The air in Arjun Malhotra's blood-soaked bedroom hung heavy, the silence broken only by the faint crackle of Amar's shadows. Sameer, Malhotra's assistant, lay crumpled on the floor, his body still warm, the rival proxy's presence—the Man—having fled moments ago. Amar's golden eyes burned, his chaotic heart pounding with frustration. The Man was no fool; he never showed his true face, revealing himself only to a select few, if any. His mocking words echoed in Amar's mind: "We'll get to that… real partners…"
Amar knelt beside Sameer, shadows swirling around him like a storm. "So, this man you're controlling," he said aloud, his voice sharp, addressing the absent proxy. "Is he dead like the last one, or just another minion?" The darkness seemed to hum, as if the Man lingered, watching.
A low, venomous laugh filled the room, emanating from nowhere and everywhere, the Man's voice untethered from Sameer's lifeless form. "When I take full control, they die," he said, his tone dripping with amusement. "But isn't it fortunate? They serve me, even in death. Useful to the end."
Amar's jaw tightened, his golden eyes narrowing. "So he's not alive," he muttered, more to himself than the proxy. A black pistol materialized in his hand, forged from shadow, its form sleek and deadly. Without hesitation, he aimed at Sameer's head and fired—a single, clean shot. The sound was muffled, absorbed by the shadows. Sameer's body jerked once, then stilled forever. "It's getting frustrating," Amar growled, talking to himself as he stood. "Hiding behind puppets, taunting me. I'm done with your games."
He glanced around the room—Malhotra's corpse on the bed, the eight dead soldiers sprawled across the floor, their cyanide-frothed mouths gaping. "Now what to do with the bodies?" he mused, his voice low, laced with irritation. He raised a hand, and shadow entities surged from him—dark, writhing forms with glowing eyes, moving with eerie precision. "Clean it up," he commanded. The shadows obeyed, slithering across the room, gathering the bodies like grim shepherds. They worked swiftly, wiping blood from the marble floor, straightening furniture, erasing every trace of the massacre.
Amar sent tendrils of darkness through the mansion, probing for the security room. He found it in the basement—banks of monitors, blinking servers, hard drives humming with data. "No evidence," he said, his voice a vow. Shadows surged into the room, coiling around the drives, crushing them into sparking wreckage. The footage of his arrival, the gunfire, the deaths—all gone.
With the room sanitized and the bodies collected, Amar teleported them to a derelict garbage disposal unit on Mumbai's outskirts. The facility was abandoned, its rusted incinerators silent under the moonless sky. Shadows dumped the bodies into the machines, and with a flick of his will, Amar ignited the burners. Flames roared, consuming flesh and bone, turning Malhotra, Sameer, and the soldiers to ash. "No traces," he whispered, watching the fire dance. "Not this time."
He teleported back to his Koregaon Park apartment, the monsoon's rain a steady drumbeat outside. Shadows swirled around him, restless, mirroring his unease. "You're out there, Man," he said to the empty room, his voice hard. "And I'm coming for you."
Meanwhile, in a sprawling mansion on the outskirts of Delhi, The Man sat in a dimly lit study, a glass of untouched scotch on his desk. His bearded face was a mask of cold calculation, his eyes glinting with predatory glee. He turned to his assistant, a wiry young man, who stood nervously by the door. "It's time," The Man said, his voice smooth as silk. "Leak the news. The billionaire, Arjun Malhotra, killed by the God of Darkness. Send an encrypted email to Rathore's task force. Make it dramatic—let them know their vigilante's a murderer."
The Assistant hesitated, his fingers twitching over his tablet. "Sir, won't this… escalate things? The task force is already desperate. If we pin Malhotra's death on him—"
The Man's laugh was sharp, cutting him off. "Escalate? That's the point. The God of Darkness wants to play hero? Let the world see him as a killer. The task force will tear itself apart chasing him, and the public will turn. He's trapped, whether he knows it or not."
The assistant, nodded, swallowing hard. His fingers flew across the tablet, crafting the encrypted message: "The God of Darkness has struck again. Arjun Malhotra, philanthropist and titan, murdered in his home. The vigilante's reign of terror continues. Find him before more blood spills." He hit send, the email vanishing into the dark web, routed to the task force's secure server.
The Man leaned back, swirling his scotch. "You wanted me to show myself, God of Darkness," he murmured, his voice a low taunt. "Careful what you wish for. This is my stage now." He raised his glass to the shadows, as if toasting his unseen foe. "Run all you want. You can't escape the noose."
In his apartment, Amar sat cross-legged, shadows curling around him. His laptop pinged—a news alert about Malhotra's death, already breaking on social media , the headline screaming: "Billionaire Slain by God of Darkness?" Amar's golden eyes narrowed, a grim smile tugging at his lips. "You're clever, Man," he said to the darkness. "But I'm not your pawn." The Darkness stirred within him, its cosmic rumble a quiet encouragement. "He plays his games," it said. "But you are the storm. Find him."
Amar nodded, his resolve a fortress. "I will," he vowed.