The morning after the incident, Suyash sat in front of a dark TV, dissecting his failure.
She touched me. My control slipped. The power reacted. His ability didn't just respond to conscious thought; it was tethered to his raw, unfiltered desire. In a society where everyone lived in each other's pockets, a power that broadcasted his lust as a literal Bollywood soundtrack was a death sentence. He needed to chain it.
He grabbed the remote and hit power. A music channel flickered to life. On screen, a heroine danced in the rain, her sheer saree clinging to the sharp curve of her hips.
Instantly, the familiar hum ignited in Suyash's veins. The digital screen rippled like a disturbed pool of water, bowing outward as the power eagerly tried to pull the fantasy into reality.
No. Suyash clenched his jaw. He didn't suppress the desire—suppression only built pressure. Instead, he acknowledged the heat in his blood, compartmentalized it, and anchored his mind to the cold leather of his sofa. He visualized the glass of the TV as an impenetrable wall.
The hum died. The screen snapped back to flat glass.
He spent the next week doing this. It was a brutal, self-imposed training arc. He flipped through the most suggestive channels he could find—fashion shows, late-night movies, sultry music videos. Every time the power surged to grant him what he wanted, Suyash crushed it down with iron-clad discipline.
He learned the nuances of his cheat. It wasn't just lust; any intense emotion could trigger a breach. Anger made the screen crackle with static. Joy distorted the audio. But when his mind was perfectly cold and calculated? He could reach into a screen and pull out a high-end watch without causing so much as a pixel to glitch.
He was leveling up. The power was becoming an extension of his will, rather than a slave to his impulses.
A week later, the elevator doors slid shut, trapping Suyash in a five-by-five metal box with Babita.
She was returning from the market, carrying a bag of groceries. The air instantly thickened with the scent of jasmine.
"Iyer left for a conference in Bangalore this morning," she murmured, not looking at him.
Suyash had watched the cab leave from his balcony. "I know."
She finally looked up, her dark eyes meeting his in the reflection of the mirrored doors. "You watch."
"I notice things," he corrected smoothly.
The lift chimed, slowing as it approached her floor. She didn't move toward the doors. Instead, she took a half-step closer to him.
"I've worn the gold chain every single day," she whispered, her voice barely carrying over the hum of the elevator. "Under my blouse. Iyer hasn't noticed a thing."
Suyash's eyes locked onto hers in the mirror. "I noticed."
A slow, devastating smile curved her lips. The doors slid open. She stepped out into the hallway, leaving the scent of her perfume and the heavy weight of the secret behind her.
That night, Suyash stood on his seventh-floor balcony, looking down at the sprawling courtyard of Gokuldham.
He had died with a lifetime of regrets. He wasn't going to waste his second chance living like a monk, constantly terrified of his own shadow. He had the ultimate cheat skill, and he was going to use it to dominate his new reality. But to survive the chaotic, gossiping minefield of this society, he needed a strict code.
1. Absolute Secrecy: The power stays hidden. If the world finds out he can pull reality from pixels, he becomes a lab rat.
2. Calculated Discretion: He wouldn't be reduced to a desperate joke like Jethalal or Popatlal. Whatever moves he made would be in the shadows. Plausible deniability was his armor.
3. Weaponized Control: His emotions would never pilot his power again. He dictates when the barrier breaks.
4. Indulge, but Dominate: He would take what he wanted from this heightened, sensual world—but strictly on his own terms.
He walked back inside, the blueprint for his new life set in stone. He turned on the TV to a late-night movie, letting the visuals wash over him. He felt the pull of desire, sharp and demanding. He held it right at the edge of his fingertips, a caged beast waiting for his command.
The screen didn't ripple. The power obeyed.
Perfect.
The next morning, Suyash walked down to the compound.
Babita was by the main gate, watering her potted plants in a simple, crisp cotton saree. The morning sun hit her perfectly.
As Suyash walked past, she turned. For a fraction of a second, the pallu of her saree shifted in the breeze, exposing the delicate hollow of her collarbone.
Resting right against her bare skin, gleaming in the sunlight, was the gold chain he had pulled from the screen.
She caught him looking. She didn't cover it up. Instead, she offered him a small, secret smile—a silent promise of things to come.
Suyash smiled back, his expression perfectly unreadable to anyone else watching, and kept walking.
The game was entirely in his hands now.