The Delhi police headquarters buzzed with urgency, the task force on high alert after the encrypted email landed in their inbox like a bomb. Inspector General Vikram Rathore paced the command room, his grizzled face etched with determination. "We've got a tip—Arjun Malhotra's been killed by the God of Darkness," he barked, slamming the printout on the table. "Raid his Mumbai mansion. Now. Seal it off, search every inch."
Priya, the cyber analyst, frowned at her screen. "Sir, the email's anonymous, routed through the dark web. Could be a hoax—or a setup."
Rathore's eyes hardened. "Hoax or not, we move. Sanjay, gear up the team. I want forensics, SWAT, the works. If this vigilante's involved, we end it tonight."
Hours later, the raid team stormed Malhotra's opulent estate, flashlights cutting through the dark gardens, boots thudding on marble floors. "Clear!" shouted a SWAT officer, sweeping the bedroom. But the place was eerily pristine—no bodies, no blood. Sanjay radioed back to headquarters. "Sir, the billionaire's nowhere. No sign of foul play. But the security room's trashed—hard drives smashed to bits. Someone covered their tracks."
Rathore cursed under his breath, rubbing his temples. "Damn it. Pull whatever fragments you can. We're blind without footage." The team scoured the mansion, but found nothing—no clues, no corpse. By dawn, the news exploded: headlines screaming "Billionaire Arjun Malhotra Missing—Whereabouts Unknown!" Reporters swarmed the gates, cameras flashing, speculating wildly on TV. "Is this the work of the God of Darkness?" one anchor intoned. "Or something more sinister?"
In a lavish mansion on Delhi's outskirts, The Man watched the broadcast, his bearded face twisting in rage. He hurled his wine glass against the wall, shards exploding like his temper. "Nothing!" he roared, his voice echoing in the empty study. his assistant, flinched in the doorway. "Sir?"
The Man spun, eyes blazing. "I sacrificed Malhotra for nothing! No body found, no murder scene? How? That God of Darkness… he's getting on my nerves." He paced, fists clenched. "I set the trap perfectly—those soldiers, the cyanide, the frame job. And he cleans it up like it never happened? Who is this fool? A vigilante or a ghost?"
The Assistant swallowed hard. "Sir, the email went out as planned. The task force is scrambling. Public's turning against him."
The Man's laugh was bitter. "Scrambling blindly! No evidence means No public Outrage. He's slippery, this one. But I'll crush him. Double the surveillance—every corrupt pawn, every shadow. He'll slip up."
That night, Rathore sat alone in his Delhi home, nursing a cup of black coffee, the weight of the day pressing on him. The raid had yielded zilch, the Minister breathing down his neck. A chill swept the room, shadows deepening unnaturally. Rathore tensed, hand inching toward his pistol. "Who's there?"
Amar materialized, his form a silhouette of dread, golden eyes glowing. "Easy, Rathore. It's me."
Rathore bolted up, chair scraping. "You! The God of Darkness—or whatever you are. What the hell do you want now?"
Amar's voice was calm, rumbling like distant thunder. "What came of your investigation on the billionaire? Malhotra."
Rathore's jaw set, his voice firm. "I won't share sensitive information with you. You're a vigilante, a suspect. I'm the law here."
Amar chuckled, shadows flickering. "I admire your dutifulness, Rathore. Truly. But I know the Minister threw your file in the trash. He's protecting Malhotra—or was."
Rathore's eyes widened, suspicion flaring. "How do you know that? Were you there?"
Amar stepped closer, his presence a cosmic weight. "There's a much bigger conspiracy at play. Malhotra was just a small puppet. The government? Puppets too, dancing for someone else. I want your help exposing him—the man at the top."
Rathore crossed his arms, unconvinced. "Help you? You're wanted for murder now. That email—Malhotra's dead, pinned on you. Why should I trust a shadow?"
Amar's tone softened, earnest. "Because I didn't kill him. He died at the hands of the man at the top. I visited Malhotra to confront him, extract the truth. But a team of eight attacked—professionals in tactical gear, automatic rifles blazing."
Rathore leaned forward, intrigued despite himself. "Attacked? Who sent them?"
"The Man—the puppet master. They failed to kill me, but a stray bullet hit Malhotra in the chest. He died instantly. Then they turned on his assistant, Sameer—controlled by this Man. In the chaos, they took poison, cyanide capsules in their teeth, and died on the spot. Tried to pin it all on me."
Rathore rubbed his chin, processing. "And the bodies? The clean scene? That was you?"
Amar nodded, shadows swirling. "I disposed of them. Cleaned the place, destroyed the hard drives. No traces left for them to twist against me."
Rathore's voice rose, incredulous. "You tampered with a crime scene? Destroyed evidence? That's obstruction!"
Amar's golden eyes locked on his. "I'm telling you this in good faith, Rathore. Not that you can prove it—no bodies, no proof. But think: why protect Malhotra? Why squash your case? The Man pulls strings everywhere. Join me. Help expose him, and we'll bring real justice."
Rathore hesitated, his principles warring with doubt. "You're asking me to betray the system I swore to uphold."
Amar's voice was urgent. "The system's betrayed you. It protects monsters. We can fix it—together."
Rathore sighed, conflicted.