Amar teleported back to his Koregaon Park apartment, materializing in the dim glow of his living room. The monsoon's rain drummed steadily against the windows, a soothing counterpoint to his racing thoughts. Shadows swirled around him, restless, as he paced the woven charpoy. "Who are you, Messenger?" he muttered, his golden eyes narrowing. He closed his eyes, extending his senses through the darkness, tendrils probing Pune's night—alleys, rooftops, the fort's lingering echoes. He searched for any trace: a shimmer of starlight, a whisper of mischief, a flicker of that elusive presence. But nothing. The Messenger had vanished without a ripple, as if he'd never been. "Gone like smoke," Amar growled, frustration boiling in his chaotic heart. "No trail, no essence. What kind of proxy are you?"
He sank onto the charpoy, his mind turning to the revelations. The Man—a proxy of Sound. Vibrations controlling minds, echoes bending wills. "Sound," Amar said aloud, testing the word. "That explains the whispers, the suicides, the blind obedience. He tunes people like instruments, plays them in his symphony of corruption." His shadows tightened, dimming the room's light. "But Darkness swallows sound. Muffles it. That's my edge." He leaned back, contemplating. "If I can silence him—block his waves—I can break his hold. But how? Contracts protect my allies, but to strike him directly…"
The night stretched on, Amar's thoughts a whirlwind. He waited, the hours crawling toward the next midnight, his resolve hardening. But doubt gnawed— the Messenger's words echoed, teasing. Unbound? A wanderer? Amar needed guidance. He closed his eyes, calling inward, shadows deepening into a cosmic void. The Darkness stirred, its presence filling the room like a vast, rumbling ocean, ancient and amused.
"Amar," the Darkness intoned, its voice a deep cosmic echo, vibrating through Amar's bones. "You seek counsel. Speak."
Amar's voice was steady, urgent. "I met someone—a proxy, or so he claims. Calls himself the Messenger. Slipped into my mind, lured me to Shaniwar Wada. He's… different. Playful, mischievous, like a trickster from old tales. He revealed The Man's secret: a proxy of Sound, controlling through vibrations, whispers that bend minds."
The Darkness hummed, a low rumble like distant thunder. "Sound… yes, that fits. Echoes to ensnare, harmonies to command. Your Darkness devours such noise—use it. Muffle his song, and his puppets fall silent."
Amar nodded, shadows swirling faster. "And the Messenger? He knows too much—my name, my contracts, even Ria. Claims he's unbound, no primordial leash. Says he's watched me for months, wants to be 'friends.' He's elusive, vanishes without trace. Who is he?"
The Darkness chuckled, a vast, echoing amusement that shook the room. "Ah, the Messenger. An old fellow, that one. I've glimpsed him here and there, flitting through the eons like a capricious wind. A trickster, yes—not evil, but mischievous to his core. He stirs pots, weaves riddles, dances on the edge of chaos and order. If you can make him a friend, Amar, he knows much—secrets of the primordials, whispers of the world, threads of fate. But beware his whims; he aids on a fancy, not loyalty."
Amar's golden eyes opened, the void receding as the Darkness faded. "A trickster ally," he murmured, rising. "Mischievous, not evil. If he knows the committee's games, The Man's weaknesses… I need him." His chaotic heart steadied, purpose igniting. He moved to his desk, shadows illuminating notes. "What to ask tomorrow? The Man's location? The committee's plans? How to silence Sound?" He jotted questions, contemplating. "And Ria—why his interest? I'll probe, but carefully. Turn his games to my advantage."
The night wore on, Amar preparing, his mind sharp as a blade. The Messenger's revelations had armed him, the Darkness's words guided him. Tomorrow, the garden would yield more—or unravel new mysteries. Shadows swirled, ready for the dawn.