"In all my twenty-five years, I've never found myself this distracted or thoroughly irritated during my morning ritual," Veer groans, pushing himself up to stretch, neck cracks audibly and muscles tense from the strain.

The sun has finally crested the horizon, casting its pale light over us. We've completed our morning rituals: Meditation, Yogasana, and a bit of swordplay. Normally, I'd be calm, at peace, attuned to the pulse of nature. But Veer? He's like a splinter in my mind, constantly fidgeting, muttering, complaining. 

His every complain is a reminder of everything missing in this place—no lush greenery, no vast, open space, just thick, stale air and the relentless roar of metal beasts tearing through the streets. The noise pollution alone is enough to drive any sane man to madness, but for Veer, it's nothing short of torture.

"It is the very manner in which nature, with a touch of irony, signals that you are a nuisance we are all reluctantly bound to endure," I mutter, stepping further into the house. Time to rouse Samhita too.

"Your sense of humor is still as stale as a dead body, Vikramaditya," Veer scoffs, trailing behind me like a stubborn shadow.