The siren was deafening. Red and blue lights flashed against the walls of the quiet house on Old Banyan Road. The ambulance came to a sudden stop. Two paramedics jumped out from the back doors. They carried a heavy medical bag and a foldable stretcher. Om moved back to give them space. He watched them kneel beside Aniket. The old man was lying completely still on the porch. The spilled rice and vegetables were scattered near his feet.
One paramedic quickly checked the pulse on Aniket's neck. The other turned on a small flashlight and checked his eyes. They worked fast, but the silence that followed felt very slow. The first paramedic shook his head and looked at his partner. Then he looked up at Om.
"He is gone," the paramedic said softly. "Massive cardiac arrest. There is nothing we can do now."
Om felt a cold shiver run down his spine. He had known it, but hearing the official medical words made it real. Death was a strange thing. Just ten minutes ago, this old man was breathing and speaking. Now, he was just an empty body. Om looked at his own delivery bag resting on the ground. The heavy watch was hidden deep inside it.
A police jeep arrived a few minutes later. Two local officers stepped out, carrying notepads. They began asking routine questions. Om stood up straight and tried to keep his voice steady. He explained that he was just a Food On Time delivery boy. He showed them his FOT app with the order details and the exact time of arrival. He told them how the old man collapsed while trying to take the food parcel. Om kept his hands steady. He did not look at his delivery bag.
The officers noted down his name, his phone number, and his home address. They saw his faded orange t-shirt and his tired face. To them, he was just another poor working boy in Wardha. They had no reason to suspect him of anything. The inspector gave him a brief nod.
"You did a good thing by calling the ambulance immediately, beta," the inspector said. "You can leave now. We will handle the rest. We have to contact his relatives, if he has any."
Om picked up his heavy bag. It felt ten times heavier now. He walked to his old scooter. He kicked the starter pedal hard. The engine sputtered and finally roared to life, releasing a cloud of dark smoke. He drove away from Old Banyan Road without looking back.
The drive back to his colony was a blur. The streets of Wardha were shifting from the busy evening rush to the quiet of the night. Streetlights cast long shadows on the road. Om drove past big shopping malls, bright restaurants, and expensive cars. He saw wealthy people laughing and eating inside the large glass windows. He felt completely disconnected from that world.
His world was the faded orange uniform. His world was the terrible heat of the sun and the dust of the road. Being a delivery boy was a thankless job. Many people treated him like a machine. They wanted hot food in twenty minutes, and they did not care if he had to risk his life in heavy traffic to do it. But Om never complained. He took the insults and the bad ratings silently. Every ten-rupee tip was a massive victory. Every successful delivery meant his family could survive another day.
But tonight, his mind was not on food or customer ratings. His mind was entirely on the strange device sitting at the bottom of his bag. What was Project OG? The old man had mentioned Azuira. Om had read a lot of books when he was in school. He loved geography. But he had never heard of a country called Azuira. A destroyed nation in the freezing ice, wiped off the map twenty-six years ago. It sounded like a story from a science fiction movie. But the heavy, cold metal watch in his bag was very real.
He turned his scooter into the narrow, unpaved roads of his colony. The smell of open drains mixed with the aroma of cheap cooking oil. Stray dogs barked loudly at his scooter. This was his reality. He had to stay focused on his real life. He had a family to feed. He could not get involved in dangerous international mysteries. He decided he would hide the watch forever and forget about it. He would go back to his deliveries tomorrow. That was the only safe choice.
Om parked his scooter outside his small house. He took a deep breath, grabbed his bag, and pushed the door open.
The main room was small and poorly lit by a single yellow bulb hanging from a wire. The air was thick and hot. His mother, Urmilla, was sitting on the floor. She was sorting through a pile of cheap lentils, picking out the small stones. She looked up when Om entered. Her eyes were very tired, but she managed to give him a warm smile.
"You are very late today, Om," she said softly. "I was getting worried. Did you eat anything?"
"I had a snack, Ma," Om lied again. His stomach was completely empty, but he did not want her to stress. "There were many orders today. It was a busy evening."
From the dark corner of the room, a terrible sound interrupted them. It was his father, Uday. He was lying on his thin cotton mattress. He began to cough uncontrollably. It was a wet, heavy cough that sounded like his lungs were tearing apart. Uday clutched his chest, his face turning red with the immense effort.
Om quickly dropped his bag and ran to his father. He grabbed the plastic water bottle nearby and helped Uday sit up. He rubbed his father's back gently until the coughing fit slowly passed. Uday took a sip of water, his hands shaking violently. He looked very weak. His eyes were sunken, and his skin was pale.
"I am sorry, Om," Uday whispered, his voice weak and raspy. "I am useless. I am just a big burden on you."
