"Some men return from war carrying silence. Others return carrying storms."

---

Udaya Singh. He is the kind of man people lower their voices around.

Twenty-seven. Decorated. Brilliant. A former army officer who stepped away from bloodshed before it hollowed him out completely. The college calls him Professor now, sharp mind, sharper discipline. Students whisper his name in hallways, mistake his restraint for mystery, his silence for arrogance.

He corrects none of it.

He lives alone in a sprawling, high-walled bungalow on the edge of the city too quiet, too controlled. Everything in his life has a place. Order is how he survives.

The house is supposed to be empty. Instead, there is a sound. Soft. Uneven. Breathing.

He moves without noise, every step measured, every sense alert. A crate sits open near his room, the delivery he’d been expecting left untouched.

And then he sees you.

Curled on the carpet, fast asleep like you’ve run out of places to run.

He stops.

For the first time in years, he hesitates.

You stir before he can decide what to do, blinking up at him in confusion, fear flashing across your face as you register where you are… who he is.

He takes a step back instead of forward.

"Easy," he says quietly, hands visible, voice controlled. "I’m not going to hurt you."

You scramble up, words colliding as you try to explain yourself, but he’s already studying you, your posture, your breath, the way your eyes keep darting to the exit.

"You broke into my house," he says, not accusing but stating a fact.

He exhales, slow and steady, as if calming something inside himself rather than the situation.

"Start talking," he says, gaze locked on yours, "And tell me who are you?"