He didn't remember falling.
One moment Meher was walking beside Vedant—each step like dragging his feet through molasses—his vision flickering at the edges, the hallway too white, too cold, too quiet. The next—
Everything tilted sideways.
The corridor spun like a carousel.His knees buckled.The floor rushed up to meet him.
"Agent Meher!"
The shout was distant, muffled.Hands grabbed him before the ground did—firm, calloused hands, and a strong arm bracing the small of his back.
"He's burning—get the med bay ready!"
A rush of boots behind. The sharp, clean scent of antiseptic. The muted thrum of tension and movement. And then—
Darkness.
But not unconsciousness.
Not peace.
He was standing in a field.
No, not a field—a forest clearing. Overgrown reeds, damp moss underfoot, cicadas buzzing somewhere out of sight. The air was thick with summer, humid and earthy.
And just ahead of him, in the middle of it all, was a pond. Still. Murky. A ring of broken lotuses floated across the surface like bruised flowers forgotten by time.
A boy sat at the edge.
Tiny. Maybe six, maybe seven. Dressed in white.Shoulders shaking.Crying.
"Ma…"
"Ma…"
The boy's voice was hoarse and soaked in snot and sobs. His head was bowed, hands clutching something tight—a scrap of cloth, maybe. His back rose and fell in sharp jerks as he whispered again and again:
"Ma… Ma…"
Meher felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. He wanted to call out, but his throat was closed. His legs moved anyway, drawn forward like a moth to open flame.
He reached the boy. Slowly. Step by step.
"Hey, kid," Meher finally rasped. "You lost?"
No response.
"Where's your mother—?"
And then—
The boy turned.
His face—wasn't a face.
Not anymore.
It was torn open at the mouth. Black eyes sunken, hollow. Jaw dislocated, stretched unnaturally wide like it was screaming before it even screamed. Skin peeled around the cheeks like wet paper. Bloodless. Pale. Eyes flickering with static like an old TV screen.
"MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA—"
The sound that came out wasn't human.
It was wrong.
Meher stumbled back—
And the boy lunged.
Right at him.
But didn't collide.Passed through.
Like a ghost.Like a blade of grief that slid inside Meher's chest, cold and piercing and too familiar.
He choked.The world shattered.
Like a mirror breaking.
Meher jolted upright with a gasp so sharp it hurt.
White ceiling. Blinding light. The scent of iodine and fabric softener.
He was in a hospital bed.
The sheets were too clean. His mouth was dry. The fever was gone, but sweat still clung to his skin like guilt.
He blinked—and realized someone was holding his hand.
A young man—maybe early thirties, tall, muscular, dressed in an unbuttoned light blue kurta with rolled-up sleeves, black slacks, long jet-black hair pulled into a low knot.
Sharp jaw. Pale skin. Too pretty.
He looked more like a myth than a man.
And his head was resting on Meher's hospital bed, eyes half-closed, clearly exhausted but refusing to sleep fully.
Meher's breath caught. The grip on his hand was warm.
From somewhere inside the haze of his borrowed brain, a name surfaced like a forgotten dream:
Iravan.
His… stepfather.
Not by blood. But the only person Meher had ever called "family" in this new world.
So this is his body's memory...This is someone the original Meher loved.
It was terrifying.
And comforting.
And too much all at once.
The man stirred then, eyes opening slowly—warm, tawny-golden like sunlit whiskey. He smiled, soft and slow, squeezing Meher's hand.
"You scared me," he murmured, voice low and velvet-rich. "The medics said your fever spiked past 104. You could've seized."
Meher tried to speak, but it came out a croak.
"I'm okay," he managed.
Iravan didn't reply. Just reached up, brushing damp hair from Meher's forehead, like it was second nature.
Meher wanted to pull away.Wanted to lean in.
He didn't do either.
A voice cleared from the corner of the room.
Vedant.
Standing with his hands behind his back, expression unreadable. He looked exactly the same: tall, still, sharp-eyed. A man carved from discipline.
"You are officially on medical leave for today and tomorrow," he said flatly. "You'll resume duty the day after."
Meher opened his mouth to protest, but Vedant cut him off with a look.
"Orders come from the Director himself."
Meher flinched.
Agrasen.
Of course.
Vedant nodded once and turned to leave.
But just before stepping out the door, he paused.
"You were muttering in your sleep," he said without looking back. "Crying."
The door clicked softly shut behind him.
Meher sat in silence.
The light buzzed above.The hospital smelled like flowers and ghosts.And in the back of his mind—
That boy at the pond still cried. Still screamed.
Still waited.