Aryan jolted awake, his breath ragged. His body was drenched in sweat, and his pulse pounded in his ears. The dream—the nightmare—still burned in his mind. Cities collapsing. An army marching. His own body flickering in and out of existence.

His gaze flickered to the mirror across his room. His reflection stood perfectly still—too still. His heart skipped a beat. He blinked, and it moved normally again.

He rubbed his forehead. I’m losing my mind.

The weight of the dream lingered in his chest, thick and suffocating. He needed fresh air. Without thinking, he threw on a hoodie, grabbed his phone, and stepped outside.

The streets were eerily quiet. The occasional streetlamp buzzed softly, casting flickering pools of light on the cracked pavement. A cool breeze drifted past, offering little comfort.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked, hoping the cold air would clear his head.

But after a few minutes, he felt it.

A presence.

His body tensed. The unmistakable feeling of being watched crawled up his spine.

He kept walking, his ears straining for any sound. Footsteps—soft, calculated—trailing behind him.

Aryan exhaled sharply. It’s just my imagination. He turned a corner. A quick glance over his shoulder—

A dark figure followed.

His stomach tightened. A second figure emerged from the opposite side of the street. Another appeared behind him.

Three of them.

His heartbeat quickened. He didn’t know why, but every instinct screamed at him: Run.

He picked up his pace. So did they.

A bead of sweat rolled down his temple. They’re not just walking. They were closing in.

Then he sprinted.

The sound of pounding footsteps followed instantly.

He darted across the street, weaving through alleys, his breath coming in sharp bursts. But they were fast. They stuck to him like shadows, cutting off paths, forcing him toward a dead end.

He turned sharply, but it was too late.

They had him cornered.

The alley was dark and narrow, boxed in by towering buildings. The only exit was past them.

Three men, all clad in black, their faces obscured by masks.

The first attacker, taller and broad-shouldered, stepped forward. A knife gleamed in his hand.

"Hand it over," the man growled.

Aryan’s pulse thundered. “Hand what over?”

The second attacker, leaner but just as menacing, cracked his knuckles. “Don’t play dumb. You shouldn’t exist. So just make it easy for us.”

His blood ran cold.

He took a step back. “Who the hell are you?”

They didn’t answer. The knife-wielding man lunged.

The Fight Begins

Aryan twisted sideways, barely dodging the blade. The cold steel sliced through the fabric of his hoodie, missing his ribs by inches.

The second attacker swung at his face. A powerful right hook.

Aryan barely blocked it, but the impact sent shockwaves of pain through his arm.

The third attacker didn’t move. He watched. Studied Aryan’s reactions, waiting for an opening.

Aryan’s chest heaved. They weren’t just random thugs. They knew how to fight.

But so did he.

Years of instinct kicked in. Survival. Fight. Don’t freeze.

The knife-wielder attacked again, aiming lower. Aryan sidestepped, grabbed the man’s wrist, and twisted. A sickening snap echoed.

The knife clattered to the ground.

Aryan wasted no time. He drove his knee into the attacker’s stomach, sending him crashing to the ground.

One down.

The second man lunged with a wild swing. Aryan ducked. He countered with an elbow to the jaw. The attacker staggered, but before Aryan could press forward, the third man finally moved.

Fast.

A blur of motion—Aryan barely saw the attack coming. A fist slammed into his ribs.

Pain exploded through his side.

The next punch came at his jaw. Aryan dodged just in time, but his balance wavered.

The second man recovered and grabbed Aryan from behind.

Shit.

The third attacker smirked behind his mask. “You’re weaker than I expected.”

Aryan thrashed against the grip. The masked man stepped closer, raising his fist for the final blow—

Then it happened.

The symbol on Aryan’s arm burned.

A sharp surge of energy coursed through his veins.

His senses sharpened. The world slowed. Every movement, every breath, every heartbeat became clear.

The third attacker threw a punch—Aryan moved before it even landed.

He wrenched free from the second man’s grip and drove his elbow into his throat.

The man choked and dropped.

Aryan turned just in time to deflect the third attacker’s fist, grabbing his wrist and twisting it violently.

A sharp snap.

The attacker hissed in pain but didn’t scream. He stumbled back, gripping his broken wrist.

For the first time, his expression shifted.

Not just pain. Shock.

“You—” His voice faltered.

Aryan didn’t let him finish. He swept the man’s legs out from under him and sent him crashing to the ground.

The alley fell into silence.

Aryan stood over them, his chest heaving.

Something was wrong with him. He could feel it in his bones. His body moved too fast, too precise. His wounds barely hurt.

The third man coughed, barely managing to lift his head.

A faint chuckle. “Damn it... They were right about you.”

Aryan stepped forward. “Who the hell sent you?”

The man grinned. “You’re not supposed to exist.”

Then—his body twitched violently.

His veins turned black. His eyes rolled back, and he convulsed.

Aryan staggered backward as the man collapsed—lifeless.

The others remained unconscious. But this one—he was dead.

No wounds. No struggle.

Just... dead.

Aryan’s breathing turned ragged. What the hell is going on?

His eyes flickered to the corpse’s wrist.

A symbol was burned into his skin.

The same mark that now pulsed on Aryan’s own arm.

His stomach churned.

The nightmare wasn’t just a dream. It was real.

And it had already begun.