The night was very quiet. A half crescent moon shone faintly in the sky, giving only a soft silver light. Everything outside was calm and silent.
But inside a dark room, there was a sound. A man was groaning, his voice weak and full of pain. In the shadows, his shape could be seen and he was sitting in a chair, unable to move. His body looked tired, his strength almost gone. Every sound he made showed how drained he was.
Suddenly, the light in the room switched on. The darkness disappeared, and the man's face became clear. He was the same person who had tried to misbehave with a woman on the road the night before. Before he could do anything, an unknown masked man had struck him on the head, leaving him unconscious.
Now, that man was here. His hands and legs were tied tightly to the chair. His mouth was covered with an old cloth, stopping him from speaking. His body showed signs of suffering—his head hung low, his breathing heavy, his groans filling the room. His body was covered in wounds—cuts and marks layered over one another, evidence of long hours of suffering. Blood stained his clothes and skin.
His hands trembled violently. His legs shook as if they might give way entirely. It was clear he had been kept here since last night, enduring pain and punishment.
The silence of the night was broken by the slow creak of a door opening. Footsteps echoed across the dark room, steady and deliberate.
The man tied to the chair stirred weakly, trying to open his eyes. His body was drained, his strength almost gone. He had lost too much energy, and even lifting his head felt impossible.
The footsteps drew closer. A figure appeared, dressed completely in black, a hood pulled low, and a mask covering the face. The stranger stopped in front of the man and leaned down, giving him a light slap on the cheek, just enough to force him awake.
The man groaned, gathering what little strength he had left. His eyes opened slowly, and when he saw the hooded figure standing before him, they widened in terror. He shook his head violently, grunting in fear, his body trembling against the ropes.
The masked figure reached forward and pulled away the cloth gag from his mouth. The man gasped for air, then cried out in desperation, his voice breaking with pain. "Please… leave me! What do you want? Please!"
The man's cries filled the room, desperate and broken. "Please… leave me! I can't take it anymore!" His voice shook with fear, but the hooded figure ignored him.
The stranger walked calmly to a table at the side of the room. On it lay a collection of sharp tools knives, needles, an axe, and other instruments, their edges stained in blood, their presence enough to make the air heavy with dread. It was clear these were not ordinary tools—they were instruments of punishment.
The hooded figure removed his mask, setting it down on the table. His face remained hidden in shadow, but his movements carried a cold certainty. He picked up a knife, its blade catching the light, and returned to stand before the trembling man.
The prisoner shook his head violently, pleading again. "Don't come near me! Please… no!" His body strained against the ropes, but he could not escape.
The figure leaned closer, his voice low and sharp, cutting through the man's cries. "The women you hurt… they begged too. They cried. They asked you to stop. Did you listen to them? Did you stop?"
The stranger struck knife into his hand. The man screamed as unbearable pain tore through him. His body jerked violently, the sound of his suffering echoing through the room.
The wounds covering the man's body told a story—methodical, precise, merciless. Anyone who saw them would recognize the signature. The same marks the police had been finding. The same pattern whispered about on the news.
The media and public had given him a name. 'The Punisher'
The man's screams echoed through the room, his voice breaking with fear. "Sorry… please leave me! I won't do anything again!"
From beneath the hood came a cold reply, sharp and final. "Again? There is no 'again' in your life. Today is your last day."
The hooded figure stepped closer, his movements slow and deliberate. The prisoner trembled, his body weak, his eyes wide with terror. The masked man's tone carried a cruel edge, almost as if he was savoring the fear before him. "Hurts, doesn't it? That's how the women suffered too. Did you stop when they begged?"
The stranger struck knife into another hand. The man shook his head violently, pleading, his voice hoarse. "Please… no more… I can't take it!"
The figure paused, watching him struggle, then leaned forward and slapped his cheek, forcing him awake from near unconsciousness. The prisoner gasped, his breath shallow, his strength fading.
The masked man raised the blade, its sharp edge glinting under the light, and held it close to the man's face. His voice dropped to a whisper, cold and merciless. "You want me to leave you, huh?"
The man, weak and drained, nodded slowly. The hooded figure pressed the cold edge of the blade against his face and spoke in a low, commanding voice. "Then tell me—who were the other two with you that night?"
The prisoner hesitated, his silence heavy. The figure leaned closer, pressing harder, his tone sharper. "Just tell me who they are, and I'll leave you."
Finally, trembling, the man whispered the names. The figure pulled the blade away and gave a cold smile. "So simple."
He paced slowly, his voice echoing in the room. "But I still don't understand one thing… how are you all so happy after doing such wrong things?"
The man's eyes darted nervously, his lips quivering. The figure bent close, he stabbed man's hand using the knife. "Is it because no one is there to punish you? Or because even if you're caught, no one dares to act?"
The prisoner shook his head violently, pleading, but the figure's voice grew colder. He pointed at the man's trembling hands. "These hands… the ones you used to hurt women. Right?"
The man's cries grew weaker, his head dropping forward as though all strength had left him. He muttered something faintly, words almost lost in the silence.
The hooded figure leaned closer. "What? I can't hear you."
With a trembling breath, the man whispered, "I can't… please… just kill me."
The figure grabbed his hair, forcing his head up. His voice was cold, merciless. "Kill you? That was always the plan."
