A man sat hunched by the window, his back slightly curved, shoulder blades protruding through the thin fabric of a faded t-shirt. Dust floated lazily in the afternoon light as it streamed through the glass, casting long, slanted beams across the cluttered floor. He rested his chin on one hand, elbow propped on the edge of a desk buried under books, biscuit wrappers, and empty energy drink cans. The ceiling bore cobwebs in the corners—delicate, ignored—and the air held the faint, bitter scent of unwashed clothes and stale snacks.
His eyes were half-lidded, not quite focused on the world beyond the window but not entirely lost either.
"My name is Rohit," he said aloud, as if reminding himself.
A pause. Then a dry smile curled his lips.
"A very common name."
He leaned back in the chair with a creak, folding his arms over his chest, gaze drifting to the stains on the wallpaper and the peeling edges near the floor. His bare feet shifted over old newspapers, and somewhere beneath the mess, his phone buzzed. He ignored it.
"I live in Rohtak. Haryana. India. A place no one gave a shit about… until recently."
He tilted his head, as though listening to a memory. "Why?" he murmured. "Why would anyone care about this dusty town?"
To answer that, you'd have to go back—one year, give or take.
Back when the world was still normal, or as normal as it pretended to be. The same old headlines: murder, corruption, political drama. Same sins, different names. But it kept turning. That was the deal. You endure, you adjust, you move on. That's how society works.
Until it didn't.
Until someone discovered mana.
It began with whispers—monks in remote temples doing impossible things. Then scientists got involved. And soon, the whole world knew.
Energy. Power. Magic, in all but name.
They called it mana.
And that day—that day—the world flipped. Like someone pulled the rug out from under reality. Governments collapsed. New hierarchies formed. Cults, academies, mercenaries. Everyone wanted a piece of the pie.
People tried everything to awaken mana within themselves—fasting, praying, injecting themselves with experimental serums. Some even turned to ancient rituals and black-market rituals.
Most failed.
I failed.
Mana… it's like a latent energy produced by every living being. But only a few can actually wield it. And those who can? They become gods among men—telekinetics, fire-breathers, healers, warriors. The kind of people who get statues built in their honour.
I don't belong to that world.
Rohit looked around his room, jaw tightening. His fingers twitched, brushing a pen aside before resting limply in his lap.
"This is my world," he muttered.
He stood up slowly, as if gravity weighed more heavily on him than others. A soft grunt escaped him as his knees popped. He scratched his stubbled chin and turned toward the mirror above the dusty sink.
A pudgy reflection stared back—bloated cheeks, dark circles, a hollow stare. His once-lean frame, the product of years of disciplined schooling and proud, hungry ambition, had softened. His skin was pale from days indoors. His shoulders slumped as though the air itself was pressing him down.
"Once, I was a scholarship student. Rose from nothing. My parents' pride. My teachers' favourite. I was… someone."
He turned away, unable to keep looking. His voice dropped to a whisper.
"Now I'm just… fat. Bitter. Watching others succeed. Wishing I could, too."
He sank back into his chair with a sigh, the cushion exhaling beneath his weight.
"I'm supposed to be preparing for the civil services exam," he said, thumbing through a dusty book before closing it again. "But the truth is… the fire's gone."
Each day, the hope flickers a little dimmer. Each night, the shadows creep a little closer. That once-blazing ambition—the one that carried him through sleepless nights and endless lectures—was now just a dying ember.
And he knew why.
He had sinned.
He closed his eyes and said it, not with guilt, but with the numb finality of a man who's said it many times before.
"Sloth."
The word echoed in his mind like a church bell in a forgotten town.
He wasn't just lazy. He was chained. Every good intention strangled in its crib. Every plan killed before it began. He watched himself rot, day by day, and did nothing. Could do nothing. Or so he told himself.
A gust of wind rustled the windowpane. Outside, the world marched on—cars honked, children played, vendors shouted over crackling speakers. Life didn't care about Rohit. And maybe that was the cruelest part.
But somewhere, deep beneath the fatigue, a spark remained. A part of him still hated this version of himself. Still remembered the boy who dreamed of becoming more.
He didn't move. Not yet. But his fingers curled into a loose fist on the table.