Aman rarely ventured after his shifts. The hospital was a vacuum that sucked the life out of him, leaving him with just enough energy to collapse into bed and order his world through a smartphone screen. He was a man of digital convenience. But today, a strange, phantom impulse tugged at his sleeve. He wanted to go on an " adventure" " chuckles".

  That voice again, dark, amused and echoing in the hollows of his skull. "An adventure that will change his life forever." The moment he stepped out of the apartment building, the world tilted. Banaras was in the grip of a scorching afternoon; the sun was a white hot eye that seemed personally offended by everyone beneath it.

  Yet, Aman's body began to turn ice cold. He touched his own forearm and recoiled, his skin felt like it had been stored in a morgue freezer. "what is happening to me?" he wondered, his brow furrowing in a mix of professional concern and primal fear. "Earlier i was a furnace, and now i am a corpse". "Did i pick up some rare tropical pathogen in the ward?".

  His Harley was parked just a few feet away, its chrome mocking him in the sunlight. But a heavy invisible hand seem to push him toward the sidewalk. He felt compelled to walk. "Fate is a vicious comedian." the voice mused. " it makes a man walk when he has the wings of a machine."

  As he walked, a prickle of unease climbed up his spine, sharp as a needle. He glanced over his shoulder. A large, ink black dog was trailing him, its movement silent and predatory. Aman wasn't startled, strays had always been drawn to him, as if they sensed a kindred loneliness. The first shop was a mere two minutes walk . " Bhaiya battery hai kya ?"( Brother do you have batteries?) Aman asked, his voice sounding thin in the heavy air.

  Stolen story; please report.

  "Nahi bhaiya abhi khatam hua," ( No brother they just finished) the shopkeeper replied without looking up from his accounts. Aman sighed, the cold in his bones deepening. I should have just taken the bike. He set off for the next shop, five minutes further into the maze of the city. The black remained a few paces behind, the rhythmic click-click-click of his claws on the pavement matching the beat of Aman's slowing heart. "Is he hungry?" Aman wondered.

  He stopped and turned, reaching down to pat the beast's head "Ruk tujhe dukan mein jake biscuit deta hoon," ( Wait, i will give you biscuits when we reach the shop,) he murmured, his doctor's instinct to care for the living overriding his fear. He turned back to the road, and that's when the bells began.

  Clang, clang, clang. The rhythmic tolling from a nearby temple cut through the city's noise. "snIff", Aman's nose wrinkled. A sharp, unmistakable scent of raw alcohol filled his nostrils, thick enough to taste. There were no bars here, no liquor stores, just ancient stone and incense. As he reached the iron gates of the temple his footsteps faltered.

  A figure stood there, framed by the temple's shadows, watching Aman with a haunting, knowing smile. The man's face was as pale as fresh snow, his hair a shock of ash, grey. But it was the eyes that stopped Aman's breath, they weren't human. They looked like twin pits where something ancient and violent was being kept was being kept behind bars of fire.

  In a heartbeat, the ice in Aman's veins turned to gasoline. The freezing cold was replaced by a searing, agonizing heat that felt like his skin was being melted from the inside out. He gasped, clutching his chest, his eyes locked in the stranger it was the same man. The monk from the operating table. The man who was supposed to be sedated, intubated, and clinging to life in he ICU.

  He was standing. He was smiling. And he was waiting.