By the fourth morning, Aryan understood something far worse than being watched. He was being delayed. Not stopped outright. Not confronted, threatened, or forced into a corner. Just slowed—carefully, precisely, almost politely. Every attempt to move forward met resistance so subtle it could pass for coincidence if someone wasn’t looking closely enough. Almost. He woke before dawn, the city still half-asleep, the sky suspended in that dull gray moment where it hadn’t yet decided what kind of day it wanted to become. His phone, powered back on despite his better judgment, showed nothing—no missed calls, no messages, no alerts. Silence, perfectly maintained. That silence didn’t feel like relief. It felt like a jammed mechanism—parts locked in place, energy trapped, pressure building with nowh
