Veda stood at the sink in the washroom.
Water poured from the tap, cold and steady. He held his white shirt under the flow, watching the brown and yellow stains of dal and rice dissolve into the water. The fabric turned dark as it soaked. He rubbed the cloth against itself, working the stains out with slow, methodical movements.
His face was empty. No anger. No frustration. No sadness.
Just nothing.
He rinsed the shirt. Wrung it out. Set it aside.
Next was the navy jacket. The dal had soaked into the collar and down the left sleeve. He held it under the water. Rubbed. Rins. Wrung.
Water dripped from his hands. From the clothes. From the edge of the sink onto the floor.
He wore only a white undershirt now. Thin. Sleeveless. It clung to his chest and shoulders, revealing the lean muscle beneath. Not the bulk of a bodybuilder. The dense, hard muscle of someone who had spent years moving, fighting, surviving.
He looked at his reflection in the small mirror above the sink.
From chest to chin.
The undershirt. The damp skin. The long hair sticking to his forehead.
He didn't look up at his face.
He grabbed the wet clothes. Walked out.
The rooftop.
Veda sat on the concrete floor, his back against the low wall that ran along the building's edge. His legs stretched out in front of him, one knee bent, the other straight. The wet clothes hung over the railing, the metal barrier that stopped people from falling. The morning sun hit them directly, light filtering through the damp fabric.
His half of the rooftop was in shadow. The building next door blocked the sun, casting a cool darkness over him. Only his legs and the tips of his shoes touched the light.
The wind blew.
His long hair moved with it, strands lifting and falling like dark smoke. His undershirt pressed against his chest. His eyes were half closed.
He watched the clouds drift across the sky. Slow. Peaceful. Unaware of the world below.
Young Veda floated beside him, cross legged in the air, arms folded.
"Are you not going to do anything?"
Veda didn't answer.
"They insulted you. In front of everyone. That boy put food on your head like you were a dog." Young Veda's voice was sharp. "How dare they do that to you?"
Veda watched a cloud shaped like a bird dissolve into nothing.
"It's fine."
"Fine?"
"I have experienced harder things than that. In the army. In the field. A little food on my head is nothing."
Young Veda stared at him. His ancient eyes searched Veda's face for something, a crack, a flicker of the killer who had slaughtered a thousand men.
He found nothing.
"The last class is ending now," Young Veda said. "You missed three classes."
Veda pulled out his phone. Opened a video. A man fell off a bicycle into a pond. He watched it. Then another. A cat fighting a robot. Then another.
Young Veda watched him scroll.
"The body you are in right now," he said quietly, "he was a good student. He studied hard. His rank was fourth in the entire state."
Veda kept looking at his phone.
"His family never forced him to study. They would have loved him even if he failed. But he kept going. He knew his body was weak. He understood his limits. But he also knew something else."
Young Veda floated closer.
"The brain doesn't have limits. He studied. He read. He learned everything he could about souls, about contracts, about the Tower. He joined this University because of one reason."
He paused.
"He didn't want to be left out. The strong look down on the weak. He didn't want to be the one bowing. He didn't want to beg for mercy from people like Veer."
Veda's thumb stopped scrolling.
"He was young. Hot blooded. Stupid in the way only young men can be. He saw Veer, the top student of the first year hunter class. He saw how Veer used his power on other students. How he humiliated them. How he broke them."
Young Veda's voice dropped.
"So he challenged him. A boy with no contract, no vessel, no combat training. He challenged the strongest. Because he would rather lose standing up than live on his knees."
Silence.
The wind blew.
"Now you are in his body," Young Veda continued. "You live in his house. You eat at his table. You sleep in his bed. His mother calls you beta. His father waits for you to call him dad."
Veda looked at his phone screen. The video had paused. A cat frozen mid air.
"You should..."
"I should do nothing."
Veda's voice was flat. Cold.
"It is none of my business. He chose that line. Now he is gone. And I am not walking in his footsteps."
Young Veda's eyes narrowed.
"You are here because he chose that line. His choice brought you here. His body holds your soul. His family loves your face. You do not get to walk away from that."
He floated in front of Veda, blocking the clouds.
"A warrior does not run from a fight. A warrior does not hide from insults. A warrior stands. Even when his legs shake. Even when his hands bleed. Even when the whole world tells him to kneel."
He pointed at Veda's chest.
"Go. Fight them. Not because you want to. Not because you care about pride or revenge. Fight because that boy is dead, and you are wearing his skin, and the least you can do is finish what he started. Fight like a warrior. Not for victory. For respect. For the simple truth that no one gets to put food on your head and walk away."
Veda looked at him.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
Then Veda said, "What is a warrior?"
Young Veda tilted his head.
"A warrior is forged in fire. Tempered by loss. Defined not by the battles they win, but by the courage to rise and fight again." Veda's voice was quiet. "I learned that when I was eighteen. In the army. In the mountains. In places where death was the only teacher."
He looked down at his hands.
"But I am not a warrior. I was never meant to be one."
He stood up.
"I only know how to kill."
He walked to the railing. Grabbed his shirt. It was still damp but no longer wet. He shook it once, twice, three times. Dust and tiny water droplets flew into the air.
He pulled it over his head. The damp fabric stuck to his undershirt, cold against his skin.
He grabbed his jacket. Shook it. Put it on.
The uniform was wrinkled. Stained in places. But it was clean enough.
And walked toward the door.
Young Veda watched him go.
Then smiled.
Veda walked through the corridor.
The last bell had rung. Students poured out of classrooms, laughing, talking, heading home. A few noticed him. Whispered. Pointed.
"Isn't that the guy?"
"The one Veer dumped food on?"
"He looks... different."
He walked past them. Said nothing. His footsteps were steady. His face was calm.
He reached his classroom. The door was open. Empty desks. Dust motes floating in the afternoon light.
His bag was still there. He picked it up from the floor where he had left it. Checked inside. Books. Notebooks. A pencil case.
Everything there.
He walked out.
The corridor on the ground floor.
Niha stood with her two friends near the main entrance. They were laughing about something, some joke Veda didn't hear.
Then Niha saw him.
Walking toward the gate. Bag on his shoulder. Face calm. Eyes forward.
"Look," one of her friends said, nudging her. "That bookworm is leaving."
The other friend grinned. "Is he going to fight Veer? Class ended like twenty minutes ago."
They watched him pass. He didn't look at them.
"He is running away," the first friend said, laughing. "Look at that. All that talk and he is just leaving."
Niha didn't laugh. She watched Veda walk through the gate. His back was straight. His steps didn't hurry.
"He looks different," she said quietly.
Her friends didn't hear her.
The parking lot.
Veda walked toward his motorcycle. It sat alone in the row, black and silver, waiting for him.
He was ten feet away when a voice stopped him.
"Hey, bookworm."
Veda stopped.
He didn't turn around.
Veer stepped out from behind a pillar. His arms were crossed. His grin was wide. Behind him, the three friends emerged from the shadows like wolves. The fat one. The two hyenas.
"Did you chicken out? Are you running away now?"
The three friends laughed. The sound echoed off the concrete walls.
People walking past stopped. Turned. Watched.
A crowd began to gather.
Students leaving college. A few teachers. The security guard at the gate. They stood in a loose circle, watching, whispering, phones out.
Veda stood in the center of the circle.
His back to Veer.
His hand was still reaching toward his motorcycle.
"Turn around when I am talking to you," Veer said. His voice was hard now. The grin was gone.
Veda turned.
Slowly.
His gray eyes met Veer's dark ones.
The crowd held its breath.