Bunty watched the trailer twice, and honestly, the second time didn’t make it any better.
He was sprawled out on his bed, his laptop precariously perched on his stomach, one leg dangling off the edge while the ceiling fan spun lazily above him.
His room had that classic chaos of a young guy living solo: a shirt draped over the back of his chair, two empty chip bags lying next to the laptop charger, and his water bottle was somewhere lost on the floor.
On the screen, the trailer for Toxic hit another high note.
The music blasted through his cheap speakers.
Cars.
Guns.
Smoke.
Yash looked like someone had just told him that acting would cost extra.
More guns.
Women.
And yet another dramatic nude shot of Yash.
Bunty squinted.
“Okay, that shot is actually pretty good.”
He rewound it by five seconds and watched it again.
“Yeah, that’s solid.”
But then the next sequence came in and wiped out any goodwill he had built up.
Bunty grimaced.
“Why is everyone shouting?”
The trailer definitely had a big-budget feel; some frames would look stunning on a theater screen, especially with an audience ready to cheer every time Yash showed up.
The guy had a presence—Bunty couldn’t deny that.
Ever since KGF, Yash had perfected that larger-than-life masculinity that Indian commercial cinema loved: cigarettes, suits, slow-motion shots, and violence.
Add the right score while he walks through a doorway, and half the audience would react like God himself had just walked in.
“Toxic indeed,” Bunty muttered under his breath.
He scrolled down to the comments section.
Yash fans were proclaiming it the greatest film ever, people were battling over box-office predictions, and a Telugu fan and a Kannada fan were locked in a debate over something that seemed to have been forgotten thirty replies ago.
And then came the Kiara comments.
Bunty couldn’t help but snort.
The whispers had been buzzing for months: Toxic was rumored to be aiming for an A certificate, with talk of some steamy moments between Yash and Kiara.
Whether any of it was actually true was another story—online film gossip often has about as much to do with reality as a wrestling match—but that didn’t stop people from running wild with it.
Bunty settled back against his pillow as Kiara popped up on-screen.
“Poor Sid,” he chuckled.
“That guy’s going to be at the premiere with cameras trained right on him.
Stay strong, soldier.”
Another shot of Yash flashed by, followed by Kiara.
Bunty raised an eyebrow, hit replay, and grinned.
“Looks like Daddy Yash and Kiara might just pull this off.”
He paused the trailer and reached for his phone to check X.
Big mistake.
In no time, he was drowning in fan wars, thirst traps, and people dissecting every single frame.
One account even shared an old photo of Sidharth Malhotra and Kiara, captioned with condolences.
Bunty laughed, but as he looked at Sidharth’s face, the humor faded into something more like sympathy.
What a bizarre career path.
Sidharth had gotten the kind of launch that countless struggling actors would give anything for: Student of the Year, Dharma Productions, Karan Johar, and a ton of publicity alongside two other good-looking newcomers.
Rumor had it that Sidharth was even Karan’s favorite among the trio, with whispers of them sharing a bed.
The opportunity was massive.
Yet Varun Dhawan took that same launch and carved out a unique niche in comedies, romances, and family films, creating a powerhouse duo with Alia Bhatt.
Comparing Alia’s rise to Sidharth’s would just be plain mean.
“Ek Villain,” Bunty murmured, counting in his head.
That one had definitely worked.
Kapoor & Sons was a solid film, though Fawad Khan kind of overshadowed it.
But Shershaah?
That was undeniably Sidharth’s moment.
“Three,” Bunty said, counting off on his fingers.
“Ek Villain.
Kapoor & Sons.
Shershaah.”
Sure, there were other films, but when it came to the ones that really stuck with him?
Just those three popped into his head when he thought of Sidharth Malhotra.
For someone with the backing of Dharma, that was almost impressive, but in a not-so-great way.
“How do you mess up that badly?” Bunty gestured at the grinning face on his screen.
“You’re way too good-looking for your own good.”
That was always Bunty’s take on Sidharth.
He looked like a high-end model, the kind you’d see selling luxury watches, sleek cars, and tailored suits.
But put him in a tough dramatic scene, and he turned as stiff as a board.
A bad mix of poor script choices and a limited acting range had kept Sidharth stuck in a weird limbo—good-looking enough to stay in the spotlight, but not quite successful enough to gain real traction.
Bunty’s gaze drifted back to Kiara’s photo.
“At least you’ve got that going for you.
Career might be on life support, but your wife?
Solid choice.”
He tossed his phone aside, realizing it was pointless to dwell on this.
