The city looked normal.
Which made everything worse.
Morning traffic. Hawkers. Children in uniforms running late for school. A courier bike weaving through autos recklessly, like the world beneath his wheels wasn't shifting.
Zoya and Manraj moved fast through it all — not running, but not quite walking either. A pace born from urgency, tension, and the heavy awareness that something underground was waking in perfect sync with the number under Manraj's skin.
32.
A heartbeat.
A threat.
A countdown.
"Where exactly are we going?" Manraj asked, trying not to sound winded.
Zoya checked her phone, scrolling through maps, municipal archives, and her own scribbled notes.
"The oldest sealed zone we know of. Not the tunnel where we just were — older."
"How old?"
Zoya exhaled.
"Older than the river."
Manraj blinked. "…That's not comforting."
"Yeah, well neither is your chest countdown," she shot back. "We're choosing the problems we can actually walk toward."
They took a turn into a quieter street — narrower lanes, older buildings, peeling paint, stray dogs sleeping under broken scooters. Here, the city felt… stiller. Like noise avoided this area on instinct.
Manraj rubbed his sternum.
"It's tugging again."
"How strong?"
"Not directional. Just… aware."
Zoya slowed her pace.
"Can you tell if it's one shadow or more?"
He hesitated.
"I think…" His voice dropped. "It's not a single entity."
Zoya stopped walking.
"…come again?"
"It feels like layers," Manraj said. "Like voices pressed behind a wall. Not talking. Not awake. But… there."
Zoya muttered something very rude under her breath.
"Okay, so the Under-Root isn't a 'thing.' It's an ecosystem."
Manraj nodded.
"And something inside it noticed me."
"And that something speaks," Zoya added, "which is never good news."
They reached the edge of an abandoned service road. Old barricades leaned to one side, faded signs warning:
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
SITE SEALED — 1873
DANGER: SUBSURFACE CAVITIES
Manraj frowned.
"1873? That's… colonial era."
Zoya nodded.
"Yeah. But the tunnels beneath it? Older."
She stepped over the broken barricade.
"Welcome to one of the Root's oldest trash cans."
Manraj followed her reluctantly.
---
THE SEALED WELL
The path ended at a crumbling stone courtyard. In the center stood an old stepwell — circular, deep, filled with stagnant water — its stairs descending into shadows that felt too thick to be just darkness.
A rusted iron grate covered the top, reinforced by chains.
Manraj whispered:
"What is this place?"
Zoya crouched near the old stone inscription half-buried in dust.
"A dumping ground," she said. "The Root didn't put offerings here. They dropped things they didn't want to deal with."
"Like monsters?"
Zoya shook her head.
"Like mistakes."
The air shifted.
A faint tremor brushed the soles of their feet — subtle, but unmistakable.
Like something huge had breathed beneath them.
Manraj grabbed her arm.
"Zoya…"
"I felt it."
She stood slowly.
Her Silence rippled around her shoulders, instinctively preparing for something she couldn't yet see.
The tremor came again.
Stronger.
A ripple moved across the surface of the stagnant water far below.
Manraj's chest flared.
32 → 32 → 31
He gasped.
Zoya snapped her gaze to him.
"It dropped again?"
He nodded, breath shaking.
"It's reacting to this place."
Zoya stepped closer to the grate.
"Then whatever woke in you woke here too."
As if answering her—
A third tremor rolled upward.
And from deep within the well, a sound rose.
Not a whisper.
Not a word.
A chorus.
Dozens of overlapping breaths.
Soft.
Shallow.
Hungry.
Manraj froze.
"Zoya…"
She didn't blink.
"I hear it."
Something brushed the underside of the grate.
A scrape.
A fingernail against metal.
Then another.
And another.
Dozens.
Like hands learning how to climb.
Manraj staggered back.
"Zoya — there are more than one."
Zoya's throat tightened.
"No. Not 'more than one.' These are fragments. Discarded roots. Pieces of things the Root cut out of itself."
The scraping grew louder.
Stronger.
Somewhere below, a voice — dozens of voices — layered into one:
"…light… unfinished… vessel… vessel…"
Manraj's stomach lurched.
"They're calling me."
Zoya grabbed his wrist hard enough to hurt.
"No. They're calling what they think you are."
The shadows inside the well shifted again.
This time upward.
Manraj felt panic rise like bile.
"Zoya — the grate — it's shaking —"
She shoved him backward just as the iron frame bulged.
Something beneath it pressed upward.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Testing the strength.
Zoya's Silence rose instinctively, curling around her like a shield.
"Manraj," she whispered.
"Run."
He didn't move.
"I'm not leaving you."
"Not optional."
The metal bent.
One chain snapped.
The voices rose again, layered and hungry:
"…unfinished… come… come…"
Zoya's breath shook.
"Manraj — go."
He shook his head.
The second chain snapped.
The third bent.
A hand — no, a cluster of hands — pressed through the grate.
Pale.
Elongated.
Dripping with shadow-water.
Dozens of fingers curled upward, searching.
Grasping.
Reaching for him.
Manraj's knees nearly buckled.
"Zoya—"
Her voice was steel.
"We're not fighting dozens of them. Not today."
More hands emerged.
Arms.
Faces half-formed.
Hollow eyes that didn't blink.
And all of them—
ALL OF THEM—
turned toward Manraj.
"…vessel…"
He felt his core tug — violently.
Not a call.
A claim.
Zoya seized his arm.
"RUN NOW—!"
He moved.
Just as the grate finally bent open.
Just as the discarded shadows rose.
Just as the Under-Root screamed his name without sound.
They ran until the well was a distant blot of darkness behind them.
Only when they reached the main road — lungs heaving, sweat cold on their skin — did they stop.
Zoya pressed her back to a wall, shaking.
"That wasn't one monster," she whispered.
Manraj wiped his mouth, chest burning.
"That was an army."
"No," Zoya corrected hoarsely.
"That was an introduction."
The number in his chest pulsed again.
31.
And this time — just for a second — he fel
t dozens of hollow hands reaching for him beneath the city.
Not physically.
Through the countdown.
Through the tether he couldn't break.
Zoya looked at him.
Fear in her eyes.
Determination in her jaw.
"Manraj," she said quietly.
"We're running out of days."
He swallowed hard.
"…and it's running out of patience."