Ayan's mind raced as he tried to process the information. "What!" he exclaimed, disbelief evident in his voice.

Shubham's expression remained calm, almost amused by Ayan's reaction. "Reality testing," he explained, his tone steady and informative. "This is your key to decoding the difference between the dream and the real world. In this world, every time you look at your hand, the pattern will change."

Ayan stared at his hand again, watching the lines and patterns shift before his eyes. "Whoa! Is this even legal - Gamescape?"

Shubham leaned back slightly, a shadow of a grin forming on his lips. "The people we deal with operate beyond the legal and illegal boundaries. Nitya wanted a system that saves our clients' time."

Ayan's brow furrowed as another concern surfaced. "But what if the mind realizes this isn't real? Or worse, what if the client dies in here?"

Shubham's gaze darkened slightly, the gravity of the situation settling in. "That depends on the client's brain. They could go into a coma, or nothing might happen at all. But it's a waste of time. If something like that happens, we can't run another lucid session for at least a month due to security precautions, and we don't have that kind of time. We need that report ready before the court hearing."

THE STREET

Ayan stood in the middle of the desolate street, a stark contrast to the vibrant city scenes he'd just left behind. The area felt abandoned, the kind of place forgotten by time and progress. The buildings on one side were nothing more than boarded-up slums, their windows shattered and doors sealed shut with rotting wood. It was a haunting reminder of a world left to decay.

Ayan was dressed in a sharp black suit and felt out of place among the ruins. The silence was almost suffocating, the air thick with dread. His eyes scanned the surroundings, taking in the bleakness of the street, and the way the shadows seemed to stretch longer than they should.

Shubham's voice broke the eerie silence, calm and almost indifferent. "From here on, it's your job. Good luck." He didn't linger, his presence vanishing as quickly as it had appeared.

Ayan took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. The weight of what was to come pressed heavily on his shoulders. He muttered to himself, a wry smile tugging at his lips, "Welcome to REEL WORLD, Ayan."

Ayan approached the slumfront Ayurveda, a place that seemed to defy logic with its explosion of insane colors splattered across the decrepit building. Rusted iron grates barely held onto the walls, covering two tiny windows clouded like cataracts. A steel door, stained and battered by time, hung ajar, revealing a glimpse into the dimly lit interior.

As Ayan walked forward, the decay of the neighborhood became more evident. Across the street, three junkies lounged on the stoop of a burned-out brownstone. Their eyes, dull and lifeless, sparked with a brief moment of interest as they noticed Ayan's approach.

"Oye, where you heading?" one of them slurred, his voice thick with years of substance abuse.

Ayan ignored them, his focus on the woman standing in the doorway of the Ayurveda. Her appearance was as striking as the building itself—skin so black it seemed to absorb the light, contrasting starkly with her shock of white hair. In her hands, she held a live goat by its feet, the creature's eyes wide and anxious.

"Shri Satpal Viragya?" Ayan asked, his voice steady despite the unsettling scene. The woman said nothing. Instead, she simply moved aside, allowing Ayan to enter the mysterious, color-drenched world within.

The slum was cloaked in darkness, illuminated only by the flickering flames of candles that struggled against the oppressive gloom. The air was dense with the thick aroma of incense, wrapping around Ayan like a heavy shroud. Shelves lined with luxurious jars, bags, and boxes reached towards the low ceiling. Gold, diamonds, and antique trinkets glinted in the dim light, contrasting sharply with the surrounding squalor.

Ayan's gaze was drawn upwards as a door creaked open. A girl, no older than twelve, stood in the doorway, her presence an eerie contrast to the opulence below.

"Is this where I find Satpal?" Ayan asked, his voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space.

The girl moved aside, her gesture welcoming but cryptic. "Come in." Without hesitation, she flipped a switch, and a single naked tube light flickered on above the landing, casting long, sharp shadows across the room. The light revealed little beyond the immediate area, with darkness looming beyond.

The girl's voice cut through the dimness once more, her seriousness palpable. "Over there."

Ayan frowned, trying to discern the direction in the insufficient light. "Downstairs? In the basement?"

"Where else?" the girl responded, her eyes narrowing slightly as if questioning his understanding of the situation.

