Lucian was at home when the phone rang.
He had taken the day off to wait for the parcel—the one Agent 12 had promised would arrive by evening. The hours had crawled past like wounded things, each minute heavier than the last. He had paced. He had drunk coffee. He had stared at the front door, willing the delivery to come.
Instead, the phone rang.
"Hello, sir." The voice on the other end was Mrs. Sharma's, but stripped of its usual warmth. Tense. Worried. "You should come to the school immediately. Something is happening to your son."
Lucian did not ask questions. He did not call for Indu. He grabbed his keys and was out the door before the call had even ended.
The drive was a blur. Traffic lights. Corners. Streets he had driven a thousand times, now unrecognizable through the haze of his fear. His mind raced through possibilities—none of them good, none of them plausible, all of them tinged with the crimson glow of his son's eye.
When he reached the school, he did not stop at the reception. He went straight to the principal's office.
The door was open.
Inside, Agastya sat in the corner, knees drawn to his chest, one hand pressed tightly over his eye. His shoulders shook. His breathing was shallow. He looked smaller than Lucian had ever seen him—smaller and more fragile, like a bird that had flown into a window and could not understand why the sky had betrayed him.
"Agastya."
The boy looked up.
Lucian crossed the room in three strides and knelt before his son. Agastya lunged forward, wrapping his arms around Lucian's neck, holding on as if he were drowning.
"Papa," he whispered, his voice cracked and wet. "Papa, I don't want to come to school. Please. I don't want to come here anymore."
Lucian held him. Tightly. Fiercely. He could feel the heat radiating from Agastya's covered eye, could feel the tremors running through his small body.
"Okay," Lucian said softly. "Okay, beta. You don't have to. Not today. Not until you're ready."
He pulled back just enough to see his son's face. The hand was still pressed over the red eye, but the glow bled through the gaps between his fingers—faint but unmistakable.
"Go sit in the car," Lucian said, keeping his voice steady. "I will come in a few minutes."
Agastya nodded, wiped his nose with his sleeve, and walked out of the office with his head down.
Lucian watched him go. Then he turned to Mrs. Sharma, who stood by the principal's desk, her face pale.
"What happened?"
She told him.
The break. The boys. The words—monster, lost, escaped. The way Agastya's eye had begun to glow, bright and terrible, sending the other children fleeing in terror. The chaos. The screaming. The teachers who had rushed in to find Agastya standing alone in an empty classroom, his red eye blazing like a beacon.
"There was no one on his side," Mrs. Sharma added quietly. "His friend Vivan is absent today. The other children just... watched. No one defended him."
Lucian closed his eyes.
For a moment, he let himself imagine it. The words. The laughter. The cruelty of children who did not understand what they were doing. Agastya, already fragile, already scared, already carrying the weight of dreams that should not exist—and being told that he should have stayed lost. That his parents would be better off without him.
And no one beside him. No one at all.
God, Lucian thought. What did my son do wrong that you are punishing him like this?
He opened his eyes.
"I think he is sick," Lucian said to Mrs. Sharma. His voice was calm, professional—a mask held together by sheer will. "I am taking him home."
"Yes, sir. Of course. Please take care of him."
Lucian walked out of the office and into the corridor. The school was quiet now—the children back in their classrooms, the doors closed, the incident already being filed away as something strange and best forgotten.
He stopped at the window.
And a single tear escaped, trailing down his cheek before he could stop it.
No.
He wiped it away quickly, fiercely.
No, Lucian. If you fall weak, then who will take care of Agastya? You have to be strong. You have to fight. For him.
He straightened his shoulders.
I will find your cure, he promised silently. Whatever it takes. Wherever it leads. I will find it.
---
In the car, Agastya sat in the backseat, staring out the window.
His eye no longer glowed. The rage had faded, leaving behind something worse—a hollow emptiness, a cold understanding. He replayed the scene in his head. The faces of the other children. The word monster echoing off the walls. The silence of the ones who had just watched.
