THUMP.
Ayan's heartbeat was the first sound he knew when consciousness returned—fast, sharp, desperate. The alley was gone. The phantom was gone. But the cold wasn't. It clung to his skin like frost that no sun could melt.
He blinked.
The world swam into shape slowly, painfully—like each pixel took effort to exist.
He was inside a room.
But not his room.
Dark wallpaper, slashed with veins of glowing violet. A ceiling fan that turned too slow, as if time itself was drowsy. Glass jars on the shelves—some filled with black feathers, some with silver eyeballs that blinked on their own. A desk cluttered with candles burning a blue flame.
And beside him—
Lyra.
Sitting on the floor, knees drawn to her chest, robe frayed and flickering like smoke. She looked smaller here, like the shadows drained her.
Ayan tried to speak but his throat was sand.
"…we—made it?"
Lyra looked up. Her eyes held relief and guilt tangled together.
"We survived," she whispered. "But barely."
She wasn't lying. The burn marks on her arms told the story. The phantom had almost ended them. If Ayan hadn't stepped between her and that crackling void—
He would've died.
And for some strange terrifying reason…
He didn't regret it.
A Door Opens — Not Physically, but Reality Itself
The air split like fabric.
No handle.
No hinges.
Just a crack of crimson in the air—slowly widening, as if reality was a curtain someone chose to pull aside.
A figure stepped out.
Tall. Black coat trailing like wet ink. Pale hair that shimmered like moonlight shattered in water. Eyes—deep gold, but fractured as though each iris contained a thousand reflections.
He smiled.
Not friendly.
But interested.
"Ayan Mehra," he said. His voice was smooth and ancient, like a forgotten song hummed underground.
"You crossed a boundary tonight. Fate noticed."
Ayan felt his spine lock.
"Who are you?" His voice shook.
The man stepped closer. Where his feet touched the floor, runes rippled outward like drops in water.
"I have many names," the man breathed, "But the one whispered most often…"
He leaned forward.
"…is Seraphian."
Lyra stood sharply, interposing herself like a blade of light.
"You shouldn't be here."
Seraphian's grin widened enough to show something wrong—too many teeth.
"And yet," he murmured, "here I am."
He snapped his fingers.
The candles around the room howled—flames stretching into thin serpents of blue fire that twined through the air. Shadows thickened. The room breathed.
Ayan could feel pressure in his skull, like someone pressing thoughts into him.
Power.
Memory.
Pain.
He gasped.
Lyra grabbed his hand, grounding him. The world steadied.
Seraphian's gaze flickered to their joined hands—and his smile turned razor-like.
"So it's true," he said. "A ghost has chosen a mortal."
Lyra didn't deny it.
She stepped closer to Ayan.
And Ayan suddenly understood—
The world wasn't random.
Lyra being there wasn't chance.
This was bigger, older, dangerous.
A contract wasn't a game.
It was war.
The Offer
Seraphian raised a single finger.
Reality obeyed.
Words carved themselves into the air—letters shaped from smoke and bone.
CONTRACT OF SHADOWS
Offer to: AYAN MEHRA
Terms:
1. The mortal shall loan fragments of life-energy to sustain the ghost.
2. In return, the ghost grants power equal to the bond's depth.
3. Breaking the pact before it matures results in permanent erasure.
4. If the bond reaches peak resonance, both shall ascend beyond mortal law.
Signed in blood, memory, or fate.
Ayan stared. His breath stuttered.
"So this is what I signed up for…" he whispered.
Lyra's voice trembled—not with fear, but with something fragile.
"You don't have to accept this. If you release me… you can go back to normal."
Normal.
School. Bullies. Living alone. Silent dinners. Nights where no one knocked on his door.
He looked at Lyra.
Flickering, incomplete yet real.
The only one who stood beside him when death towered over him.
The only one who spoke his name like it mattered.
Normal felt like a cage.
Ayan stepped forward.
"I won't let you disappear."
Lyra's breath caught.
Seraphian's grin sharpened like a blade.
Then—
A silver dagger materialized in his palm.
Carved with runes.
Cold like winter's first whisper.
"Cut your palm," Seraphian said softly. "Blood seals the bond."
Ayan hesitated.
His life—his future—his identity...
All would change.
He could walk away.
But something inside him, fierce and awakening, whispered:
Power is earned by those who dare bleed.
Ayan took the dagger.
Held it tight.
And drew it across his palm.
Blood slid like a red thread.
Lyra pressed her own ghostly hand against the wound—her essence shimmering blue as it merged with crimson.
The room shook.
Candles exploded into white fire.
Floor cracked with radiant sigils.
A pulse tore through reality like thunder made of light.
Ayan screamed—not in pain, but metamorphosis.
His vision fractured into infinite scenes—
• A city drowned in spectral mist
• A throne built of chained ghosts
• Lyra standing crowned in silver flame
• Seraphian smiling beneath an eclipse
• Ayan, eyes glowing, hand raised like a god
And then—
Silence.
Lyra collapsed into his arms—warm for the first time.
The contract was complete.
They were bound.
Not ghost and human—
But two halves of one fate.
Seraphian stepped back, shadows peeling off his coat like black petals.
"Now the true game begins."
He vanished like he was never there, leaving only the echo of a prophecy:
"Power awakens. Death watches.
Choose wisely, Ayan Mehra."
Ayan held Lyra close, heart pounding like war drums.
He was no longer ordinary.
No longer small.
He was contracted.
And the world was about to feel it.