The night had grown thick with humidity, the kind of dampness that clung to the skin and made every breath feel like an effort. Gibreel Farishta walked the streets of Bombay, his steps slow and deliberate, as though each one carried the weight of a decision he wasn't yet ready to make. His mind was a storm, swirling with thoughts of the stranger, the building, and the cryptic words that had been left hanging in the air like smoke.
The city had never felt this alive, nor had it ever felt so dangerous. The sounds of the streets—cars honking, the chatter of the crowds, the far-off blare of a television from an open window—seemed to distort, to grow more distant the deeper he walked. It was as though the streets themselves were pulling away from him, receding into a shadowed abyss where reality itself began to fray at the edges.
It was during these walks, in these moments of intense isolation, that Gibreel began to feel the strange, gnawing sense that something was watching him, something unseen but always present. He would turn his head quickly, but the feeling would not leave. He was being followed.
But by who? Or by what?
The city seemed to have no answers, no explanation. It was simply a maze of alleyways and neon signs, of old temples and crumbling buildings, of faces that came and went without a second glance. And yet, there was something more here, beneath the surface. Something he was beginning to understand, even if he wasn't ready to admit it.
As Gibreel turned onto a quieter street, the feeling of being watched intensified. He could hear footsteps behind him, faint but unmistakable. When he turned again, no one was there.
He quickened his pace, his breath now coming in sharp bursts. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he crossed into an unfamiliar part of town. The street was narrow, lined with old, decaying buildings that looked like they had stood for centuries. At the end of the street, a small door stood ajar. It beckoned him, the light from inside spilling into the darkness, calling him in.
Gibreel's heart pounded in his chest as he walked toward the door. He had no idea what awaited him inside, but something inside him—something primal—knew that he had to enter. The decision wasn't his to make. The door had already been opened, and he was already walking through it.
The inside of the room was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of incense and something else—something darker. His eyes slowly adjusted to the shadows, and he saw figures seated around a large, circular table. They were silent, watching him with a strange intensity, their faces hidden in the half-light.
The stranger was there, standing at the center of the room, his cloak fluttering in the stillness like a shadow of something ancient. He didn't speak at first, only motioned for Gibreel to sit.
Gibreel obeyed without question, his body moving on its own, as though it had already made the decision for him. The atmosphere in the room was oppressive, as if the very air was charged with something unseen. He could feel his heart racing in his chest, the walls closing in around him.
The stranger finally spoke, his voice low and measured, like the murmur of an incantation. "You've come far, Gibreel. Farther than most. But this path—this road—has only just begun. There are things that you cannot yet understand, but you will. You will see."
Gibreel's throat felt dry. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. Instead, a vision flashed in his mind, an image of a vast desert stretching to the horizon, its sands swirling in an eternal dance. In the distance, something dark stood against the sky, a shape so massive it dwarfed everything around it. It was a tower, but not like any tower Gibreel had ever seen. It was alive, its surface shifting and rippling as though it were made of flesh.
The vision vanished as quickly as it had appeared, and Gibreel blinked, trying to make sense of what he had seen.
"You saw it, didn't you?" the stranger said, his voice barely more than a whisper. "The tower. The city. It's coming. The change. The reckoning. The world is not what it seems, Gibreel. And neither are you."
The words hung in the air like a curse, each one heavier than the last. Gibreel felt the weight of them press down on him, suffocating him, until it seemed like the room itself was closing in around him. His chest tightened, and for a moment, he thought he might suffocate.
But then, the strangest thing happened.
The figures around the table—the ones who had been watching him in silence—began to shift. They stood in unison, moving with a fluidity that seemed impossible, as though they were a part of something much larger than themselves. They were all wearing the same cloak, the same dark garments that matched the stranger's. But now, Gibreel realized, they weren't just people. They were something else.
Something otherworldly.
And in that moment, he knew he was no longer in control. He had crossed a threshold, and there was no going back.
"Your fate is sealed, Gibreel Farishta," the stranger said, his voice echoing in the room. "You are not just a man. You are a messenger. A herald of the coming change."
Gibreel opened his mouth to protest, to ask what that meant, but before he could speak, the world around him seemed to collapse, the walls falling away into darkness.
And then, everything went silent.