The bedroom of Arjun Malhotra's Mumbai mansion was a battlefield, the air thick with the acrid bite of gunpowder and the sour tang of fear. Eight men in tactical gear—trained killers, their movements sharp and synchronized—unleashed a hail of bullets at Amar. But he was no longer a man of flesh; he was the God of Darkness, his body a fluid wisp of shadow, untouchable. Bullets sank into his form, vanishing like stones in a void. "You can't touch me," Amar's voice rumbled, a storm breaking in the room, his golden eyes blazing like twin suns in the gloom.
Malhotra wasn't so lucky. A bullet ripped through the billionaire's chest as he cowered on his silk-sheeted bed. He gasped, a wet, choking sound, his hands clawing at the wound. "No—please!" he gurgled, blood staining his pajamas. His eyes met Amar's, wide with terror, before they dulled. He slumped, dead in seconds. Amar's shadows froze, his chaotic heart twisting. "Damn you," he hissed, fury sparking. Malhotra was meant to confess, to unravel The Man's web—not die like a discarded pawn.
The soldiers pressed their attack, rifles roaring. "Target's still active!" one shouted, voice muffled by his helmet. Amar's lips curled into a grim smile. "Your mistake," he said, raising a hand. Shadows erupted from him, dark entities with glowing eyes, writhing like serpents. "Take them!" he commanded. The shadow creatures surged, weaving through gunfire, untouched by bullets that punched holes in the walls. The men screamed, their training crumbling as shadows coiled around their arms, legs, throats.
"Hold them alive!" Amar barked, teleporting between the soldiers, disarming them with flicks of shadow. A rifle snapped in half, another twisted into scrap. "Who sent you?" he demanded, pinning a soldier to the wall with a tendril of darkness. The man's eyes darted, panicked, behind his visor. "Talk, or the darkness takes you!"
But the soldiers chose death over betrayal. One by one, they bit down hard, jaws clenching. Foam bubbled from their mouths, their bodies convulsing as cyanide capsules—hidden in their teeth—released their poison. They collapsed, lifeless, their tactical gear clattering on the marble floor. Amar's shadows recoiled, his voice a snarl. "Cowards! You think death saves you from me?"
A slow, mocking clap broke the silence. Amar spun, shadows flaring, to see Sameer, Malhotra's wiry assistant, leaning against the doorway. His eyes glinted with a presence that wasn't his own, his smirk unnatural. The Man, the rival proxy, spoke through him, his influence not a subtle thread, but full possession. "Bravo, God of Darkness," the voice purred, smooth as venom. "I underestimated you. I thought you a mere obstacle, a vigilante with tricks. But this?" He gestured at the carnage—Malhotra's body, the dead soldiers. "You're a storm."
Amar's shadows pulsed, ready to strike. "Show yourself, coward," he growled. "No more puppets. Face me."
The Man laughed, Sameer's head tilting at an eerie angle. "Face you? Oh, you're not ready for that. Not yet. But look at you—nine bodies at your feet. Malhotra, these fools. The world will call you a monster, no matter how you spin it."
"You set this up," Amar shot back, stepping closer, his voice like thunder. "You wanted Malhotra dead, didn't you? To frame me."
"Frame?" The Man's voice dripped with amusement. "I wanted a spectacle, and you delivered. But let's talk, you and I. Join me." Sameer's arms spread wide, a mockery of welcome. "We're not so different, you know—chaos in our hearts, power in our hands. I can make you richer than kings, give you influence to reshape lives—lakhs of them—with a single word. Come to my side, and we'll rule together."
Amar stood silent, his golden eyes locked on Sameer's borrowed gaze. The offer was a poison, glittering and deadly. "You think I want your empire?" he finally said, his voice low, cutting. "I'm not your mirror. I'm justice. You're a parasite, hiding behind men like him." He nodded at Malhotra's corpse.
The Man's tone sharpened, Sameer's eyes narrowing. "Justice? You're standing in a graveyard of your making. Nine dead, and the world will blame you. You're no hero—you're me, just too stubborn to see it."
"Then prove it," Amar challenged, shadows flaring brighter. "Meet me for real. Show me your true face, not this puppet's. Let's end this game."
Sameer's body stiffened, the proxy's presence flickering like a dying flame. "Bold," The Man hissed. "You want me? You'll get me—when the time's right. Until then, enjoy the blood on your hands." Sameer's eyes rolled back, and he crumpled, unconscious, the proxy's influence gone.
Amar stood alone amid the wreckage, shadows swirling. Malhotra was dead, the soldiers gone, and The Man had slipped away again. But his words lingered, a taunt and a promise. "You can't hide forever," Amar said to the empty room, his voice a vow.