An hour later, in the Principal's office, Shiva sat across the table, his posture stiff, hands resting on the polished wood as if nothing had happened.
The Principal and the discipline teacher faced him, shock and confusion etched into their faces.
"Ya Allah… you were so devoted, so devoted to your studies for two entire years," the Principal began, voice trembling slightly. "And suddenly… you acted like this?"
Shiva's gaze didn't waver. His scarlet eyes were cold, empty, unreadable.
"You weren't even the one being bullied," the discipline teacher added, leaning forward, trying to understand. "So why? Why did you do that?"
The room fell into a heavy silence. The rain outside tapped insistently against the windows, like a drumbeat echoing the tension.
Shiva's lips moved slowly, measured. "…They were being loud."
"Come again?" the discipline teacher asked, voice sharp, disbelief rising.
"They… were too loud," Shiva said, his tone flat, emotionless. "That's why I stabbed him."
The words hung in the air, chilling. Both adults froze, their minds struggling to process the casual brutality in the young boy's confession.
The Principal's hand trembled as he gripped the edge of the desk. "You… stabbed him? In the eye?"
Shiva's eyes flicked to the side, unbothered. "Yes. Left eye. Destroyed the socket. He screamed. It was… loud."
The discipline teacher's chair creaked as he leaned back, pale. "Do you… even understand what you've done? That boy… he could have—"
"I know exactly what I did," Shiva interrupted, his voice cold and sharp as broken glass. His hands clenched on the desk, knuckles whitening. "He was disturbing. I removed the problem."
The Principal swallowed hard. His voice lowered, almost whispering. "This… this is beyond anything we've ever seen in this school."
Shiva's expression didn't change. He was calm, almost clinical, as if describing a math problem rather than a murder.
The faint smell of blood still clung to his school uniform, and the cuffs were smeared with dark streaks that no washing could erase.
"…And the others?" the discipline teacher asked, voice tight.
"They ran," Shiva said simply. "Some screamed. I… didn't chase them." His eyes drifted toward the window, the rain streaking the glass like tears over a city that never mourned.
The Principal leaned forward, voice almost breaking. "Shiva… this is serious. You're fourteen. This isn't just school discipline… this—this is criminal. You could go to juvie… or worse."
Shiva's gaze snapped back, piercing. "I don't care."
The silence returned, heavier than before. The rain pounded harder, matching the heartbeat of a boy who had just realized the world could be cut down to silence by his own hands.
For a moment, both adults were rooted to the spot, horrified by the deadly composure of a boy so young, yet so far beyond their understanding of right and wrong.
Shiva leaned back in his chair, his scarlet eyes reflecting the pale fluorescent lights of the office.
A faint smirk tugged at his lips as he added quietly, almost to himself, "Next time… I won't just stab. I'll make sure they never scream again."
Outside, the city seemed oblivious, the rain washing over streets that had no idea a storm of violence was already taking root within the walls of SMK Raja Lumu.
A knock came from the door. The Principal looked up as it opened and a woman stepped inside, soaked slightly from the rain.
"Excuse me," she said breathlessly. "I'm Aisha Bhairava… mother of my son, Shiva Bhairava."
The Principal scanned her appearance—clothes worn, slightly ragged, hair messy from rushing under the rain.
He gestured for her to enter and began explaining the situation: the violence, the stabbing, Shiva's cold confession.
Aisha listened without flinching. Then she reached into her handbag and pulled out a folded document.
"This is his medical record," she said softly.
The Principal opened it. His face shifted as he read.
"D… delusional syndrome?" he muttered, eyes widening at the diagnosis.
"Yes," Aisha replied, her voice steady but tired. "My son has delusional syndrome. Apparently, he forgot his meds today. He told me he came here just to make a phone call at the public booth near your school. I suppose… it acted up, and I arrived too late."
The Principal sighed deeply.
"Your husband… Bhairava? As in… Kaala Bhairava?"
Aisha pressed her lips together. "Yes. My husband is Kaala Bhairava."
The discipline teacher leaned down toward the Principal and whispered, almost trembling, "Sir… the Bhairava family… their company funds half the school. If this goes up the chain—"
Understanding flashed in the Principal's eyes. His posture changed instantly.
He cleared his throat. "Aisha… Shiva must be kept in check. He must take his medication strictly. No exceptions."
Aisha nodded.
Soon after, the mother and son left the office. The hallway was quiet, the rain outside muffled through the walls.
Aisha sighed and finally spoke. "I told you to hold it."
"You can't expect me to hold it in, Mom," Shiva answered, his tone calm, empty, too mature for a fourteen-year-old.