The prisoner's eyes widened, staring into the shadowed hood as if he had seen a monster. Figure just cut the man's throat slow and let him suffer by looking into his eyes.
The hooded figure stepped back, calm and deliberate. He cleaned the blade, washed his hands, and muttered to himself, his tone chillingly casual. "My next target is on… The Daily News huh?"
Meanwhile, Bhairava slept deeply, but his mind was restless. In his dream world, he was running fast, his breath heavy, chased by a shadowy creature—something like a dark ghost. Fear filled him, and the dream felt unstable, slipping out of his control.
Moments earlier, he had been standing alone in an endless green grassland, searching for something. He was looking for the same place he had visited in his dream the last night.
Bhairava frowned and thought to himself, "I think again it is not happening."
He lifted his eyes to the sky and shouted, "You… you are not coming today? Yesterday you didn't answer my question, and I have many more to ask you!"
The sky remained silent. No voice, no sign, no reply.
After a pause, Bhairava spoke again, his voice echoing across the empty field. "I know you are there, watching me. Just come out."
But no reply came. The silence stretched endlessly, and Bhairava's voice echoed alone in the vast dream field.
He was calling for the White Raven, hoping for guidance. So many strange things were happening in his life, and he needed answers. Yet the silence was his only companion.
Finally, Bhairava sighed and thought, "It's no use."
Just then, a sound broke the stillness, the hoot of an owl. Bhairava turned quickly, scanning the trees. There, resting on a branch, was a black owl. Its eyes glowed an eerie blue.
Bhairava stared at it, unsettled. "What is it doing here?" he thought.
A memory stirred inside him. The night before, he had wandered into that strange place filled with tall mirrors. The images had haunted him ever since. Now, for reasons he couldn't explain, he felt the urge to summon one of those mirrors into this world.
Closing his eyes, Bhairava focused. He pictured the mirror exactly as it had appeared, its towering frame, its shining surface, the way it seemed alive, almost breathing. He poured all his concentration into the vision.
When he opened his eyes, his breath caught. A massive mirror stood before him, identical to the one from his dream.
Above it, black ravens circled, their wings slicing through the air. The bright sky darkened, turning heavy and black. Clouds gathered thick and fast, swallowing the light. The wind shifted, sharp and cold, carrying a chill that sank into Bhairava's bones. Bhairava shivered as the chill crawling across his skin.
He stepped closer. The mirror reflected his own face back at him. For the first time in his dreams, he was seeing his own reflection. The night before had been different, he had wandered into another realm, a place beyond reality. But now, here in his dream, the mirror showed him himself.
His heart pounded. The reflection felt wrong, heavy, as though something terrible was about to happen.
Slowly, he reached out. His fingers brushed the glass, expecting something to emerge from it. But instead, something stranger occurred. His hand slipped inside the mirror as though it were water. The surface rippled around his wrist, cold and fluid.
A thought flickered in his mind, but before he could grasp it, a voice echoed inside his head. "If I were you, I would not do that."
Bhairava froze. In an instant, he recognized the voice, it was the White Raven. Panic surged through him. He tried to pull his hand back, searching the sky for the bird, but his arm wouldn't move.
Then, from the shimmering surface, another hand emerged. It was dark, twisted, and inhuman. Its fingers clamped tightly around Bhairava's wrist.
His eyes widened in shock. The mirror began to change. His reflection twisted, warping into something monstrous, something not human. The distorted image reached out, pulling him closer.
Bhairava resisted, straining with all his strength, but the grip was too strong. The hand yanked him forward, and before he could cry out, he was dragged inside the mirror.
The world around him shifted. He stumbled, breathless, and realized he was back in that strange place, the realm of infinite mirrors. But this time, something was different. The mirrors weren't the same as before. Each one shimmered with subtle changes, each reflection carrying a strange distortion of himself.
He turned slowly, his eyes darting from one mirror to the next. Every surface showed him, but not the real him.
Then, a sound broke the silence. A figure darted behind him, its footsteps fast, followed by a creepy laugh. Bhairava spun around, but there was nothing there. His breath quickened.
Again, something dark rushed past his back. He turned sharply, still nothing. Then, in the distance, he caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure, its laugh echoing through the hall.
Bhairava's heart pounded. He ran toward it, desperate to chase. "Who is there?" he shouted, his voice trembling.
But the figure vanished, only to reappear farther away. He turned quickly, and in that instant, a swarm of bats burst past him, their wings beating against the air. Bhairava stumbled back, shaken, fear gripping him.
The sounds grew louder crying, laughing, shouting, screams, whispers - all coming from different directions at once. The voices overlapped, filling the hall with chaos. Sweat dripped down his face as he spun around, searching, his chest tight with fear.
Then, suddenly, silence.
The noise vanished, leaving the hall heavy and still. Bhairava's eyes darted forward and there it was. A dark figure stood in the distance. Its body was black like a shadow, but its shape was twisted, inhuman. In its hand, it held something heavy, and from that object, a dark liquid dripped slowly to the ground.
Bhairava froze, his breath caught in his throat. The silence pressed against him. And Bhairava's nose caught the metallic scent. His eyes widened in shock. "Is that… blood?" he thought, his chest tightening.