At the top of a building, the wind cuts sharply through the night air.
A young man stands near the edge, a cigarette burning between his fingers. The city below glows restlessly—horns blaring, lights flickering, life moving on as if nothing is wrong.
His phone vibrates.
He glances at the screen… and his jaw tightens.
He already knows who it is.
He answers anyway.
"We still haven't been able to find a donor for your sister's heart transplant," the voice says, clinical and distant. "But we are trying. Don't lose hope."
The call ends.
Silence.
The young man—Ansh—lowers the phone slowly. Then, as if something inside him finally snaps, he crouches down, pressing his fingers hard into his temples.
"What should I do…?" his voice cracks, barely audible. "Someone help me…"
The cigarette burns down unnoticed between his fingers.
Then—
His phone rings again.
Different tone.
Unknown number.
His breath catches.
For a second, he just stares at the screen.
Then he answers.
"Hello?"
A calm voice responds. Too calm.
"We heard you're looking for a heart donor for your sister."
Ansh freezes.
The wind howls louder around him.
"We can provide one… but you'll need some serious cash."
He shoots to his feet instantly.
"Hello? Hello! I don't care—just tell me how much you need!"
A soft chuckle comes from the other side.
"I like your directness," the man says. "1.5 crore."
The number hangs in the air like a verdict.
Ansh says nothing for a moment.
Then—
He flicks his cigarette away into the darkness below.
"Deal."
A pause.
Suspicion creeps into the caller's voice.
"Hmph. What's your name? Occupation? And how exactly are you planning to pay?"
Ansh doesn't hesitate.
"My name is Ansh. I'm a police officer."
Silence.
Then sudden laughter—sharp, amused, dangerous.
"Got it, got it. Be ready."
A beat.
"Come to the fish market."
—
Morning.
Mumbai is already alive.
Ansh drives through the chaos—rickshaws cutting lanes, vendors shouting, the smell of salt, diesel, and sweat thick in the air. His hands grip the steering wheel tighter than necessary.
Mazgaon.
He slows as the roads narrow.
Then—
A group of boys step in front of his car, blocking the way.
Barefoot. Sharp-eyed.
One of them leans forward slightly.
"Heart problem?"
Ansh studies them… then nods.
They smirk.
No fear. No hesitation.
"Come."
They turn and start walking.
Ansh follows.
Through narrow alleys where sunlight barely reaches. Between cracked walls and tangled wires. Past people who don't look surprised to see strangers disappear into the maze.
"Where are we going?" he asks.
One boy answers without looking back.
"To the clinic."
Eventually, they stop.
A small building. Faded paint. Half-broken board.
Nothing about it looks like a place that saves lives.
Ansh steps inside.
And stops.
The waiting area is packed.
Foreigners.
Americans. Japanese. Arabs.
All sitting quietly.
No one speaks.
No one makes eye contact.
A nurse looks up.
"Huh? What's your—"
Ansh simply taps his chest.
Her expression changes instantly.
Understanding.
She stands.
"Follow me."
Upstairs.
A narrow staircase. Flickering tube light.
Second floor.
A cramped cabin.
A doctor sits behind a worn desk, smiling as if this is just another business meeting.
"So… you're that rare case."
Ansh sits. The chair creaks under him.
"Rare case? How?"
The doctor folds his hands, relaxed.
"We very rarely deal in heart transplants. They require timing, precision, a full team ready at once." He smiles faintly. "You're lucky we even considered it."
Ansh leans forward slightly.
"Because you're short on vitamin money?"
A soft laugh.
"Just tell me if you can give me what I need."
"Two crore."
Ansh stands immediately.
"What? We agreed on 1.5 on the phone!"
The doctor leans back, unfazed, tapping his fingers slowly.
"Hearts are rare," he says calmly. "Rare things become expensive."
A pause.
"Three crore."
The air tightens.
Ansh clenches his jaw.
"…Fine."
The doctor's smile widens, almost gleeful. He stands and offers his hand.
"Excellent."
They shake.
Then—
"Now… shall we discuss surgery and medicine costs?"
Ansh doesn't respond.
He just stares at him.
Long enough for the smile to feel… wrong.
Then he turns and walks out.
—
Outside.
He gets into his car, slamming the door harder than necessary.
He pulls out his phone.
Dials.
"Hello… I got the deal."
He cuts the call before the other side can respond.
The engine roars to life.
—
An hour later.
Hospital.
The smell of antiseptic. The quiet hum of machines.
Inside one room—
"Mom, please—anything but that!"
Vikram struggles, trying to push away the plate.
Anu doesn't budge.