Aisha stopped walking and turned to him. "Shiva… picture those chains over there."
Shiva looked toward the storage corner where old rusted chains were coiled. His eyes focused sharply, almost too sharply.
Aisha crouched slightly so she was eye level with him. Her voice softened with a pain she carried for years.
"Those chains are like me," she said.
"Trapped in this arranged marriage set up by my parents. Forced to run and hide while defending myself from your father… and his three concubines. Living with them, I can handle. Their cruelty, I got used to."
She exhaled shakily. "But you… Shiva, I'm afraid you might end up like him."
Shiva's gaze lowered. "So… am I a mistake?"
Aisha let out a soft laugh—sad, warm, and trembling. She shook her head and placed her gentle hand on his cheek.
"You're the greatest thing the gods have given me," she whispered.
Shiva's eyes flickered, the sharpness easing.
"Wanna know why I named you Shiva?" she asked.
"Because you're a devotee of him?" he guessed.
"No," she said, brushing his hair aside. "Shiva represents destruction. And you, my son… are that destruction. Not by choice, but because of your delusional syndrome. You were diagnosed at only eight months old."
Shiva looked down at his hands, the same hands that had stabbed a boy without hesitation.
"I can try to hold it again if you want, Mother."
Aisha smiled—tired, loving, worn—and reached up to pinch his cheek as though he were still her baby.
"That's my boy," she whispered.
Outside, thunder rumbled.
Inside, the mother held onto her son—not knowing she was holding onto a storm destined to swallow the world.
As the days passed, Shiva continued with his studies. His focus never wavered, his pen moving steadily across his notes as if nothing in the world could touch him.
But the school had changed.
Many classmates avoided him after what he had done to the fat bully.
Some whispered praise—quiet, fearful admiration.
Others mocked from a distance, too scared to get close.
The rest kept their heads down and pretended nothing had happened.
Then, one afternoon, the delinquent girl approached him.
Rui Yan.
Without hesitation, she pulled out the chair beside him and sat down, a lollipop in her mouth, legs casually crossed.
"Sup," she said.
Shiva didn't respond. He didn't even look at her.
"...."
The entire class watched in stunned silence, waiting for a pen to go through her skull next. Some whispered she was suicidal. Others thought she was just dumb.
But instead of provoking him, Rui Yan reached into her bag and pulled out an English workbook.
"Say," she said, tapping the page with her lollipop stick. "Can you help me with English? I kinda suck at this."
"Find someone else," Shiva replied coldly.
Instead of backing off, she leaned closer, pouting. "Aww, pretty please…?"
Shiva exhaled sharply. "If I help you, will you leave me alone?"
"That depends," she smirked.
Against his better judgment, Shiva helped her with her English. And then the next day. And the next. And the next.
From weeks to months, she came to him with questions, worksheets, and excuses just to sit beside him.
It annoyed him.
Yet… somehow, he didn't mind. It was the closest thing he had to something normal.
Soon, months became years.
They reached their final year together.
And then, one morning, Rui Yan casually leaned back against his table and said:
"Say, wanna start dating?"
The entire classroom froze. Heads turned. Pens dropped. Rumors, which had always existed in whispers, suddenly exploded in the silence.
Shiva looked up from his book. "Will it bother me?"
"Depends," she said with a teasing smile. "If you want it to."
"Then no—"
Before he could finish, Rui Yan grabbed his collar and kissed him right in front of everyone.
The class gasped. A few cheered. One fainted.
Rui Yan pulled back with a wicked grin, fingers brushing through his black hair.
"Dare you to say no to me, handsome."
"Tch… bitch," Shiva muttered, grabbing the back of her neck and pulling her into an even deeper kiss.
The room erupted.
When they finally separated, Rui Yan looked satisfied, mischief gleaming in her eyes. Shiva, however, looked more annoyed than flustered.
Later, he told his mother.
Aisha practically lit up with joy and demanded to meet the girl immediately.
Shiva brought Rui Yan home—not to the Bhairava main house, but to the small, run-down place where he and his mother lived far from the mafia's reach. Rui Yan fit into their world without hesitation, without fear.
As the years passed, Shiva studied relentlessly.
Until finally—
he walked across stages in both Oxford and Cambridge, earning doctorates in Law and Criminology.
Delusional syndrome or not, Shiva Bhairava carved his name into history through pure, brutal determination.
And years later, he rose as a prosecutor—
merciless, surgical, unstoppable.
He plummeted the wrong, tore apart corruption, and dismantled criminals without mercy.
He became the blade of justice.
The storm his mother had feared.
And the destruction his name had always promised.
In his office, Shiva finished typing the last line of his statement.