None of these stars knew he existed.
Yash would make his film, Kiara would be there to promote it, Sidharth would keep raking in the cash, and Bunty Sharma would just head to work tomorrow.
Ah, the natural order of things.
He shut his laptop and pushed himself up, his back immediately protesting.
“Ah, damn.”
He had been hunched over for way too long.
His neck felt stiff, his right foot was numb, and his bladder was making its demands known.
He stood up and stretched, feeling his spine crack as he lifted his arms high.
Then he took a step.
His foot landed on something slick.
In that split second, Bunty realized three things: the floor was slippery, his feet were sliding out from under him, and the wooden desk behind him had a very unforgiving corner.
“Shit—”
His head collided with the edge.
A sharp jolt of pain shot through him, and then everything went dark.
Cold.
That was the first thing that registered.
Something chilly was pressed against his cheek.
Bunty let out a groan.
It felt like someone had driven a spike right into his skull.
He kept his eyes shut, trying to piece together what had happened: the trailer, X, getting up, the slip…
When he finally opened his eyes, he was greeted by a floor of white marble.
Bunty blinked in confusion.
His apartment definitely didn’t have marble floors.
With a slow effort, he pushed himself up on one elbow and realized he was lying next to an absurdly clean, high-end toilet.
“Where…”
He paused.
That voice wasn’t his.
He swallowed hard and tried again.
“Hello?”
This time, the voice that came out was deeper, smoother, and completely foreign to him.
Ignoring the dizziness, Bunty sat up.
The bathroom was enormous, with pale stone walls, warm recessed lighting, shiny chrome fixtures, and fresh towels neatly folded beside a polished counter.
He glanced down at himself: fitted jeans, a designer shirt, and hands with long, slender fingers that felt utterly alien.
Panic surged through him.
“No.”
He scrambled to his feet, gripping the counter as the room swayed around him.
He stared at the sink, desperately avoiding the mirror.
Was this a hospital?
A prank?
A coma-induced hallucination before he kicked the bucket?
Finally, he forced himself to look up.
Thick dark hair.
A sharp jawline.
A painfully familiar, youthful face staring back at him.
Bunty’s jaw dropped; the reflection mirrored his shock.
He raised his right hand—the reflection did the same, perfectly in sync.
“No freaking way.”
It was Sidharth Malhotra.
Not the actor from today’s headlines, but the young Sidharth from the Student of the Year days.
Bunty touched his face, feeling the warmth of real skin and the contour of his jaw.
He leaned in closer, his breath fogging the glass.
“What the hell?”
He stumbled back, landing heavily on the closed toilet lid.
His mind raced through all those web novel tropes—transmigration, reincarnation, dying in some embarrassing way only to wake up in a celebrity’s body.
A sharp knock on the bathroom door jolted him.
Bunty nearly jumped out of his skin.
“Sid?” a man’s voice called from the other side.
“How long are you going to take?”
Bunty froze in place.
He recognized that voice immediately from countless movies and interviews: it was Varun Dhawan.
“Sid?”
“Yeah,” Bunty replied, a bit startled by the deep resonance of his new voice.
He cleared his throat.
“I’m…
I’m coming out.”
A moment of silence hung in the air before Varun cracked a crude joke about what Sid could possibly be doing alone in the bathroom for so long, followed by a hearty laugh and the sound of retreating footsteps.
Bunty stood still as the silence enveloped him again.
Slowly, he got up and walked back to the mirror.
There he was—Sidharth Malhotra—young, strikingly handsome, and full of life.
“Varun Dhawan is outside,” Bunty murmured to himself.
If that was really Varun, and he was in Sidharth’s body, when exactly was this?
Was it before, during, or after the filming of Student of the Year?
And where was this bathroom?
A hotel?
A film set?
Karan Johar’s house, perhaps?
Bunty suddenly realized he didn’t know much about the specifics of Sidharth’s early life.
He shut his eyes, trying to calm his racing heart.
Time travel theories could wait; first, he needed to figure out the date, the location, and what he was meant to be doing.
When he opened his eyes and looked at his reflection, he couldn’t help but remember that just ten minutes ago, he had been lounging in his messy room, calling this very face “wooden.”
A shaky, breathless laugh escaped him.
“Guess I had that coming.”
A distant voice shouted something outside.
Bunty straightened up, his reflection mirroring his movements.
There was no screen between them now, no barrier of celebrity.
Just a young man in a lavish bathroom, with a crowd of people outside, presumably waiting.
With determination, Bunty reached for the door handle.