Ayan's footsteps faltered as he stepped into the basement. He crouched to avoid hitting his head on the low ceiling. The space was barren of furniture, save for mounds of discarded bones scattered across the floor. The walls were painted in a deep, unsettling shade of black-red, giving the room a grim and ominous feel. As the light flickered on, it illuminated SATPAL, a man in his fifties with a corpulent frame and a bald head, save for a thin ponytail.

He was seated on a bed fashioned entirely from stacks of rupee notes, his upper body exposed and bare. Satpal's eyes narrowed as he scrutinized Ayan. "I thought I'd recognize you."

Ayan offered a respectful nod. "Namaste. I'm Ayan, your lawyer. I need to discuss your case with you."

Satpal's gaze remained steady. "Speak."

"I have a few questions for you," Ayan began, trying to keep his voice calm despite the eerie surroundings. Ayan paused, gathering his thoughts before continuing. "Before coming here, I did some research on black magic."

Satpal's gaze grew cold as he responded. "We do not practice black magic. We are devotees of Lord Shiva. It is those who wander through the infernal alleys, worshipping demons as their gods, who engage in such things."

He paused, his voice taking on a tone of disdain. "We practice white magic, helping people by retrieving what the gods have set aside for them. We extract what is meant to be taken from the divine vessels."

His expression turned arrogant as he added, "It is the love of the people that has brought me to this position. It is not just by chance; we have millions of followers."

"You said..." Ayan leans in, pressing further. "What do you think? Why might they have reported you?"

"Greed," Satpal replies with a dismissive wave. "White magic does not work for greed. It is beyond its scope."

Ayan takes a deep breath, trying to remain focused. "Can you tell me what happened from the beginning?"

Satpal closes his eyes, seemingly lost in thought. "Mr. Satpal?" Ayan prompts gently.

"It is our time to rest now," Satpal finally says, his voice softening. "You will receive our full assistance. Just provide me with the name of the opposition lawyer."

"Dhanjay. Attorney, District Court," Ayan responds.

"Om Namah Shivay," Satpal intones, his voice fading as he slips into sleep. "You may go now. You will have my complete assistance."

As Satpal falls asleep, Ayan hears muffled noises coming from the adjacent room.

Ayan cautiously walks towards the sound, curiosity piqued. He approaches the next room with a sense of dread. The scene that unfolds before him is both unsettling and surreal.

In the center of the room, a goat is on its knees, its throat slit, and blood is flowing into a metal pan beneath it. An old woman, her face lit with a disturbingly fervent expression, holds the goat's head firmly with one hand. In the other, she wields a knife, her gaze intense and almost frenzied as she performs the ritual.

A young boy stands nearby, his white trousers smeared with blood. He methodically wipes his hands, clearly unperturbed by the grisly scene. On a bench beside him, a massive beef headrest, its surface punctuated with scattered nails, gives it a macabre and unsettling appearance.

The boy now picks up a hammer and a nail, approaching a black magic board. With deliberate motions, he hammers the letters D, H, A, and N—spelling out "Dhanjay"—into the board. Each strike of the hammer echoes ominously in the room, adding to the dark, ritualistic atmosphere that pervades the space.

THE CABIN

Ayan, conscious, surveys the room. The high-tech setup hums around him, a stark contrast to the grim reality he's about to face. The room is meticulously organized, with law books neatly stacked and documents spread out on a polished wooden desk.

Ayan sits across from Mr. Desai, a middle-aged lawyer with a furrowed brow and sharp eyes. The tension in the room is palpable. Mr. Desai adjusts his glasses, his gaze intense.

"From what your investigation reveals," Mr. Desai begins, his voice steady, "it seems that Satpal is indeed involved in all of this."

Ayan nods, his expression hardening. "From the initial findings, it certainly appears that way."

Mr. Desai leans forward, his fingers steepled. "There are numerous video evidence against him that Dhanjay possesses. The simplest course of action would be to apologize in court, request a lenient sentence, and leverage an emotional appeal to the media. Satpal has millions of followers; their reaction could sway the outcome."

Ayan's jaw tightens. "I'm not here to settle for a mere apology."