Arjun's tongue felt like cotton.
The man standing in front of him looked exactly like the photographs, only alive, breathing, impossibly real.
For one dizzy second Arjun thought: descendant. Some great-nephew or grandson who had come to claim the family secret.
He found his voice. "Sir… I'm extremely sorry. I broke into your basement. I swear on my mother I'll never tell anyone. I'll forget everything. Please—"
The tall man raised one hand, palm open, gentle. The same friendly smile stayed on his lips.
"Listen to me first, Arjun."
He took one step closer; the morning light coming through the glass walls seemed to slide around him instead of touching him.
"That vault belonged to me. Now it belongs to you."
Arjun blinked, stunned. "No… no, sir, it can't—"
"It already does," Vikramaditya said softly. "I am handing it to you. Right now. Ownership, duty, everything."
Arjun's back pressed harder against the bathroom door. "But… you have family, surely—"
"I have none." The smile turned sad. "No wife, no children, no blood left. That is why the vault slept for fifty-two years. I never thought the day would come when I could pass the keys to someone worthy. But it came. You opened the door. The vault chose."
Arjun's mouth opened and closed like a fish.
Vikramaditya's voice dropped, almost tender.
"Yesterday I tried to reach you. Knocking on glass, standing in corners of your dreams. But every time I came close, your fear grew. So I stopped. I thought all night, and I decided to borrow a shape you would not run from. This body," he gestured at the white shirt and suspenders, "is only borrowed light. Holding it costs me. But I wanted you to see my face and know I mean no harm."
He extended his hand again, not for a shake this time, just open, waiting.
"Will you listen to my story before you decide anything? One night. That is all I ask."
Arjun stared at the hand. No cold. No threat. Only calm strength, the way an old banyan tree is calm. Something in the man's eyes, ancient, tired, but unmistakably kind, loosened the knot in Arjun's chest. He had spent his life reading people's faces for anger or pity; this face had neither.
He swallowed once and nodded. "Okay. I… I'll listen."
Relief flickered across Vikramaditya's features. "Good boy. Tonight, when the world sleeps, I will return. You will not see me, only hear me. Do not be afraid; it is only to save strength. We have much to speak about, and very little time."
Then, as if someone had turned down a lantern wick, the figure thinned. The white shirt lost colour, the suspenders faded, the tall frame dissolved into morning air like steam off chai. The office chair was empty again.
Arjun stood there a long time, breathing hard, wondering if he had finally gone mad.
The day crawled past in bright, ordinary sunlight. Labourers came and went, shutters clanged, scrap was weighed. Arjun smiled when spoken to, gave orders, sent photographs to Gupta-ji. No one noticed anything wrong.
Night fell.
The dhaba boy brought dinner at eight sharp: dal, sabzi, six rotis. Arjun thanked him, washed his hands at the borewell tap, sat cross-legged on the cot, and started eating without tasting.
A voice drifted into his mind, warm, amused, exactly the same deep tone he had heard that morning.
"I haven't had dinner in a very long time…
But watching you eat, yaar, even I can tell that dal has no tadka."
Arjun almost dropped the steel plate.
A soft chuckle echoed inside his skull, gentle, almost shy.
"Relax, Arjun. It's only me.
Now finish your food. We have a long night ahead, and a longer war after that."