"Do not say that, Baba," Om said firmly. He held his father's rough hand. "You worked your whole life for us in that cotton mill. Now it is my turn to work. You just need to rest and take your medicine."
Om looked at the small wooden shelf above the bed. The medicine bottles were almost completely empty. The new, expensive inhaler the doctor prescribed was not there. Om felt a sharp pain in his chest. He had not earned enough money today to buy the new inhaler. The daily expenses, the petrol for his scooter, and the basic groceries had taken all his cash. He felt like a total failure. He was the eldest son. He was the man of the house. But he could not even buy clean air for his father to breathe.
"Dada is back!" a bright voice called out.
Srikanth ran into the room from the small kitchen area. He was holding a notebook and a pencil. His eyes were bright and full of amazing energy. Srikanth was ten years old, but he was the smartest boy in his entire school.
"Look, Dada!" Srikanth said excitedly. He pushed the notebook into Om's hands. "I got nineteen out of twenty on my science test today. The teacher said my answer about the solar system was the best in the class."
Om looked at the red marks on the paper. A genuine smile broke across his tired face. This was the only thing that made his hard life worth living. Srikanth was his hope.
"That is amazing, Sri," Om said, ruffling his little brother's hair. "You are going to be a great scientist one day. You will go to a big college in Mumbai."
"But college costs a lot of money," Srikanth said, his smile fading slightly. He was young, but he understood their family condition very well. He saw his mother crying quietly at night. He heard his father coughing in pain. He saw his older brother returning home exhausted every single day.
"Do not worry about the money," Om said, his voice full of determination. "That is my job. Your job is only to study and get top marks. Leave the rest to me."
Srikanth nodded and ran back to the kitchen to finish his homework. Om watched him go. The weight of responsibility on Om's shoulders felt heavier than a mountain. He had to pay for food. He had to buy the expensive medicines for his father. He had to save money for his brother's education. And he only earned a few rupees per delivery. It was a math equation that simply did not have a solution. No matter how many hours he worked, he could never get ahead. Poverty was a trap, and the walls were closing in on him.
Om picked up his delivery bag from the floor. He walked into the tiny, dark space they used as a bathroom. He closed the wooden door and locked it tight. The room smelled of cheap soap and damp walls.
He placed the bag on the plastic bucket and unzipped it. He reached past his rain jacket and pulled out the device. The heavy watch.
In the dim light of the bathroom bulb, the device looked completely alien. It was not made of plastic or normal metal. It was a deep, matte black color. The curved screen was perfectly smooth, without a single scratch or button. The straps were the most unusual part. They looked like solid liquid. When he touched them, they felt slightly warm, as if the device was alive.
Project OG.
Om felt a sudden wave of intense fear. If the people from Azuira were looking for this, they were probably very dangerous. The local sand mafia in Wardha was bad enough. He did not want to deal with international killers. He needed to hide this watch and pretend he had never seen it.
He looked around the small bathroom. There was a loose tile near the water pipe near the floor. He used a small screwdriver from his pocket to pry the tile open. Behind it was a small, dark hole in the brick wall. It was the perfect hiding spot. He carefully placed the heavy watch inside the hole and pushed the loose tile back into place. It looked completely normal.
He washed his sweaty face with cold water. He looked at himself in the small, broken mirror. He was Om Gaitonde. A poor delivery boy. He had a family to take care of. He had no time for science fiction secrets. He unlocked the door and went back to his family.
They ate a simple dinner of flatbreads and watery dal. Om ate quickly. He was physically exhausted. After dinner, he helped his mother wash the steel plates. He checked on his father, who had finally fallen asleep, though his breathing was still shallow and noisy. Om laid down on his own thin mat on the floor near the main door. He closed his eyes. He prayed for a better tomorrow. He prayed for more delivery orders so he could finally buy the medicine.
The house was completely silent. It was past midnight. Outside, a few stray dogs howled in the distance. The heat inside the small room was uncomfortable.
Om opened his eyes in the dark. He could not sleep. He tossed and turned on his hard mat. His mind was racing. He kept thinking about his father's empty medicine bottles. He kept thinking about Srikanth's school fees, which were due next week. He thought about his own dreams of going to college, dreams he had buried deep inside his heart years ago.
Then, he thought about the hidden watch.
What if it was valuable? What if he could sell it? A piece of advanced technology like that could be worth lakhs of rupees. If he sold it, he could buy all the medicine his father needed. He could send Srikanth to the best school in the city. He could buy a proper, concrete house for his mother. The money could solve every single problem in his life.
But who would buy it? And what if the dangerous people from Azuira found him while he was trying to sell it? It was too risky to sell to a stranger.
Yet, a deeper curiosity gnawed at his brain. The old man, Aniket, had chosen him. With his dying breath, he had given the watch to Om. You are a good boy. Use it.
