracked and moss-covered, windows shattered, roof half-collapsed under the weight of creeping vines. No one lived there anymore. Yet tonight, soft, rhythmic moans and breathless whispers floated out into the darkness.
Before your mind jumps to something random, let me be clear: Ruban lived in this quiet village his whole life. The modest house he called home had been built by his parents decades ago—simple, sturdy, with a thatched roof that still leaked during monsoons. He had always been lazy from the very beginning, drifting through days without much ambition or drive. No one in the village truly understood him, not really. They saw a quiet, overweight man who kept to himself, and that was enough for them to label him strange.
At the age of 29, when his parents both passed away within months of each other, something inside him had simply… shut down. Two years before that, at 27, he had started earning a modest living by writing novels—mostly pulp fiction stories about ordinary people lost in ordinary tragedies. The money wasn't much, but combined with the small gold investments his father had left behind, it let him survive without begging from relatives. After gathering what he could, he had dared to dream bigger. He created an entire original story for a video game—a dark, immersive world of gangs, betrayal, and second chances. That was exactly why he had gone to the city earlier that day: to pitch it to the developers in charge. He had taken the long bus ride, waited in their sleek, air-conditioned office for hours… but he couldn't even meet the guys responsible. Delays, excuses, rescheduled meetings that never happened. Empty-handed and drained, he had returned to the village as the sun dipped below the horizon.
Now he was back on this shortcut through the Birju ka jungle—the same path he always took because it cut the journey home by nearly half an hour. People in the village whispered about ghost incidents here: flickering lights at midnight, strange cries, shadows that moved on their own. Ruban had never seen any of it. And honestly, he never cared. Life… if it decided to end right now, he wouldn't mind. He just hated the slow, dragging suffering that came before the end.
But tonight, as he passed the old Birju house, he heard her voice again—louder now, unmistakable. Moaning. Not in pain. In pleasure.
It pulled him closer against his better judgment. His heavy body moved as quietly as it could, leaves crunching softly under his feet. He leaned toward the gap in the crumbling wall—a missing brick that offered a narrow, perfect view inside the dimly lit room. There she was: his fiancée, the woman the villagers had forced into his life five years after his parents died. She was locked in a deep, hungry kiss with another man—someone Ruban didn't recognize, tall and lean, hands roaming freely over her body. Her fingers gripped his shoulders tightly, her back arched as their lips moved together urgently. Soft, rhythmic moans escaped her, each one echoing off the bare walls.
It hurt. Not the explosive, movie-style heartbreak he had written about in his novels. Just a dull, heavy ache that settled deep in his chest and stomach, mixing with the familiar numbness he carried every single day. He stood there for a long moment, breathing heavily, his large frame pressing against the rough, mossy wall for support. Then, without a word, he turned away and continued walking home.
To tell you the truth, Ruban had never truly wanted to get married. After his parents died, the villagers—well-meaning but suffocating—had decided he would die alone if they didn't step in. Five years later, when he was 34, they arranged the match and practically dragged him into it. It wasn't that he disliked her. He liked her well enough in his quiet, distant way. But he didn't even know her name. Not really. He had never bothered to remember it after the awkward first introduction, never asked again. Love, relationships, marriage, expectations… they all felt too heavy, too demanding. He had lost the ability to care about any of it years ago. The reason why? He had forgotten. It was just easier that way.
He kept walking, the jungle path eventually opening up to the familiar cluster of village houses. By the time he reached his own home—the one his parents had built—he felt nothing but the same old exhaustion. He pushed open the creaky wooden door, stepped inside the dimly lit living room cluttered with old books, empty plates from half-eaten meals, and stacks of handwritten novel drafts, and locked it behind him.
*Pov change*
†World's pov:
Ruban shuffled across the room, his 120-kilogram body moving with the slow, heavy gait that had become his normal. He closed the door firmly, the latch clicking into place with a tired finality. The single bulb hanging from the ceiling flickered to life as he flipped the switch, casting a yellowish glow over the modest space that still smelled faintly of his mother's old sandalwood incense.
He headed straight to the small bathroom attached to the back of the house. Splashing cold water on his face from the rusty tap, he wiped himself dry with a threadbare towel that carried the faint scent of mildew. He changed out of his sweat-damp kurta into an oversized, faded t-shirt and loose pajama pants that hung low on his wide hips. His large belly rose and fell with each deep breath as he stared at his reflection in the cracked mirror for a moment—puffy cheeks, unkempt hair, eyes that looked perpetually half-asleep.
"It's time to work," Ruban muttered to himself, his voice low and gravelly in the quiet house.
He lowered his heavy frame into the old wooden chair at his desk, the frame groaning loudly under his weight. The computer screen flickered on as he powered it up, the fan inside whirring to life. His thick fingers hovered over the keyboard, ready to dive back into the game story he had been building—the one that might finally give him an escape from this village, from this life.
But the moment his fingertips brushed the keys, a sharp, crushing pain exploded in his chest.
The world tilted violently.
Ruban's massive body slumped forward, collapsing onto the dusty floor with a heavy, resounding thud that shook the old wooden planks. His vision blurred, colors draining away into darkness as his breathing slowed to nothing.
Then, everything went silent.
His soul slipped free from the lifeless 120-kilogram shell sprawled on the ground, floating upward in the dim room. Hovering there, weightless and detached, he found himself staring at a towering figure that had appeared out of nowhere.
A huge man—easily twice Ruban's size—stood before him. Wild, unkempt hair cascaded down to his shoulders. A thick, bushy beard merged seamlessly into an enormous moustache that curled at the ends. His body was massive and muscular, radiating raw, otherworldly power. The figure's eyes glowed faintly in the darkness, fixed directly on Ruban's floating soul.
A deep, resonant voice echoed through the empty space, vibrating in Ruban's very core:
**[You DIED.]**
**[Summoning to the Game of Gangs.]**