Chapter 1 – When the Game Begins

Coimbatore — The Capital of Tamil Nadu, 2075

The sky burned red and black—not the gentle red of sunset, but the violent, choking red of fires that had long escaped containment. Thick smoke rolled low over RS Puram, pressing down on the streets like a suffocating shroud. The old Town Hall clock tower stood crooked, half-collapsed, its hands frozen forever at 3:17—as if time itself had surrendered.

Debris fell in slow, relentless showers: twisted rebar, shattered glass, Tamil signboards from sweet shops and tea stalls melted into grotesque shapes. The air tasted of camphor, diesel, charred cloth—and something worse.

Finality.

People moved like shadows now. No frantic running. No desperate screams. Most simply shuffled forward, coughing wetly, eyes vacant. Death had settled so completely that it no longer startled anyone. It was simply there—like dust.

At the centre of the devastation rose the massive statue of the Leader—stone arms lifted in a gesture that once inspired hope, face serene even as cracks spidered across his chest. Flames crept up its base like worshippers. He stood unblinking, witnessing the cost of every promise he had ever made.

A seven-year-old boy darted through the wreckage, small legs trembling with fear and exhaustion. Ash clung to his face and clothes; his lungs burned with every breath. He ran without direction, driven only by the animal instinct to keep moving.

A sharp crack split the air above him.

A balcony tore free from a leaning building, casting a wide, dark shadow over the boy. His body froze as the moment stretched impossibly long.

Before the debris could crush him, an old woman hurled herself forward. Her thin arms wrapped around the child and dragged him sideways into the narrow gap between two fallen walls.

The concrete slammed down with earth-shaking force—inches from their hiding place.

Dust billowed inward, choking the air.

They crouched together in the tiny space, barely able to breathe. The boy clung to her, shaking violently.

“Are we going to die, Amma?” His voice cracked.

She looked down at him—face lined with soot, eyes still burning with stubborn fire. A weary, painful smile curved her lips.

“Maybe, Kanna. Our hero is gone…” She tapped his chest gently. “But courage? That we still carry inside us.”

Above them, the frozen clock tower didn’t move.

3:17.

A powerful blast lit the sky blinding white.

The world dissolved into smoke, silence, and nothing.

Pollachi, 2017

It felt like another planet entirely.

Soft morning light filtered through neem leaves outside a small Vinayagar temple. Gentle bells chimed inside the sanctum, blending with the comforting scent of camphor and fresh jasmine garlands.

No smoke here. No screams.

Only the steady rhythm of an ordinary day beginning.

Hari, sixteen, stood with palms pressed together, eyes closed in earnest prayer. He asked quietly for his family’s health, for success in his upcoming exams, and for marks that would make his parents proud.

Then, after a small pause, he added the wish that truly mattered.

Today… maybe she notices me. Even once.

Behind him, two boys stifled laughter.

“Still begging Vinayagar for that girl who doesn’t even know your name exists, da?”

Hari spun around, cheeks burning. “Go eat your pongal and get lost.”

They grinned and wandered off, still chuckling.

Hari sighed, gave the idol one last hopeful glance—Vinayagar smiling calmly—and stepped outside into the cool morning air.

At home, Amma had already packed his lunch and placed hot idlis on a plate with coconut chutney. Hari ate quickly, grinning.

“Amma, your chutney is the best in the whole world.”

She smiled, pleased, and ruffled his hair as he slung his bag over his shoulder.

At the bus stop, Sam came running up, breathless. Surya was already there, leaning like he owned the road.

The bus speaker crackled, and ‘Aalaporaan Tamizhan’ burst out—too loud.

The three of them joked the entire ride—cricket, exams, memes—everything except the one person Hari’s mind kept circling back to.

At the school gate, the street buzzed with life: autos honking, juniors darting between cycles, the smell of fresh buns from the gate shop.

Then Hari saw her.

Not like a movie slow-motion scene.

Not like poetry.

Just… her.

Walking with her friends, laughing at something one of them said, sunlight catching the edge of her hair for half a second.

Hari’s chest tightened in that stupid way it always did.

He didn’t even know why she mattered so much.

He just knew she did.

He turned to his friends. “Dai… did she look at me?”

Sam and Surya were busy arguing over who would pay for thaen mittai. They hadn’t heard him.

Hari swallowed the disappointment and followed them inside.

After lunch, Hari slipped away to the quiet bench under the neem tree, trying to calm his head.

The heat pressed down. The school noise faded into a distant blur.

He blinked once.

And the world turned gold.

Suddenly he stood on a dusty battlefield.