Use it for what? How do you use a watch?
Om sat up slowly. He looked around. His mother and brother were sleeping soundly. His father was snoring lightly. Om stood up quietly, his bare feet making no sound on the cement floor. He walked to the bathroom and closed the door without making a noise.
He pried open the loose tile. He reached into the dark hole. His fingers touched the smooth, cold surface of the device. He pulled it out. It felt heavier this time.
He stared at the black screen. There were no buttons on the face of the watch. There was no switch to turn it on. He held it in his right hand, examining the strange, liquid metal straps.
"How does this even work?" he whispered to himself.
Om decided to try putting it on. He slid his left wrist between the two dark straps.
As soon as his skin touched the inside of the watch, the device reacted violently. The liquid metal straps suddenly came alive. They did not just wrap around his wrist; they flowed around it. The straps seamlessly fused together, locking the watch firmly onto his arm. It did not hurt, but it felt incredibly secure.
Om gasped softly and tried to pull it off, but the straps were completely solid now. The device was locked to him.
Suddenly, the long, curved black screen illuminated. It did not glow with a harsh light. It emitted a soft, deep blue glow that lit up the tiny bathroom.
Words began to appear on the screen. The text was sharp and futuristic.
BIOMETRIC SCAN COMPLETE.USER REGISTERED: OM GAITONDE.WELCOME TO PROJECT OG.
Om stared at the screen in pure shock. His heart started beating incredibly fast. The device knew his touch. It had registered his body and even knew his name.
Below the text, a small, circular icon appeared on the screen. It looked like a fingerprint scanner, but it was glowing bright blue. It was the only interactive button on the entire device.
Om hesitated. His hand was hovering over the blue circle. This was the moment of no return. If he pressed it, he might activate something dangerous. He might blow up the bathroom. But the memory of his father's painful cough echoed loudly in his mind. The desperation for money, for power over his own terrible situation, pushed him forward.
He took a deep breath. He pressed his right thumb onto the glowing blue circle.
The response was instantaneous.
A low, vibrating hum filled the small bathroom. It was a sound of immense energy waking up. The heavy watch on his wrist seemed to melt. The solid metal turned into millions of microscopic, flowing particles. The black nano tech fluid surged out of the watch and rapidly spread up his left arm.
"What is happening!" Om panicked, trying to shake his arm, but the black fluid moved incredibly fast.
It covered his left shoulder, spreading quickly across his chest and back. It felt cool, like a rush of cold water, but it instantly hardened into a flexible, protective layer. The nano tech raced down his legs, covering his feet and forming sleek, armored boots. It moved down his right arm, creating thick, reinforced gauntlets over his hands.
Finally, the black fluid surged up his neck. It wrapped around his head, sealing his face completely. A smooth, black helmet formed over his skull.
Om stood frozen in place. The entire process had taken less than three seconds.
He looked down at his hands. He was completely covered in a pitch-black, form-fitting tactical suit. The armor felt incredibly strong, yet lighter than his own skin. He could move his fingers with perfect ease. He looked at his chest in the small, broken bathroom mirror. The armor had intricate, sleek lines running across the torso. And right in the center of his chest, stamped in bold, metallic letters, was the massive logo: OG.
He touched his helmet. There were no eye holes, but he could see perfectly. In fact, his vision was better than ever. The inside of the helmet was a fully functional display screen. He could see in the dark bathroom as clearly as if it were bright daylight.
Suddenly, a blue digital interface projected onto the inside of his visor. A soft, artificial voice spoke directly into his ears.
"Suit Activated. Primary Systems Online. Welcome, Operator."
Om was breathing heavily. He was no longer a poor delivery boy in a cramped bathroom. He was standing inside the most advanced piece of technology.
He lifted his left arm. The wrist area of the suit had a built-in holographic projector. A bright blue screen popped up directly above his forearm. It was the digital manual.
The headings on the holographic manual read: 1. Structural Expansion (Growth)2. Molecular Compression (Shrink)3. Aerial Propulsion (Flight)4. Combat Protocols
Om read the list, his eyes wide with absolute disbelief behind the dark visor. Shrinking. Growing. Flying. This was not just a protective suit. This was power. Absolute power.
He thought about the expensive medicine his father desperately needed. He thought about the wealthy people who treated him like dirt while he delivered their food.
Om Gaitonde clenched his armored fists. The heavy weight of his poverty did not feel so crushing anymore. For the first time in his twenty-two years of life, he had the power to change his destiny.
He looked at the glowing blue manual on his wrist.
[To be continued…]
Support me: vanshbosssrahate@oksbi (UPI ID)
Author: Vansh Rahate
Editor: Vansh Rahate
Story by: Vansh Rahate
Under: Alaukika Studios