Epic Fail

I actually laughed. I couldn't help it. Even at the edge of annihilation, Ravn still managed to smirk. ‘I’m not the villain you think I am,’ he spat. ‘I took what I wanted because this world only respects theft. That’s how kings are made. That’s how gods are born.’

Arijit Lahiri writes like your group chat at 2 a.m.—half confessions, half cosmic jokes, sprinkled with existential dread. His work lives somewhere between story, poem, and essay, like a browser with too many tabs open. He believes in bad Wi-Fi as metaphor, in heartbreak with cinematic lighting, and in literature as a side hustle with feelings. Sometimes his characters cooperate, sometimes they unionize. Either way, he keeps typing.