30UnderThirty; it was a special program that received global buzz despite the geographical limitations of a local tv station. Channel Pataka, with a base in Hyderabad, India, maintained the status of its iconic program with little more than genuine authenticity. They focused on raw content, stories that pushed even the hardest of hearts to tears.

The idea started as a seed by then Senior Production Manager, Ranga; he valued the strength of emotion, tragedies more than most. 30UnderThirty represented that ideology, featuring thirty tragedies that tied to the most impactful of individuals below the age of thirty. Daiden had become an important piece for the program since his descent from gymnastic nobility, an episode to headline the program’s tenth anniversary.

In that moment, the now Channel Director, Ranga slammed his fist against the wall. It wasn’t anger. He separated the phone’s receiver from the side of his face and disconnected the call; in time, his shoulders eased to a smile on his face. It proved to him once more – the value of persistence. Ranga had expected another rejection from his candidate for the program, but the day had favoured him in abundance. He steadied his composure, fixed his tie, and stepped out of his room with confidence.

“We have our star, people!” said Ranga, with a loud, heavy voice. “He’s expected to arrive tomorrow. Let’s keep this place neat and tidy.”

***

Daiden bit his lip in frustration. In memory, he had trained with the concept of death. He urged towards improvement often. There was never perfection. There was never a sense of mastery. He approached each day in practice without pride; it meant something, to avoid the concept of proficiency.

The embrace ensured risk, but the result fell short of death each time. Daiden was a cripple now, a liability just as his father had described. He wondered if it made sense even, to uncork the anger in his heart, and to strangers no less. His finger rested on the controller of his wheelchair at a gentle angle, and its motor responded with a low growl. He shook his head and pressed his finger further back; it moved his wheelchair away from the entrance and onto the pavement.

Daiden almost left, but paused at the sound of hurried footsteps. He turned his head to notice a young man, shirt half out from the sprint. The latter raised his hand in a request to catch his breath. He later steadied and offered Daiden a smile, arm outstretched for a handshake. Daiden obliged.

“That’s the wrong way, if I’m not mistaken,” the young man joked. “I’m Arvind, I work as an executive at Channel Pataka.”

Daiden nodded in acknowledgement.

“I hope you haven’t changed your mind,” said Arvind, questioningly. “We have been waiting months for this opportunity.”

“I needed some air,” lied Daiden. “There’s a park nearby; I need fifteen minutes.”

Arvind looked at the setting sun and relented; he couldn’t hide his nervousness. But given the delicate situation, he refrained from voicing his opinion. He watched Daiden depart and turned to inform his boss of the development.

***

Daiden smiled at the landscape in front of him; it was a genuine smile, his first in a long time. He waded into the unevenness of the park – grass, moist mud, scattered pebbles, he needed to feel something, something to tremor his dull heart. As his fifteen minutes passed, the sun set to allow for the emergence of moonlit darkness. The birds were quieter now, and the strays nestled closer for the sake of warmth. Some hunted, the cats especially – their eyes entirely alert, and bodies in camouflage.

The cold had now started to bother Daiden, but he wasn’t allowed the opportunity of a shiver. Instead, his phone buzzed. He avoided the first call, but the vibration refused to relent. With a sigh, he answered, and then frowned at the urgency with which they – Channel Pataka – wanted him back. Daiden decided to oblige for once. He couldn’t find it in his heart to avoid a commitment.

Daiden slowly turned and retraced his path through the park; the lights had started to come on. He heard chatter further away, but the area had descended into silence. Nobody was around. Daiden wished to embrace the moment, and he did – arms apart and with a deep breath. His heart pumped faster now; he didn’t mind it, a refresh before the big interview. But then the phone rang once more. Just not his.

***

As people wandered away from the park, it occurred – under an aura of stealth and silence. The world distorted; the earthen fabric rattled from the disturbance. It grew more violent, until a crack allowed for the emergence of red light. Lightning struck from the other end, and it pushed for greater volume and impact. The red shone brilliantly, and the distortions caved, opening what appeared to be a dimensional rift. From within, a shadow emerged. Its eyes narrowed to a slit and isolated to a phone booth.

The shadow held the appearance of a sickly individual, bound to the stench of death, with armour and weapon. Its arm trembled under the weight of its sword, curved like a sickle. With a groan, it approached the phone booth and nodded. Its aura crackled and fluctuated in intensity. Once more, its eyes scanned the vicinity, narrowing further at the sight of a man on a wheelchair. The shadows cloaked the creature’s face, but the eyes expressed enough. It turned, entered the phone booth, and disappeared. In time, the phone rang, to begin the recital of a contract in ancient tongue.

***

It called him; as strange as that sounded, the phone urged for an audience. Daiden approached with caution, compelled by what could only be described as an otherworldly force. The wheels rolled at a gentle pace, and the rings echoed in transformation. Daiden had started to hear whispers, and then a tune. It was a song, the chorus of pained women. His fingers ached at the melody; it bothered him.

Daiden clenched into fists, the cold biting away at his fingertips. The whispers troubled him further; they were in a hurry, reciting conditions for something immense and different. Daiden refused the resistance of common sense and persevered. He positioned himself in front of the door, and struggled through the entrance. His hand now rested on the receiver. It could change everything; his mind echoed the words.

[Do you wish to accept this call?]

The words pierced his ears, a strange language; it didn’t follow the logic of sound – not from the outside, but inside. They repeated once more, inside his head, but softer this time. Daiden felt his palm moisten on the receiver. His heart started to beat more strongly, reminding him of his brightest moments in competition. He hadn’t felt it, not in a long time. It started to feel right.

Without pause, Daiden answered the phone. He heard it then, followed by something sharp and painful. His fingers attempted to massage his throat, but moved higher, sensing something warm and moist. He reached for his face, but met with nothingness. Slowly, his arms lumped into a state of lifelessness. Daiden observed this from the floor, or rather his head and nothing more. He struggled for air, and then no more.

[Thank you.]