The oxygen in New York City always felt different—heavy, thick with the scent of rain, street food, and the relentless ambition of million people. After three years of breathing recycled, metallic air, Laksh’s lungs didn't know how to process it.

He stood on the sidewalk across from a sleek, dimly lit Italian restaurant in Soho. He was dressed in a dark wool overcoat and a black turtleneck, his hood pulled low to avoid the paparazzi who were currently scouring the city for a glimpse of the "Savior of Earth."