They were right, he thought.
He was a monster.
He ruined everything. The trip. The peace of his parents. The normal life they deserved. Indu and Lucian had given him everything, and in return, he had given them sleepless nights and hospital visits and phone calls from school principals.
They would be better off without me.
The thought curled into his chest and settled there, cold and heavy.
The driver's door opened. Lucian slid into the seat, started the engine, and glanced at Agastya in the rearview mirror.
"It's okay," Lucian said. "Everything is okay."
Agastya shook his head.
"Sorry, Papa," he whispered. "I got angry at school. You and Maa have to suffer so much because of me."
Lucian's hands tightened on the steering wheel.
"No," he said firmly. "What are you saying? You are my son, Agastya. My son. Be positive, beta. We love you. Nothing—nothing—will ever change that."
Agastya wanted to believe him.
He tried.
But the cold thing in his chest did not leave.
---
The car stopped.
Agastya looked up, confused. They were not at home. The gates before them were colorful, bright, filled with the sounds of laughter and music and spinning rides.
An amusement park.
Lucian turned in his seat and looked at him.
"Come, son. Today, we will have fun."
Agastya shook his head. "Not today, Papa. I have no mood."
Lucian smiled—a small, tired smile that did not reach his eyes but tried anyway.
"Beta," he said gently. "Come with me. Trust me."
Something in Lucian's voice made Agastya pause. The same something that had always made him feel safe, even when the world was falling apart. He unbuckled his seatbelt and followed.
The park was not crowded—a weekday, late afternoon, the rush of families still hours away. Lucian bought tickets. Lucian led him past the bumper cars and the Ferris wheel and the cotton candy stands. Lucian did not rush. Did not push. Just walked beside him, silent and steady, waiting.
And then—the first ride.
A small roller coaster. Nothing terrifying, nothing extreme. Just enough wind to clear the head. Just enough speed to make the heart beat faster for reasons that had nothing to do with fear.
Agastya hesitated.
Then he climbed in.
The ride was over in two minutes. But when it ended, something had changed. The cold thing in his chest had loosened its grip. The weight on his shoulders had lifted, just a little.
They went on another ride. And another.
By the time they reached the bumper cars, Agastya was almost smiling.
By the time they reached the merry-go-round, he was smiling.
By the time Lucian bought him ice cream—a giant swirl of chocolate and strawberry with a wafer sticking out the top—the smile had spread across his whole face, bright and real and full of light.
Lucian watched his son lick the ice cream, watched the sugar stain his cheeks, watched the laughter return to his eyes. And for a moment—just a moment—he let himself believe that everything would be okay.
---
They returned home as the evening began to paint the sky in shades of gold and rose.
Indu met them at the door, her face a mixture of relief and curiosity. But before she could ask, Agastya ran to her and threw his arms around her waist.
"Maa, we went to the amusement park! And I ate ice cream! And Papa went on the bumper cars with me and he was terrible at it!"
Indu looked at Lucian over Agastya's head. He shrugged, smiled, said nothing.
And then—
He saw it.
A box. Brown cardboard, unmarked, sitting on the table in the hallway.
The parcel.
Lucian's heart rate quickened. He kissed Indu on the cheek, ruffled Agastya's hair, and walked calmly—casually—to the table. He picked up the box and carried it to his study, closing the door behind him.
His hands trembled as he opened it.
Inside, nestled in a bed of plain packing paper, were two things.
A pendrive. Small, black, unlabeled.
And a book.
Old. Leather-bound. The pages yellowed at the edges, the spine cracked from years of use. The title was embossed in faded gold letters, worn almost smooth by time.
"Project 11-9-17"
Lucian stared at the book.
His reflection stared back from the darkened window behind it.
And somewhere, in a place that was not a place, a voice that had called him Light waited for him to turn the page.
TO BE CONTINUED ....
(END OF SEASON 1.)