The Delhi evening buzzed with anticipation, Connaught Place thrumming with life as crowds gathered for Vikram Sharma's anti-corruption rally. Neon signs flickered above shops selling chai and samosas, while street hawkers called out, their voices drowned by the hum of thousands. Banners emblazoned with Sharma's face—young, charismatic, his smile a beacon of hope—fluttered in the humid breeze. The stage, draped in saffron and green, stood under floodlights, cameras from NDTV, Aaj Tak, and Republic TV poised to broadcast live. The nation watched, expecting another rousing speech from the politician who had captured their hearts with promises of a cleaner India. Vikram Sharma, a rising star in the political arena, had built his image as a crusader against corruption, but whispers in the shadows suggested otherwise.
In his Koregaon Park apartment, Amar sat cross-legged on a woven charpoy, the monsoon's distant thunder echoing his chaotic heart. His laptop glowed with leaked documents—encrypted files, audio clips, witness statements—painting Vikram Sharma as the mastermind of a human trafficking ring. The evidence, unearthed from the computers of multiple corrupt officers across cities via anonymous drops, was compelling: bank transfers to offshore accounts, coded messages linking Sharma to slum abductions, even a grainy recording of his voice ordering a cover-up. Amar's golden eyes narrowed, his unbreakable will a furnace of resolve. Sharma, a saint to the masses but potentially a wolf in disguise, he thought, his fingers tracing the laptop's edge. The God of Darkness had toppled many, but he rarely targeted high-profile ministers— Yet Sharma was different, parading as a beacon of goodness while the evidence screamed hypocrisy. Doubt flickered, a shadow within a shadow, but his mission was clear. Justice demanded action.
He closed his eyes, shadows unfurling from the room's corners, his senses stretching like tendrils across the country. His powers, now a symphony of precision, allowed him to multiply his presence—40 targets in a night, confessions extracted from Mumbai to Chennai. Tonight, though, he would wait for the cover of darkness. The rally was a spectacle of light and crowds; Amar operated in the night, where shadows reigned supreme.
Behind the scenes, The Man watched from a discreet control room in a distant office, far removed from the action. Monitors displayed every angle of the rally, his assistants coordinating feeds from afar. The Man's bearded face was a mask of cold triumph, his sharp eyes glinting like a predator's. He didn't know the vigilante's face, his methods, or even his true name—only that this "God of Darkness" preyed on the corrupt, hacking into systems and extracting justice. To lure him out, The Man had planted forged evidence across the computers of dozens of corrupt officers nationwide, hoping one would catch the vigilante's eye. And it had. Sharma, his puppet for years, was the perfect bait—a beloved figure whose exposure or death would shatter the vigilante's legend. The Man's earlier fury had hardened into resolve, his chaotic heart—not unlike Amar's—thrumming with anticipation. This ends tonight, he thought, his lips curling into a smile. The God falls, and my empire stands. He had outsourced the setup: cameras rigged throughout the rally site and Sharma's hotel, a team of 20-25 operatives stationed in a room five floors above the minister's suite, monitoring every feed. They were expendable hires—mercenaries and tech specialists—because The Man never dirtied his own hands or risked proximity.
As the rally concluded and night fell over Delhi, the city's lights dimmed into a mosaic of shadows. Sharma retired to his luxurious hotel suite, guarded but unaware of the deeper game. Amar teleported through the darkness, materializing in a nearby alley, his form a silhouette of dread, golden eyes glowing like embers. The evidence burned in his mind, urging him forward. You'll confess tonight, or the darkness will claim you.
He approached the hotel, shadows cloaking his movements. But as he drew near, an unease prickled at his senses—a feeling of multiple gazes upon him, invisible eyes piercing the night. He pressed on, slipping closer, but the sensation intensified: multiple eyes, watching, waiting. Through the shadows, he probed, sending tendrils of darkness to trace the sources. Cameras—countless ones, hidden in street lamps, hotel lobbies, even the corridors leading to Sharma's room. And beyond them, viewers.
His shadows delved deeper, revealing a team of around 20-25 people in a hotel room five floors above the minister's suite. They hunched over screens, murmuring adjustments, their faces illuminated by the glow of monitors. They worked for The Man, though he wasn't there—his operations always outsourced, his presence never risked in such vulnerable spots.
A grin spread across Amar's face, though no one could see it; he was only a dark entity, a whisper in the void. He materialized in their room like a storm unleashed, shadows coiling around the operatives. Panic erupted as he taught them fear—eyes glowing, voice a rumble of thunder, extracting promises never to engage in spy work again, or face death's embrace. Terrified, they fled the room, abandoning their posts, the cameras going dark one by one.
Amar's chaotic heart steadied, the trap unraveled. He could proceed to Sharma now, but the orchestration gnawed at him—the planted evidence, the surveillance. Was Sharma truly guilty, or another pawn? The memory of the Darkness's warning echoed: There are others like me—Light, Life, and proxies like you. He retreated into the shadows, deciding to verify the truth before striking.
In his distant control room, The Man's smile faded, his fists clenching as reports flooded in. "The team's scattered. He found them," an assistant stammered. The Man growled, frustration boiling over. "How? Again?" His plan had failed once more, the vigilante slipping away. But the war was far from over. Next time, you won't escape.
Amar returned to his apartment, the monsoon's rain a curtain outside. He sat, shadows swirling, and called to the Darkness. "Was it a trap?" he asked, his voice steady but urgent. The Darkness's presence filled the room, a cosmic weight. "You grow wise," it rumbled, amused. "The others— their proxies—play their own games. You sensed their hand. Trust your will, and the truth will unveil itself." The Darkness faded, leaving Amar alone, his chaotic heart alight with purpose. The rival proxy had struck, but he would strike back—harder, smarter, unstoppable.