The task force, though freshly forged, attacked their mission with relentless precision. Inspector General Vikram Rathore, his silver hair catching the dim light of the Delhi police headquarters, stood before his elite team, his weathered face a map of determination. They had interrogated dozens—corrupt officials who had crumbled under unseen pressure, their confessions spilling tales of a spectral figure: the God of Darkness. "We're not chasing myths," Rathore barked, slamming a fist on the table. "This isn't a ghost story. It's a group—hackers, vigilantes, maybe ex-intelligence. Find them."
His team scoured crime scenes, pored over digital trails, and interviewed trembling victims who spoke of shadows with glowing eyes. But evidence was maddeningly scarce. Grainy CCTV footage showed only flickers of darkness—silhouettes moving in offices, alleys, and near confessors' homes, vanishing without a trace. "It's like they're taunting us," muttered Priya, the team's lead cyber analyst, her fingers flying over a keyboard as she dissected another hacked server. "No malware signatures, no IP trails—just clean breaches. It's impossible."
"Impossible?" Rathore snapped, his voice like gravel. "Then explain those shadows on the tapes. Explain how a minister like Sharma confesses live on air, naming names, without a single hacker's fingerprint. They're good, Priya—better than us. But no one's untouchable." Days bled into sleepless nights, the team chasing ghosts. The footage haunted them: shadows that seemed to writhe with intent, defying physics. "They're using deepfake tech for the visuals, maybe hallucinogens to scare their targets," Fixed on his deductions, Sanjay, a young detective, his eyes bloodshot. "Has to be a team—nobody pulls this off alone."
Rathore shook his head, unconvinced. "A team this disciplined leaves traces. We've got nothing but videos of shadows and terrified confessions." Frustration gnawed at him. He reported to the Home Minister, his tone clipped. "Sir, we've got footage—shadows moving like they're alive. Computers hacked without a trace. This group is a phantom, but we're closing in." The Minister's voice was cold through the phone. "No excuses, Rathore. The nation's watching. Arrest them, or heads will roll—starting with yours."
In his Koregaon Park apartment, Amar sat cross-legged, shadows curling around him like loyal hounds. His laptop glowed with intercepted calls and emails from Arjun Malhotra's empire. The billionaire was a fortress of secrets, but Amar's powers pierced his defenses, eavesdropping on whispered deals and frantic cover-ups. Malhotra's public denials—calling Sharma's confession a rival's smear—were a polished lie, but his private orders told a darker story. "Bury the evidence," Amar overheard Malhotra hiss to an aide. "Shift the funds to Dubai. If anyone talks, make them disappear." Amar's golden eyes burned. Malhotra was no mere pawn—he was a kingpin, maybe The Man himself, the rival proxy weaving traps to snare the God of Darkness.
Amar leaned back, his chaotic heart thrumming. "You think you're untouchable, Malhotra," he murmured to the empty room. "But shadows see everything." He was ready to confront the billionaire soon, but caution held him back. The trap at Sharma's rally had been too close; he wouldn't rush into another. Malhotra's name, given by Sharma, was a lead, but was he The Man—or another piece on the board? Amar's shadows deepened, his mind racing. "I'll know you inside out before I strike," he vowed, his voice a low rumble.
In a hidden Mumbai penthouse, The Man sat in a leather chair, a glass of scotch untouched on the table. His bearded face was a mask of cold calculation, his eyes glinting as he reviewed reports from his operatives. He didn't know the God of Darkness's face or methods, only his relentless pursuit of the corrupt. Sharma's confession had named Malhotra, as his boss had feared, but he wasn't certain, Malhotra was his true chess piece. The billionaire was vital—a linchpin in his empire of influence—but The Man never met him directly, using cutouts and encrypted channels to maintain his anonymity. "Malhotra's too valuable to lose," he told his reflection in the darkened window. "But he's bait now. The God will come for him."
The Man had orchestrated the task force's creation, pulling strings in Delhi's corridors of power. A few well-placed calls to panicked politicians had ensured Rathore's team was formed, a distraction to keep the God of Darkness off balance. But he hadn't stopped there. Malhotra's closest assistant, a wiry man named Sameer, was now under his subtle control—eyes and ears in the billionaire's inner circle. "Watch him," The Man had instructed, his voice a venomous whisper through a burner phone. "Every move, every visitor. When the God comes, I'll know. Ready to strike."
Sameer, unaware of the proxy's influence clouding his mind, monitored Malhotra's Mumbai office with obsessive vigilance. Cameras lined the building, guards patrolled the perimeter, and traps—both technological and human—lay in wait. The Man leaned back, a predator's smile curling his lips. "Come for him, God of Darkness," he murmured. "I've set the stage, and this time, you'll fall."
In Pune, Amar's shadows caught whispers of the task force's efforts—Rathore's name, their fruitless hunt, their belief in a vigilante collective. A grin flickered across his face. "They chase shadows while I chase truth," he said to the Darkness, its cosmic presence stirring in response. "They're blind," it rumbled, amused. "But the other pawns, sees more than you know. Trust your will, or his trap will close." Amar nodded, his resolve a fortress. Malhotra, the task force, The Man—the board was crowded, but the Amar, thrived in chaos. The stage was set, and he would rewrite the script.