The Delhi night sprawled below like a glittering tapestry of ambition and decay, the city's lights twinkling like distant stars against the velvet blackness. From the 60th floor of the gleaming tower, A man gazed out the full-length window of his opulent office, the glass a cold barrier between him and the world he overlooked. The view encompassed the sprawling metropolis—the hazy silhouette of the India Gate, the illuminated dome of the Rashtrapati Bhavan, and the chaotic sprawl of slums that clung to the edges like forgotten shadows. At 2:00 AM, the streets were quiet, save for the occasional flicker of headlights from late-night commuters or the distant honk of a truck on the ring road. The man in his late 40s with a sharply trimmed beard and eyes that held the sharpness of a hawk, stood motionless, his tailored suit a dark silhouette against the panoramic vista. He was a titan in India's corporate landscape, his empire spanning real estate, pharmaceuticals, and media, built on deals that bent laws and broke spirits. Yet tonight, a subtle tension etched his features, a ripple in the calm facade he wore like armor.
The door to his office clicked open softly, and his assistant, entered, a tablet in hand. The assistant, a sharp-minded young man in his 30s with wire-rimmed glasses and a perpetual air of deference, approached with measured steps. "Sir," he said, his voice low and precise, "the deal has been manipulated as per your instructions. We've pushed the valuation to 1,700 crores. The seller's team is resistant, but our intermediaries have assured compliance by morning."
The Man didn't turn, his eyes fixed on the city below. "Good," he replied, his tone clipped, a voice that commanded without raising. "And the contingencies?"
Arjun glanced at his tablet. "If they balk, we've prepared alternatives—leverage on their board members, regulatory hurdles to delay their operations. It could cost us 300 crores in short-term losses, but the acquisition will secure our dominance in the sector."
The Man's lips curved into a faint smile, invisible to The assistant. "No problem," he said, his words carrying the weight of a man for whom money was mere ink on paper. "Our plans must proceed smoothly. Losses are transient; control is eternal. Replace anyone who hesitates."
The assistant nodded, his expression unchanging. "Understood, sir. The paperwork is ready for your signature at dawn." He paused, then added, "Will that be all?"
The Man waved a hand dismissively. "Yes. Leave me."
The Assistant exited as quietly as he entered, the door clicking shut. The Man remained at the window for a moment longer, the city's lights a reflection of his vast network—strings pulled from this pinnacle, influencing ministers, judges, and moguls alike. He fished his cellphone from his pocket, the device sleek and encrypted, and dialed a number known to few. The line connected without a ring, a voice on the other end crisp and expectant.
"It's me," The Man said, his tone shifting to one of measured deference. "I saw him—the one they call the God of Darkness. He's real, and he's a proxy. His primordial... it's death, shadow, darkness, or perhaps space. I couldn't discern. But he's new, raw. For the past month, he's been targeting our lower rungs, forcing confessions, donations. It's disrupting the balance."
The voice on the other end paused, then replied, calm and authoritative. "Observe, but do not engage yet. We'll uncover his source. If he's proxy, then we will bring him with us, or he will end."
The Man nodded, though unseen. "Understood." The call ended, the phone slipping back into his pocket. He turned his gaze upward, beyond the city's haze, to the star-strewn sky. A faint smile played on his lips, the game afoot, the shadows lengthening, the night holding its breath.