The Delhi night was a tapestry of chaos, its skyline pierced by the amber glow of streetlights and the distant pulse of traffic. In his 60th-floor office, a glass fortress overlooking India Gate's solemn silhouette, The Man stood motionless, his tailored suit absorbing the city's lights like a void. His bearded face, usually a mask of calculated calm, twisted with barely restrained fury. The God of Darkness had struck back, unraveling his meticulously crafted deepfake campaign. News channels—Times Now, Republic, India Today—had flipped overnight, airing retractions and confessions from cyber-criminals in Bengaluru, exposing the fabricated murder footage. Social media, once a storm of #DarknessKiller hashtags, now buzzed with #DarknessInnocent, memes mocking The Man's failed scheme. The public, once terrified, now chanted the God's name in Varanasi's temples and Pune's chai stalls, their faith in the vigilante restored.
The Man's fist clenched, his knuckles whitening against the mahogany desk. His phone, shattered from an earlier outburst, lay in pieces on the marble floor, a mirror of his fractured control. How did he do it? The question gnawed at him, a splinter in his mind. The God of Darkness had not only countered the deepfake narrative but turned it into a weapon, forcing media moguls to confess their complicity and hackers to name their paymaster—a media baron under The Man's influence. The precision, the speed, the audacity—it was as if the shadows themselves obeyed this phantom. His empire, built on strings pulled in boardrooms and ministries, trembled under the weight of this unseen foe.
He paced, his polished shoes clicking against the marble, each step a metronome of rage and calculation. His mind churned, replaying the past weeks. The God of Darkness had multiplied his strikes, targeting dozens of corrupt figures nightly, from Mumbai's land mafiosos to Delhi's fake medicine peddlers. Confessions flooded in, charities like Goonj and Akshaya Patra swelled with dirty money, and the public hailed the vigilante as a divine force. The Man's first counterstrike—pinning a gruesome murder on the God via deepfakes—had backfired spectacularly. He's not just a man, The Man thought, his sharp eyes narrowing. He's a storm, a force I underestimated. The realization stung, a wound to his pride. He had climbed to this tower through cunning, outsmarting rivals, bending systems to his will. Yet this God of Darkness, this shadow, danced beyond his grasp.
His assistant entered, hesitant, clutching a tablet. "Sir, the latest reports—public sentiment has shifted entirely. The God of Darkness is trending globally. Our media assets are in disarray, and the baron is facing lawsuits. Losses are in the thousands of crores."
The Man's gaze snapped to him, a predator's glare. "Enough," he growled, his voice low, a rumble of thunder. "This phantom thinks he can unravel my empire? He's a fool playing at justice." He turned to the panoramic window, Delhi's glittering web reflecting his ambition. "I've been too subtle. Deepfakes, whispers, manipulations—these were child's play. To stop a storm, you don't whisper—you strike with lightning."
The assistant shifted, uneasy. "Sir, what's the plan? He's too fast, too elusive. We can't even trace him."
The Man's lips curled into a cold smile, his mind alight with a new gambit. "We don't need to find him. We make him come to us. He's driven by justice, by some delusional moral code. We'll use that against him. We'll make him act in a way the public can't forgive." His voice darkened, each word deliberate. "We'll make the God of Darkness kill someone—someone real, someone beloved. A philanthropist, a celebrity, a politician adored by the masses. When the public sees their hero's hands stained with innocent blood, they'll turn on him. His legend will crumble."
The assistant's eyes widened, but he nodded, scribbling notes. "Who, sir? And how?"
The Man's mind raced, names flashing like neon signs. Padma Shri Dr. Anjali Rao, the doctor who built free hospitals for slum children? Too sympathetic. Arjun Mehra, the Bollywood star funding orphanages? Too visible. No… someone untouchable, a symbol. "Vikram Sharma," he said finally, his voice a blade. "The people's politician. Young, charismatic, loved for his anti-corruption rallies. He's untarnished, a beacon of hope. If the God of Darkness kills him, the nation will erupt. Temples will curse him, streets will burn with protests."
The assistant hesitated. "But how do we make him kill? He's selective—targets only the corrupt."
The Man's smile widened, predatory. "We don't make him choose. We force his hand. Sharma's clean image is a facade; he's one of ours, a puppet with strings we've pulled for years. We stage an event—Sharma at a public rally, surrounded by crowds. We leak intelligence to the God, make him believe Sharma's corrupt, a mastermind behind a trafficking ring. He'll strike, and when he does, we ensure it's public, undeniable. The God kills Sharma, and the nation mourns their hero. The God becomes a villain."
The assistant's fingers froze on the tablet. "It's… bold, sir. Risky. If it fails—"
"It won't," The Man snapped, his voice cutting through the air. "This isn't a game of chance. It's a chessboard, and I'm moving the pieces." He turned, his eyes burning with resolve. "Prepare the leak. Plant evidence—documents, recordings, witnesses—tying Sharma to a fake trafficking network. Make it airtight. The God will bite."
The assistant nodded, exiting swiftly, the door's soft click a prelude to the storm brewing. The Man stood alone, his reflection in the glass a shadow of his ambition. Doubt flickered, a rare intruder. What if he sees through it? What if he's more than human? He crushed the thought, his chaotic heart—though not like Amar's—pounding with defiance. He had built an empire on control, on bending wills. This God of Darkness was a challenge, but challenges were meant to be broken.
He picked up a secure phone from his desk, dialing the unknown number. The line connected instantly, the voice on the other end calm, a still pond in contrast to The Man's roiling fury. "Report," the voice said, its tone devoid of warmth.
"The God of Darkness has countered our move," The Man began, his voice steady despite the rage simmering beneath. "He forced media retractions, exposed the deepfake plot. Public support for him is stronger than ever. He's disrupting the grand plan at every turn."
A pause, heavy with expectation. "And your response?" the voice asked, sharp as a blade.
The Man straightened, his gaze fixed on the city below. "I have a plan. We make him kill—someone real, someone the public loves. Vikram Sharma, the politician. He's our asset, but the public sees him as a saint. We leak false evidence, make the God believe Sharma's corrupt. When he strikes, we ensure it's public. The nation will turn on him, and his legend will die."
The voice was silent for a moment, considering. "How will you ensure he acts?"
"We bait him," The Man replied, his voice gaining intensity. "Sharma will hold a rally in Delhi, televised, packed with supporters. We plant evidence—forged documents, doctored recordings—pointing to Sharma as a trafficking kingpin. The God's pattern is clear: he targets the corrupt with surgical precision. He'll come for Sharma, and when he does, we'll have cameras ready. The public will see their hero fall, and the God of Darkness will be branded a murderer."
Another pause, the silence a weight on The Man's shoulders. Then, the voice spoke, its tone approving. "A bold gambit. Effective, if executed well. The balance must be restored. Do it."
"Yes," The Man said, his voice firm, a vow sealed in the dark. "It will be done."
The call ended, the line dead. The Man set the phone down, his reflection in the glass now a predator's silhouette. The city sprawled below, unaware of the war brewing in its shadows. The God of Darkness had pushed him to the edge, but The Man thrived on edges. This plan, this lightning strike, would end the vigilante's reign. He would ensure it.