Aman Mehta was a man of pride. He had stood at the operating table hundreds of times, and yet the quiet satisfaction of snatching a life back from the brink never grew old. it was heavy, grounding pride that settled in his chest, a reminder that in the world of chaos, he was the one who restored order.

  But as he walked out of the hospital today, the order began to crumble. Something was wrong. His skin began to prickle, and his body temperature surged, a sudden, dry fever that felt as though it was radiating from the very narrow of his bones. The jolt of electricity that had buzzed through him in the surgery had subsided, replaced by this strange, internal fire. He was completely unaware that, back in theatre he had just left, the monitor he had fought so hard to stabilize was screaming in single, flat, agonizing note.

  As he crossed the parking lot, the world felt distorted. he saw a mother rushing towards the emergency entrance, her face a mask of desperation and tears. As she clutched a limp child to her chest. The others doctors, moving in their sterile bubbles, barely glanced at her. To them, it was just another case; to her, it was the end of the world.

  Aman felt his blood boil with a familiar protective rage. He started toward her, but a figure blurred past him before he could take a second step.

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  Sophie, she took the child into her arms with a tenderness that made Aman's breath hitch. She handled the small body as if it were made of the finest glass, her movements a perfect blend of urgency and grace. Aman felt a strange swelling in his heart. The fire of his anger vanished replaced by a lingering grin. Sophie was always the better half of their team.

  He headed to his bike, a classic Harley, its black metal skin gleaming under the oppressive sky. He rode through the streets of Banaras until he reached his apartment in the heart of town. By the time he reached his door, he was panting, his lungs burning, He lived on the sixth floor, and the elevator was, as usual, nothing more then a useless, rusted, metal box.

  "Is this thing just for show?" he muttered his fingers fumbling with his keys as his vision blurred slightly from the heat in his head. He stepped inside, greeted by the faint comforting scent of old paper and leather. Books were stacked on every available shelf, thick, daunting medical volumes that represented years of logic and study.

  But among them one stood out. It had no title, no author, and no color. It was a void on the shelf, a blank, black book. He ignored the pull of the book for now, heading straight for the kitchen. He was parched, his throat felt like he had swallowed sand. But as he gripped a glass of water , the silence of the room hit him like a physical blow.

  The steady tick, tock , tick, tock of the wall clock, the heartbeat of his home, had vanished. He looked up. The pendulum was still frozen mid swing. The water in his glass didn't even ripple. Time at least in this room, had stopped waiting for him.