The moment the man nodded, everything erupted into chaos.

  Asha yanked Vihan backward just as the first attacker lunged. A gloved hand swiped at his backpack, fingers grazing the strap before missing their mark. The Bhagavad Gita was the only thing they wanted—but Vihan wasn’t about to hand it over.

  “Run!” Asha hissed, pushing him toward the narrowest part of the alley.

  Vihan’s legs moved before his brain caught up. He ducked as another figure tried to grab him, their grip just barely missing his collar. He twisted past a rusted metal cart, slipping through a gap in the wall that only someone as small and quick as he was could fit through.

  Asha was right behind him—until she wasn’t.

  Vihan spun around just in time to see two men grab her by the arms. She fought hard, kicking and thrashing, but they were stronger. One of them slammed her against the wall, pinning her in place.

  “Asha!”

  The man in the overcoat—the one who knew Vihan’s name—stepped forward, brushing the dust off his sleeve like this was just another routine job.

  “I warned you,” he said, his voice maddeningly calm. “Give me the book.”

  Vihan’s mind raced. He couldn’t fight them—not like Zara could. And speaking of Zara… where was she? Had she escaped? Was she even alive?

  His heartbeat pounded in his ears. Think, think, think!

  Then he did the only thing he could.

  He ran.

  The Chase Through the City

  Vihan’s feet barely touched the ground as he sprinted through the narrow alleyways, his pulse hammering with adrenaline. Behind him, he heard shouting, boots hitting pavement. They were coming for him.

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  He knew these streets. He had spent his childhood navigating Mumbai’s hidden pathways, slipping through markets, ducking between stalls. He had outrun shopkeepers, police, and gangsters—but never something like this.

  This wasn’t just about running. This was about survival.

  The city was a blur. He weaved through neon-lit streets, past the old, rusted taxis, through a collapsing marketplace where the smell of frying oil and damp earth filled his lungs. He cut through an abandoned train yard, his breath ragged, his chest burning.

  Still, the footsteps behind him didn’t fade.

  They were faster. Stronger. And they weren’t getting tired.

  The Rooftop Standoff

  Vihan’s lungs screamed for air as he reached the end of the street—only to find himself at a dead end.

  A crumbling old building, its fire escape halfway collapsed, stood in front of him. It was either climb or surrender.

  He didn’t think. He jumped.

  His hands caught the lowest rung of the rusted ladder, and he hauled himself up with everything he had left. His muscles ached, his fingers burned, but he climbed higher, higher—until he reached the rooftop.

  Mumbai stretched before him in all its chaotic, neon-lit glory. The ocean glimmered in the distance, reflecting the city’s endless lights.

  But he had no time to take it in.

  The moment his feet hit the rooftop, the first attacker followed.

  A man in black tactical gear pulled himself onto the roof, his movements swift, practiced. Behind him, another followed. Then another.

  Vihan backed away, his heart racing.

  There was nowhere left to run.

  The leader—the man in the overcoat—appeared last, stepping onto the rooftop with the casual ease of someone who knew he had already won.

  Vihan swallowed hard. He was outnumbered. Outmatched.

  And then—

  A shadow moved behind the leader.

  A blur of motion.

  The flash of a knife.

  A choked gasp.

  The man in the overcoat staggered forward, eyes wide, blood blooming on his shoulder. Behind him stood Zara.

  Alive.

  And grinning like the devil.

  “Miss me?” she asked.

  Vihan let out a breathless laugh. “You have no idea.”

  Zara wiped her blade on her sleeve. “We should probably go now.”

  The rooftop wasn’t an option anymore. They had to find another way down—fast.

  But as they turned to run, the leader—wounded, but not down—spoke.

  “You can run all you want,” he rasped, pressing a hand to his bleeding shoulder. “But in the end, Vihan, you can’t escape what’s coming.”

  Vihan hesitated. “What do you mean?”

  The man smiled through the pain. “You’re already part of the prophecy. You were always meant to be.”

  The words sent a chill down Vihan’s spine.

  Before he could respond, Zara grabbed his wrist. “No time for cryptic villains. Move!”

  And they ran.

  Again.

  Because whether they liked it or not, the prophecy had already begun.