Amar lay in his Koregaon Park apartment, the clock ticking past 12:10 AM, Pune's night a canvas of quiet whispers. The city's pulse had slowed—the occasional scooter's hum, a distant dog's bark, the faint patter of rain on tin roofs—but sleep evaded him. His body, infused with the Darkness's essence, needed no rest; his mind, a fortress of cosmic clarity, burned with purpose. The previous day's victories—the officer's confession, the witness's freedom—were sparks, but to ignite a blaze against corruption, he needed allies untainted by the rot. NGOs and charities, beacons for the weak, but how many hid shadows of greed? He rose, the floor cool under his feet, and sat at his desk, neon-lit posters casting ethereal glows across his manga shelves.
His phone glowed, a portal to his quest. He searched Google for "reputable NGOs in India," scrolling through lists—CRY, Goonj, Akshaya Patra, Smile Foundation, Oxfam India, and over 135 others. Addresses flashed: Mumbai's bustling Dharavi, Delhi's crowded Karol Bagh, Bengaluru's tech-savvy Whitefield, Kolkata's historic Howrah, and Chennai's coastal Marina Beach outskirts. Each was a thread in his web, a point to probe. He closed his eyes, shadows responding like extensions of his will. His senses unfurled, stretching across India's vast tapestry—from Pune's monsoon-drenched streets to the humid alleys of Kolkata, the arid plains of Rajasthan to Kerala's lush backwaters. He focused on the NGO operators, their offices closed in the dead of night, shadows whispering secrets.
But knowledge came from immersion. Amar touched a shadow beneath his desk, dissolving into the void, emerging in a Mumbai slum under a banyan tree near CRY's office. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and distant sea salt, the building a modest structure with faded banners fluttering in the breeze. He slipped inside through a window's shade, his form a wisp of night. Enveloping the office's computers and ledgers with tendrils of darkness, he absorbed their contents—the feel of honest toil, budgets stretched thin for child education, no hidden ledgers or suspicious transfers. A good one, a beacon in the dark. He teleported to the next, Delhi's Goonj headquarters, the Ganges' distant murmur mingling with night traffic. Shadows wrapped the files, revealing passionate campaigns for sustainable clothing, integrity pulsing through every record.
On he went, a shadow phantom traversing India's veins. Kolkata's Child in Need Institute, its office near the Hooghly's banks, revealed truncated reports but genuine efforts for underprivileged kids. Bengaluru's Akshaya Patra kitchen, aroma of leftover rice lingering, showed transparent feeding programs for schools. Chennai's Sevalaya, by the Bay of Bengal, emanated dedication to orphanages, no whiff of deceit. He visited 29 that night, each a leap through shadows—Jaipur's Educate Girls, Hyderabad's Sphoorti Foundation, Ahmedabad's Sense International, and more. Some shadows whispered purity, their operators' intentions clean as Ganges headwaters; others flickered with doubt, hidden accounts or self-serving agendas. Amar's chaotic heart swelled with resolve, his unbreakable will cataloging each, a mental map forming of allies and impostors.
The hours blurred, but fatigue was a forgotten concept. His century of rebirth had rendered him tireless, his body a vessel of endless vitality, his mind a diamond of focus. The Darkness's gift was not just power but endurance, a calm that echoed its cosmic serenity. As dawn crept over the horizon, Amar returned to his apartment, materializing at 5:00 AM. The city stirred—milkmen clinking bottles, temple bells chiming, the aroma of fresh poha wafting from a nearby stall. He sat, his thoughts a whirlwind of plans. This is the beginning, he mused, his chaotic heart steady. With the Darkness's spark, I'll forge a network of light from the shadows. But he knew it was just a start—more nights of vigilance lay ahead, his quest a marathon, not a sprint.
By 9:30 AM, Amar dressed and left for Vantablack, his Force Gurkha roaring through Pune's morning rush. The shadows whispered, his senses monitoring the NGOs, but his unbreakable will held firm, his chaotic heart a beacon in the storm.