Chapter 7
Sunday morning in Mumbai is quieter than most days, the city’s usual roar softened into a subdued hum. The sunlight filters through the blinds of Ashwin Nair’s penthouse bedroom, casting fragmented patterns on the hardwood floor. The clock on his bedside table blinks at 7:00 AM, but Ashwin is awake, lying still, staring at the ceiling.
His morning begins with routine precision. A CEO’s life demands discipline, and Ashwin has mastered the art of appearances.
Yet today, something feels... off.
He swings his legs over the edge of the bed, his feet sinking into the plush carpet. The day stretches ahead of him, carefully scheduled meetings, gym sessions, and brunch with high-profile investors. He walked to his bathroom. The mirror above the sink greeting him with a familiar face: sharp jawline, messy hair, and piercing eyes that always seem to see too much.
“Who are you today?” he murmurs to his reflection.
There’s no answer, of course, but the silence feels suffocating, as though the question lingers in the air, waiting to be addressed. Yet hs routine continues uninterrupted. A quick shave, half an hour of gym and a hot shower, and a perfectly tailored shirt pulled from his walk-in closet. He reaches for the small bottle of pills in his drawer but stops mid-motion.
Did I already take it?
He frowns, he can't seem to remember. Although, the bottle feels heavier than it should—full.
No matter. He pushes the doubt aside and gets to his feet, heading downstairs. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee fills the kitchen. The staff has already left for the day—Ashwin prefers Sundays to himself. He sips his coffee, scrolling through emails on his tablet. Stock reports, acquisition plans, philanthropic project updates. The world sees a visionary—a man who built an empire from nothing. But beneath the surface, another man stirs. The first crack appears when he steps into his study. The air cooler, the sunlight muted by heavy curtains. The mahogany desk is pristine except for a leather-bound journal resting at its centre. He hesitates before opening it, his fingers brushing the worn cover. Inside, the pages are yellowed, aged, filled with a neat elegant handwriting—notes, thoughts, confessions scrawled by a hand that feels both familiar and foreign.
The words reflect from his eyes:
"I laughed. I escaped. Because I could."
Ashwin shuts the journal with a snap, his pulse quickening.
Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.
Not today, he tells himself.
He leaves the study abruptly, deciding on a distraction. A jog through Marine Drive, perhaps. Exercise clears the mind. But outside, the city feels too loud, too close. The honks of taxis, the chatter of tourists—it claws at him, the perfect façade cracking further. By the time he returns to his penthouse, his shirt sticks to his back, sweat dripping from his temple. He pauses in the foyer, catching his breath. The mirror near the door catches his eye again.
This time, the face staring back isn’t his. Not entirely.
The eyes hold a spark—mischief, danger, satisfaction. The man in the mirror looks alive and energized.
> “Enjoying the game?”
The reflection seems to ask, though the lips never move.
Ashwin stumbles back, his breath hitching. He grips the edge of the console table, his knuckles white.
> Take the pill. Take the damn pill.
Stumbling forward he returns to his bedroom reaching out for the bottle, but his hands tremble too much to open it. Instead, he sinks into the hardwood cool floor, his head in his hands.
A memory resurfaces, unbidden.
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It’s years ago, in a dingy, smoke-filled room. A younger Ashwin sits across from her—his hands clenched, sweat slicking his palms. The woman opposite him is everything he’s come to fear, her eyes sharp as knives, her smile like the edge of a blade. She leans forward, her gaze never leaving his face as if she’s studying a creature beneath her, something small, insignificant.
Ashwin hesitates.
“I don’t want to hurt Anyone Anymore,” he says, barely above a whisper.
"We gave you a name," she says, the words laced with contempt. "We gave you everything—purpose, power, protection. And this is how you repay us? With disobedience?"
Ashwin swallows, but his throat feels dry as if every inch of his body is betraying him. He opens his mouth to speak, but the words never come out. He doesn't know what to say, what to do to appease the woman in front of him and even if he knows he is unwilling to do it. The woman leans in closer, and there's a flicker of something in her eyes—something cold, something dangerous.
"How dare a dog talk back to me?" she says, "Do you think you know your worth? You don't even know who owns you, do you?"
Ashwin remains quiet. No matter what he says, the end is inevitable.
“You’ll learn your place,” She gestures to the shadows in the corner of the room, where tools glint faintly, obscured in the half-light.
“Pain is a lesson, and some lessons need to be taught.”
Ashwin’s breath hitches.
The words echo in his mind as the memory fades.
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Ashwin exhales deeply, his gaze drifting back to the reflection in the mirror across the room. This time, the man staring back at him smiles—a cold, knowing smile.
“I’m not you,” Ashwin barks, his voice cracking.
The reflection seems to disagree.
And somewhere in the penthouse, the ticking of the clock grows louder, as if counting down to something inevitable.