Chapter 4: Ghosts in the Mirror

6

I lowered my eyes, ignoring their mocking words, just staring at the bloody wound on my body.

But, against everyone’s expectations, the next time I crossed paths with Rohan Malhotra, it was actually his son who sought me out.

I don’t know how he found me.

All I know is that one morning, when I opened the door of my cheap lodge room, I saw him standing there alone, schoolbag in hand.

His face, so much like his father’s—cold and unreadable—made me pause.

I quickly adjusted my dupatta, suddenly self-conscious under his sharp gaze. No boy had ever come to my door alone before. He tilted his head slightly, eyes fixed on my face. “Who are you?” he asked in a low voice.

Strange. He’d come to my door, yet the first thing he asked was who I was.

“My name is Ananya.” I answered honestly.

The moment I finished, his brows furrowed deeply.

The corridor outside my door smelled faintly of cheap floor cleaner and frying onions from the kitchen below. His polished school shoes looked almost absurd against the chipped tiles. I wondered if any other guest in this old lodge had ever been visited by a boy with such a frozen, regal expression. He didn’t blink, didn’t shift his weight—just stared, waiting for something I couldn’t give.

7

The bullet comments didn’t stop for a second, and as soon as I spoke, they exploded with ridicule.

[Has the system given up?]

[They’ve tried similar looks—]

[They’ve tried similar personalities—]

[But this is the first time they’ve sent in someone with the exact same name.]

[Arre yaar, the system not scared the villain will lose his mind?]

[Why not just hand her over and say, “You wanted Ananya? Well, here’s Ananya for you...”]

Unlike those noisy words, the boy in front of me didn’t smile at all.

He simply said, “My name is Aryan.”

After he spoke, his gaze grew even more intense, as if waiting for my reaction.

Ananya, Aryan...

His name was eerily similar to mine.

With what the bullet comments had revealed, I realized—maybe Rohan Malhotra’s late wife was called Ananya.

He clutched the strap of his schoolbag tightly, knuckles white. His face was set, as if he had trained himself not to hope, not to trust. I felt an urge to reach out, but my hand fell limply at my side. For a moment, the only sounds were the distant call of a chaiwala and a crow cawing somewhere on the window ledge.

8

But my mind was blank. I couldn’t give Aryan any reaction he wanted.

His burning gaze slowly cooled.

Just then, someone hurried over from the lift—a middle-aged man in a suit, half a head taller than Aryan, but he bowed respectfully to the boy and said, “Baba, the car is waiting downstairs. You’ll be late for class.”

Aryan lowered his long lashes, disappointment flickering in his eyes. Then he turned to leave.

But as he turned, he paused, frowning slightly.

He glanced at the glass window across the hall. “You should take care of your wound.”

I followed his gaze to the mirror, seeing the rough bandages on my arm and right leg.

After arriving here, the system hadn’t given me any special advantages. The little money I had barely covered food and rent, let alone hospital bills.

Aryan was already gone.

I looked at my blurred reflection in the glass.

Outside, the lift clanged and faded footsteps marked his exit. The silence in my room felt deeper after his departure. I pressed a palm to my bandaged arm, recalling the gentleness in his warning, so at odds with his otherwise severe presence. The Mumbai heat pressed in, sticky and relentless, but I only felt a growing cold inside.

9

On the right side of my face was a mottled scar.

The system said I’d died in a fire ten years ago.

Its energy came from the world itself. But Rohan Malhotra, vengeful to the extreme, had retaliated against everyone involved in his wife’s death—no matter their guilt.

Even the “chosen ones,” the main male and female leads, had died five years ago. After their deaths, the world fell into Rohan Malhotra’s hands. Even the system could barely hang on, its energy always running low.

So it could only restore my body to 80%. I was healthy enough, but there were still unrepaired burns scattered across my skin.

I looked at the unfamiliar face in the mirror—a plain, even ugly face.

To choose me to save someone like the villain...

No wonder the bullet comments were full of mockery.

The scar’s jagged outline tugged at the edge of my lip, warping every smile. When I traced it, I felt nothing but numbness—no memory, no pain, just the weight of something lost. I wondered how many times my reflection had scared a child or made an aunty mutter a prayer. In this city, beauty is currency, and I was broke. I pressed my forehead against the mirror, drawing a shaky breath, the clatter of utensils from the kitchen below grounding me to the present.