Chapter 3: Rain, Rumours, and the Boy Called Aryan

3

Just then, the first drops of monsoon rain began to fall from the sky.

I hugged my injured arm, leaning against the wall, and saw from a distance that Rohan Malhotra had already picked up his son.

Even with his son there, his face showed no warmth. He simply stubbed out his cigarette, lowered his gaze, took his son’s hand, and the two of them turned to get in the car.

Maybe my gaze was too intense, because just before getting in, the boy suddenly turned and looked straight at me.

I was covered in blood and rain, a sorry sight, but still, on instinct, I gave that exceptionally beautiful boy a gentle smile.

His gaze was as cold as his father’s, calmly sizing me up.

He only looked at me once.

The bodyguard opened the car door. The door closed slowly before my eyes, and the car drove away without a backward glance.

The rain poured like the city’s monsoon gods were angry, soaking my dupatta and seeping into my wounds. The city lights blurred. Under the harsh yellow of the streetlamps, my smile must have looked more like a grimace, but I clung to it, refusing to show even a shred of weakness to those dark, assessing eyes. A chaiwala under the awning nearby clanged his glasses, indifferent to my little drama. Mumbai moved on, as always.

4

Suddenly, my heart felt hollow, as if I’d stepped into a void. A wave of weightlessness swept over me.

Before I could process this strange emotion, several lines of white text flashed rapidly across my vision—

[A new strategist has appeared.]

[In the last ten years, I’ve lost count—dozens? Hundreds?]

[The system is terrified of the villain, afraid he’ll destroy the world if he’s unhappy.]

[So it keeps trying to stuff people by his side.]

[But the villain only loves his late wife.]

[All these years, the system has arranged countless stand-ins around him.]

[Some look like her, some act like her, some even come with all her memories...]

The bullet comments flickered like neon signs, mocking and relentless. I pressed my forehead against the cool stone of the wall, rain sliding down my nose, unsure whether I was shivering from cold or from the barrage of invisible voices that now seemed more real than my own heartbeat.

5

I stared at the bullet comments flashing before my eyes, frowning, even forgetting to blink.

The “villain” they mentioned had to be Rohan Malhotra, the man threatening this world’s peace.

Those failed strategists from before—no wonder the system had warned me so much about how dangerous he was.

The system must have tried everything. So why did it think someone as unremarkable as me could succeed?

As I pondered this, the bullet comments shifted focus to me.

[But honestly, all these years, the only one who truly stabilized the villain wasn’t a stand-in or strategist—]

[It was the son his late wife left behind.]

[She left without a word, leaving only this one child.]

[That’s his only remaining tie to the world now.]

[Otherwise, with how mad he was in the early years, he’d have destroyed the world—or himself—long ago.]

[So every strategist has failed.]

[After all, the late wife is his white moonlight.]

[She’s the only pure land in his heart.]

[He absolutely won’t let anyone defile her by borrowing her face or name.]

[That’s why every imposter has died more miserably than the last.]

[So what about this one?]

[This ordinary, unprepared, utterly forgettable strategist?]

[How many days can she last?]

—They even started placing bets.

[I bet her next meeting with the villain will be her last.]

[Count me in.]

[Me too.]

Someone even posted a laughing emoji—

[No, she took a nasty fall just now.]

[And now it’s raining so hard, even the dabbawalas will be late.]

[Whether she even survives this week is anyone’s guess...]

The comments stung as if some nosy aunty from the neighbouring chawl was tsk-tsking at my fate. My fingers clenched. Above me, the clouds boomed again, as if echoing their laughter. I pulled my scarf tighter, stubbornly refusing to let their words decide my end.