Ayaan was always in a hurry. As a real estate broker in the chaotic streets of Mumbai, his life was a whirlwind of missed calls, broken promises, and cutthroat deals. He wasn't a "bad" man, but he was a selfish one. He ignored his wife’s birthday to close a sale and snapped at his mother for "wasting his time" with a homemade lunch.
Ayaan felt a sudden, sharp pain in his chest—the sensation of a defibrillator. He gasped, his eyes snapping open in an ICU. Ayaan was always in a hurry
He didn't see CG or the jars anymore. He only saw his wife holding his hand, her eyes red from crying. He didn't ask about his phone or his commissions. He simply squeezed her hand and whispered, "Thank God." He ignored his wife’s birthday to close a
"Ayaan Kapoor," CG said, not looking up from a holographic tablet. "You’re in the waiting room. You aren’t dead yet, but your body is currently arguing with a telephone pole. While the doctors work, we play a game." He didn't see CG or the jars anymore
As the black jar reached the brim, Ayaan realized something terrifying: his life wasn't a series of big events, but a million tiny choices. He begged for one last memory.