Amar sat in his Koregaon Park apartment, the soft patter of monsoon rain against the window a steady rhythm to his thoughts. His laptop glowed with lists of potential allies—honest officers, fearless journalists, anyone uncorrupted by The Man's web. Shadows curled around him like loyal guards, his golden eyes scanning names as he planned his network's expansion. "The higher I go, the closer I get to him," he muttered, his chaotic heart pulsing with resolve.
A sudden prickle invaded his mind—a telepathic whisper, light and teasing, weaving through his defenses like a playful breeze. Well, well, God of Darkness. Stirring quite the storm, aren't you? I've been itching for a little chat.
Amar sprang to his feet, shadows surging, darkening the room. "Who's there?" he growled, his voice a low thunderclap. He sent dark tendrils probing through Pune's night, searching for the source, but it danced beyond his reach, elusive as mist. "Show yourself, or I'll find you!"
The voice laughed, warm and mischievous, echoing in his mind. Find me? Oh, you're a bold one! I'm just a humble messenger, slipping through the cracks of the world. You're making waves, Amar—toppling ministers, building that little network. I'm intrigued. Let's meet, face to face. Shaniwar Wada, the gardens, tonight. Come alone, or I vanish like a dream.
Amar's fists clenched, his golden eyes blazing. "You know my name, my moves. If this is one of The Man's traps—"
Traps? Yawn, the voice cut in, dripping with amusement. I'm offering a chat, maybe a friendship. You'll want to hear this. Look for me under the stars. The presence faded, leaving a mental imprint—an address burned into Amar's mind: the gardens of Shaniwar Wada, Pune's ancient fort. He tried to trace it, shadows scouring the city, but the intruder was gone, a phantom beyond his grasp. "A proxy?" Amar muttered, frustration rising. "Or something worse?"
That night, Shaniwar Wada's gardens lay shrouded in silence, the fort's crumbling walls looming under a moonless sky. No guards, no wanderers—just the rustle of peepal leaves in the cool breeze. Amar teleported in, emerging from a shadow near an old fountain, his senses sharp, probing for ambushes. His shadows coiled, ready for battle. At the garden's heart, on a weathered stone bench, sat a lone figure—slender, draped in a flowing robe that shimmered faintly, as if spun from starlight. His face was half-hidden by a hood, his presence both human and otherworldly, like a riddle given form.
Amar approached, his voice low and edged with danger. "You. The Messenger. Step into the open. What do you want?"
The figure looked up, a wide grin glinting in the shadows, his eyes twinkling with ageless mischief. He raised his hands in a playful gesture of peace. "Easy, God of Darkness! No need for the scary shadow routine. I'm not here to fight. I'm here to… talk. Maybe share a laugh. Sit, sit! This bench has seen centuries—it's perfect for a cosmic chat."
Amar stayed rooted, shadows pulsing. "You invade my mind, lure me here, and expect trust? If you're a proxy, name your patron. Are you with The Man?"
The Messenger's laugh was bright, cutting through the garden's stillness like a melody. "The Man? That dour puppet-master? Please, he's all schemes and no fun. No, I'm the Messenger—a wanderer, a stirrer of pots. I've been watching you, Amar, and I'm impressed. Your crusade against the corrupt, your clever contracts—oh, it's a show!" He leaned forward, his hooded gaze piercing. "I'm a proxy, yes, but unbound. No primordial leash for me. I flit between, collecting secrets, sparking change."
Amar's eyes narrowed. "Unbound? No proxy's free of a patron. What's your game? Why watch me?"
The Messenger's grin turned sly. "Game? Oh, I love games! But this isn't one. I've seen your war with The Man—his traps, his puppets. He's clever, I'll give him that. Want a tidbit? He's tied to Sound, vibrating through minds, whispering control. That's how he bends people—ministers, soldiers, even that poor assistant, Sameer."
Amar's chaotic heart skipped. "Sound? That's his power? He controls through vibrations?"
"Exactly!" the Messenger said, clapping once. "A hum, a word, and they dance to his tune. But you? Your Darkness muffles him. Quite the cosmic joke, eh?" He leaned back, eyes twinkling. "Now, tell me about yourself, Amar. How'd you become this storm of justice? What drives that chaotic heart?"
Amar crossed his arms, wary but intrigued. "You don't get to pry without giving more. If you're not his ally, what do you want with me?"
The Messenger's voice softened, almost sincere. "I want to understand you. You're not just a proxy—you're different. A force. And I'm curious." He tilted his head, his grin returning. "What about that girl, Ria? She's fiery, bound to you by contract. What's her story? That spark in her—does it light your shadows?"
Amar tensed, his voice sharp. "Leave Ria out of this. If you're serious, give me The Man's location. Or something I can use."
The Messenger sighed dramatically, standing, his robe shimmering like liquid night. "So serious! Fine, we'll talk more. Same place, tomorrow night. I'll bring another secret—maybe juicier. Think about my offer, friend. You're shaking the world, and I'd love a front-row seat." He stepped back, his form flickering, but Amar's shadows stayed poised, his mind racing with the Messenger's words.
"You're not leaving yet," Amar said, voice firm. "We're not done."
The Messenger's laughter echoed, soft and elusive. "Oh, we're just starting, God of Darkness. Tomorrow, then." and he vanished, his presence Gone. Amar stood up, the garden tense with their unfinished talk, and no trace left of the messenger, only the promise of more revelations hanging in the air.