Amar's instincts screamed caution. Arjun Malhotra, the billionaire named by Vikram Sharma, could be The Man—the rival proxy weaving traps to ensnare the God of Darkness. Amar wasn't ready to confront him yet; he needed to know his enemy inside and out. From his Koregaon Park apartment, Amar unleashed his powers, shadows stretching across Mumbai like invisible threads. He listened in on Malhotra's world—his corporate offices in Bandra, his assistants' hushed phone calls, his workers' late-night meetings. Every conversation, every encrypted email, every whispered deal in Malhotra's sprawling penthouse was his to hear. The billionaire was a fortress of secrecy, his life a maze of shell companies and offshore accounts, but Amar's shadows pierced the cracks.
Malhotra was in damage control, publicly dismissing Sharma's confession as a lie—a smear campaign by jealous rivals. His press releases flooded news channels, his charismatic interviews on Republic TV and Times Now painting him as a victim of political sabotage. But Amar heard the truth in the shadows: Malhotra's voice, sharp and commanding, ordering his team to scrub evidence, shift funds, and silence loose ends. The billionaire's empire was vast, his influence touching politicians, police, and even media tycoons. If he was The Man, he was more dangerous than Amar had imagined. Doubt flickered—could one man wield such power, or was Malhotra another puppet? Amar pushed the thought aside, his chaotic heart focused. He would learn everything before striking.
Meanwhile, in Delhi, a storm was brewing at the police headquarters. A task force of the country's elite detectives and officers was forming, handpicked to hunt the God of Darkness. They didn't believe in a supernatural vigilante; to them, the "God" was a myth—a collective of hackers, vigilantes, and tech wizards manipulating videos of shadows and using hallucinogens to terrorize their targets into confessions. The task force was led by Inspector General Vikram Rathore, a grizzled, decorated officer whose career spanned decades of cracking unsolvable cases. His sharp eyes, lined with experience, studied grainy footage of Amar's shadow-wreathed appearances, dismissing the supernatural as theatrics. "This is no ghost," Rathore growled to his team. "It's a group—organized, skilled, and dangerous."
Rathore's cyber team, a unit of brilliant young analysts, scoured the dark web, traced IP addresses, and analyzed hacked servers linked to the vigilante's targets. They found patterns: corrupted officials exposed, confessions extracted, systems breached with surgical precision. "Hackers, maybe ex-military," one analyst suggested. "They're using deepfake tech for the shadow effects and chemical agents to disorient victims," another added. The higher-ups—pressured by panicked politicians and a public both awed and terrified—demanded results. "Find this group and arrest them," the Home Minister ordered. "The nation can't tolerate vigilantes undermining law and order."
In Mumbai, Amar's shadows caught whispers of the task force. His golden eyes narrowed as he overheard a police encrypted call mentioning Rathore's name and the Delhi operation. A new player in the game, he thought, his will unyielding. Malhotra's empire, the rival proxy's schemes, and now a task force hunting him—the board was crowded, but the God of Darkness thrived in chaos. He leaned back, shadows swirling around his apartment, and deepened his surveillance on Malhotra. The billionaire's next move would reveal if he was The Man—or merely another piece in the rival proxy's grand plan. Either way, Amar would be ready.