"Eat it. It's healthy."
"It's bitter!"
"We don't live for taste—we live for health."
Before he can argue further—
She stuffs a piece into his mouth.
Vikram chews, suffering, glaring at the plate like it personally betrayed him.
Outside the door, Samradh watches through the small glass window, a smirk tugging at his lips.
Then—
A hand reaches toward his shoulder.
Before it even touches—
He grabs the wrist and twists, turning instantly.
Ansh.
Raising an eyebrow.
"What instincts, sir."
Samradh exhales, releasing him.
"So… your sister's operation?"
Ansh smiles.
Too calm.
"Going really well."
Samradh studies him for a second.
Then nods.
"I'll handle things here. You do what you need to."
A brief nod.
Ansh walks away.
Samradh remains, watching his back disappear down the corridor.
—
Inside the room—
The TV flickers.
A news anchor speaks, voice tense but controlled.
"Yesterday, a mysterious global phenomenon occurred when a glowing sphere appeared in the sky…"
Footage plays.
People holding glowing coins.
"…shortly after, individuals reported strange coins materializing before them."
Close-ups.
Symbols.
Different languages. Different beliefs.
"These coins appear tied to personal belief systems…"
Cut to military footage.
"…and attempts to confiscate them have failed. The coins disappear when separated from their owners."
Viraj slowly looks away from the screen.
The room feels quieter now.
Outside—
Hospital staff whisper among themselves.
Some hold glowing Mudras in their palms, staring at them like they're holding something alive.
—
Mazgaon.
The clinic.
The doctor leans back in his chair, phone pressed to his ear.
"Hello, Anna."
A voice responds from the other side.
"Did you verify him?"
"Yes," the doctor says casually. "Didn't even hide he's police. So he's clean. Not a spy."
A pause.
"And he agreed to pay."
The voice turns dry.
"Medical expenses… or your expenses?"
The doctor chuckles.
"Whatever keeps the business running."
The line goes dead.
—
Back at the hospital—
Vikram sleeps.
Peaceful.
Still.
But his soul drifts.
Again.
—
Mayasabha.
The world bends.
Floor like water.
Water like glass.
Reality feels… optional.
"Still the same," Vikram mutters, stepping forward.
A vision flickers nearby—
A goddess.
A sword.
A chosen one.
He barely glances.
Keeps walking.
Second hall.
Thirty-two massive doors.
Each radiating something different.
"Power's room… Chitralekha's…"
He hesitates.
Then chooses another.
Opens it.
—
A garden.
Soft grass.
Warm air.
At the center—
Chitralekha.
Sleeping.
Serene.
She opens her eyes slowly.
Today, she wears a red sari.
Her gaze meets his.
"I'm not interested in taking your test today."
Before he can speak—
Everything snaps.
He's outside again.
Confused.
He turns—
Power stands behind him.
Arms crossed.
Eyes blazing.
"So… meeting others behind my back?"
Vikram freezes.
"No! I just—I mean—"
She steps forward.
He steps back.
Until—
His back hits the door.
She leans in slightly.
"Am I not enough?"
Suddenly—
A hand rests on Power's shoulder.
Chitralekha.
Smiling.
"Oh, don't be angry," she says softly. "Maybe he just has different tastes than a hyperactive tsundere."
Power's face turns red instantly.
"I am NOT a tsundere!"
Chitralekha laughs.
Then looks at Vikram.
"So… why are you here?"
A small pause.
"Did you miss us?"
Vikram fumbles.
"No—I mean yes—I mean—whatever."
They move.
Power's room.
A floating cloud.
Vikram sits.
Serious now.
"I was thinking… giving powers to so many people…"
His voice lowers.
"What if they turn evil?"
Silence.
Power exhales.
"It was necessary. King is already building his army. You can't win like this."
Chitralekha nods.
"And something else…"
Her gaze sharpens.
"Kali has allowed mana into the universe."
Vikram straightens.
"Mana? So everyone—"
They don't answer immediately.
Power speaks slowly.
"This feels… planned."
A shadow passes through her expression.
"Someone is moving pieces."
A pause.
"And we might be helping them."
—
Far away.
Indira Dockyard.
A man sits atop a shipping container.
Relaxed.
Dangerous.
Chains hang from his neck. A lungi flutters in the sea breeze. His open shirt reveals a sleeveless vest beneath.
His head is bald.
A gold tooth flashes as he grins.
In his hand—
A billhook.
Its blade glows with a neon blue aura.
Below him—
Inside the container—
Women.
Trapped.
Silent.
Terrified.
The man hums softly.
As if none of it matters.