A week into the semester, the rhythms of Metronova had begun to stitch themselves into Aarav's blood — the roar of the trains, the flickering hum of neon signs, the perfume of ambition cloaked in exhaustion. Even the silence here had teeth. Every smile carried a secret; every corridor echoed with footsteps that didn't always belong to the living.
But beneath the surface noise, something quieter — something older — had begun to whisper.
It started with the notes.
Slipped under his door at night, when the hallway outside was still and breathless. No sender. No signature. Just a single line each time, handwritten in tight, slanted script that seemed almost etched, rather than inked:
"Not everything that shines is gold."
"Some doors open only when you're ready to pay."
"How far are you willing to go, Aarav Mishra?"
He never spoke of them. Not to Maya, though their exchanges had grown more loaded — sharpened by curiosity, softened by moments that felt too intentional to be chance. Not to the professors. Not to anyone.
Each note left a taste of something forbidden — like the first time he'd ever stolen a book and realized how good it felt to get away with it.
It was a Thursday evening when the fourth note arrived — tucked not beneath his door, but inside his psychology textbook, right between the pages describing obedience to authority.
"Room 309. Midnight. Come alone."
He stared at it for a long time. The handwriting was the same. The invitation — if that's what it was — didn't offer explanation. It demanded obedience.
Logic told him to throw it away.
Instinct told him not to.
And something else, deeper — something wild and hungry — whispered:
This is it.
At exactly midnight, Aarav stood in the north wing of St. Icarus, outside the rusting door of Room 309 — a lecture hall that, according to campus legend, had been locked for years. There were stories, of course. About what had happened there. About what didn't stay dead.
The door was slightly ajar. A wedge of darkness spilled out, thick and deliberate.
He pushed it open.
The room was wrong.
Candles flickered in a perfect circle on the floor, their flames casting unnatural shadows — long, trembling shapes that moved independently of their owners.
Twelve figures stood in silence around the ring of fire, faces obscured by masks — some simple, some ornate, some grotesque beyond reason. The air was heavy with the scent of burning wax, incense... and something else. Something faintly metallic.
Blood, his mind offered.
He ignored it.
At the center of the circle stood a tall figure in a crimson mask, carved into the likeness of a weeping face.
"Welcome, Aarav Mishra," the man said, voice smooth and hollow.
"We've been watching you."
Aarav tried to speak. No sound came. His voice had deserted him at the threshold.
"You seek success. Influence. Power," the crimson mask intoned, as though reading from a forgotten scripture. "You want more than what was given to you. More than what is fair."
His breath caught. How did they know?
"We can give it to you," the masked man said. "But first, you must prove that your ambition outweighs your fear."
Another figure stepped forward — this one smaller, hunched, masked in silver and bone. In their gloved hands was a small, ornate box. They placed it at Aarav's feet without a word.
"Inside is your first task," the man said. "A test of loyalty. And courage. Succeed... and doors you never knew existed will open."
He paused.
"Fail…"
He didn't need to finish.
Aarav knelt, hands trembling. He undid the clasp of the box. Inside, nestled in black velvet, was a single object: a silver key — old, tarnished, elegant.
Attached to the key was a note. Familiar handwriting.
"Find the locked door.
Enter without fear.
Leave without a soul."
His stomach clenched.
Was this metaphor? A riddle? Or something far worse?
He looked up. The circle of masked figures watched him in complete stillness. No one breathed. No one blinked.
"Where's the door?" he asked.
The crimson mask gave nothing away.
"You'll know it when it calls to you."
That night, Aarav walked the halls of the Institute long after the candles of Room 309 had burned out.
He tried every door he could find — classrooms, broom closets, even disused stairwells. None accepted the key. None even responded. Until, just before dawn, he passed a hallway he'd never noticed before — narrow, windowless, humming faintly with static.
At the end of the hall was a door he had never seen.
Black. No knob. No markings.
It made no sound as he approached — but in his chest, something began to thrash.
Like an animal in a cage.
He raised the key.
It fit perfectly.
The door clicked open.