Tamil soldiers in leather armour charged forward, war cries shaking the air. Tiger banners snapped in the hot wind. The ground was mud and blood and broken weapons.

A young prince—tall, fierce, long hair tied back, a gold chain glinting at his neck—fought at the front.

His sword snapped clean in two.

He turned.

Looked straight at Hari.

Eyes burning like he’d been waiting for him.

“வாளை எடு! வீரனே!”

He pointed to a fallen sword, half-buried in the mud.

Hari’s hand moved without thinking—

The vision shattered.

Hari gasped, back on the bench, chest heaving like he’d been running. His palms were damp. His throat was dry.

He stared at his own hands.

For a second, he could still feel the weight of a sword that wasn’t there.

He forced a laugh under his breath.

“Heat,” he muttered. “Just heat.”

But his heart didn’t believe him.

Evening.

Bus stop.

The same bench. The same road. The same bored waiting.

Sam had bailed early with some excuse. Surya sat beside Hari, scrolling his phone like nothing in the world could touch him.

Hari kept glancing down the road.

Not because he was brave.

Because he was stupid.

Because he wanted to see her again.

Surya noticed and smirked. “Dai. If you’re going to stare like that, at least act normal.”

Hari shot him a look. “Shut up.”

Then Surya lifted his phone. “Okay, okay. One group selfie. For memories. You, me… and if your luck is good, your ‘destiny’ will be in the background.”

Hari froze. “Don’t be an idiot.”

“I’m not taking her photo,” Surya said, rolling his eyes. “I’m taking our photo. If she walks behind, that’s God’s editing.”

Hari hesitated.

Then nodded once, like he wasn’t dying inside.

Surya held the phone up. Hari leaned in. Both of them tried to look casual and failed.

Click.

A normal selfie.

Nothing wrong.

Nothing criminal.

Nothing to ruin anyone’s life.

Hari exhaled.

Then Surya’s eyes widened slightly as he looked at the screen.

Hari’s stomach dropped. “What?”

Surya tilted the phone toward him.

In the background—half blurred, half perfect—she was there.

Not posing. Not looking at them.

Just walking past, mid-laugh, like the world was kind.

Hari’s breath caught.

It was stupid.

It was harmless.

And it felt like holding lightning in his hand.

“Delete it,” Hari said immediately, voice tight.

Surya blinked. “Why? It’s just background.”

“Delete it,” Hari repeated.

Surya stared at him for a second, surprised by the seriousness.

Then he shrugged. “Okay, okay.”

His thumb hovered over the delete button.

And—

The phone screen flickered.

Not like low battery.

Not like lag.

Like the moment itself glitched.

For a split second, the selfie wasn’t there.

Instead, the screen showed something else.

A black background.

White numbers.

3:17

Hari’s blood turned cold.

Surya frowned. “What the—”

The screen snapped back to normal.

The selfie returned.

Surya laughed awkwardly. “Bro, my phone is possessed.”

Hari didn’t laugh.

Because his ears were ringing.

Because the battlefield smell—dust and iron—was suddenly in his nose again.

Because the number 3:17 sat in his mind like a nail.

He grabbed Surya’s wrist. “Dai. Did you see that?”

Surya’s smile faded. “See what?”

Hari stared at him.

Surya hadn’t seen it.

Or Surya was pretending.

Hari didn’t know which was worse.

“Nothing,” Hari lied.

Surya shrugged, still uneasy. “Anyway, I’ll delete it if you want.”

He deleted the selfie.

Hari watched the screen like it might betray him again.

It didn’t.

But the air around them felt… wrong.

Too still.

Too heavy.

Like the world was holding its breath.

That night, Hari lay on his bed staring at the ceiling.

The fan spun lazily above him.

The house was quiet.

Too quiet.

He closed his eyes.

And saw the prince again.

வாளை எடு! வீரனே!

Hari sat up suddenly, heart pounding.

He checked the time on his phone.

3:17 AM.

His throat went dry.

He didn’t remember waking up.

He didn’t remember checking the time.

It was like his body had moved on its own.

Like something had pulled him.

He swallowed hard and forced himself to lie back down.

It’s coincidence.

It’s coincidence.

But sleep didn’t come.

Next evening, walking home past the water tank, the air felt different.

Still.

Cold.

Hari slowed.

He felt it again.

That sensation—like someone was behind him, watching.

He turned.

No one.

He walked on.

But in the shadows stood a man.

Fully covered in dark cloth.

Hood drawn low.

Face hidden.

Only eyes visible.

One eye dark purple.

The other dark green.

The man watched Hari walk away like he was watching a door finally open.

He murmured in a calm, flat voice that somehow felt too close and too far at the same time.

“Let’s start the game, master.”

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