The room was silent except for the scratch of his pen and the distant hum of traffic bleeding through the window.
A sharp knock broke the stillness.
"Sir, your meeting is almost about to begin," his subordinate said as she stepped in—straight posture, professional, but clearly nervous in front of him.
"Alright. I'll be there."
The meeting room carried the weight of authority—mahogany table, dim lights, and a tension that rose the moment Shiva stepped inside.
He connected the slides with a tap of the remote, his expression carved from stone.
"Shula Group," Shiva began, his voice echoing across the room as the first slide appeared.
"They're a new company, so some of you might not know them. Primarily, they run loan businesses… but they're branching into several other sectors."
He clicked again.
A photo flashed on the screen: a man stepping out of a BMW sedan, tailored suit, smug posture.
"In just one year, they reported RM 1.4 billion in pure profit. Their growth rate is abnormal."
One of the department heads frowned. "That's impressive, but—where's the issue?"
Shiva didn't hesitate.
"They look legitimate from the outside… but that's not the truth."
He clicked to the next slide.
The screen shifted to images: grainy surveillance shots, blurred faces, vandalized storefronts, hospital records disguised as "accident reports."
"Shula Group has absorbed multiple gangs nationwide. Their influence is no longer corporate—it's criminal."
A ripple of unease spread around the table.
"With more power comes more crime. Their operations include extortion, blackmail, forced contracts, physical assault… and yes—murder, when necessary."
He clicked again.
The final slide appeared.
A man with razor-sharp eyes and an aura that made the room feel colder. The name beside him burned like a curse:
Kaala Bhairava.
"The one supporting them," Shiva said, voice low and steady.
"Their backbone. Their shadow. Their king."
He turned to face the room fully.
"And he is currently a national assembly member."
No one spoke.
The silence was suffocating.
Shiva's stare didn't waver.
Because he wasn't just revealing a criminal.
He was revealing his father.
"KAALA BHAIRAVA?! THE Kaala Bhairava?!"
Voices exploded across the room.
Gasps. Panic. A few chairs scraped backward.
After all—Kaala Bhairava wasn't just a crime lord in the shadows anymore.
He was a presidential candidate for Malaysia's next Prime Minister.
Shiva didn't blink.
His face stayed empty, dead calm, as if their shock meant nothing.
"Yes," he said. "He is the true owner of Shula Group. And he is directly involved in every incident I presented."
The room fell into an uneasy silence.
The department heads exchanged looks, then abruptly called the meeting off.
"Everyone is dismissed. Shiva—stay."
One by one, the members left until only Shiva and the department head remained.
The air was heavy, cold.
The head crossed his arms, studying Shiva with an unreadable expression.
"Hey," he said flatly, "don't overwork yourself just for a promotion. Or did another agency scout you?"
"No," Shiva replied immediately.
"Then what is it? Why are you so obsessed with this case?"
Shiva's gaze drifted. His mind pulled him back—months earlier.
To his mother, Aisha.
She had stood in the kitchen doorway, wringing her hands, her voice trembling.
"I told you it's not an obsession, Mother," Shiva said in that memory.
"My job is to investigate if there is a crime being committed."
"I know, I know…" Aisha whispered, head lowered. "But please… I want you to turn a blind eye. Just this once."
Shiva could feel it—his syndrome tightening inside him, twisting, shifting, reacting to the tone in her voice.
Her fear tasted wrong.
Her plea felt… dangerous.
"Someone has to do it," he had said.
"I'm busy. Please go back."
He turned to leave—until her voice struck him like a blade.
"My son… the chains are rusting."
Shiva froze mid-step.
Aisha continued, her voice breaking.
"Please give it up, Shiva. Otherwise… I fear even you won't be able to stop this."
He turned.
She stood there with a pleading smile—that tragic, trembling smile only a mother can make when she knows she's about to lose something precious.
"Please listen to your mother," she whispered, "…just this once."
Shiva drifted back into reality, blinking once before focusing on the department head.
"I have no other reason," he answered calmly. "I'm just doing my job."
The head sighed, rubbing his temples.
"Of course you are. And you do it damn well," he admitted. "But you're not the only one working on this, Shiva. And Kaala Bhairava is a presidential candidate. If things go wrong, the entire Public Prosecutor's Office starts its term on the wrong foot with the possible future Prime Minister."
He crossed his arms, then gave a tired, mocking laugh.
"Well, you'd probably say you don't care. But our lives are at stake. So let's leave it be, yeah?"
A phone began vibrating on the table.
Caller ID flashing: Bhairava.
The head straightened instantly and answered with a syrupy, polite voice no one had ever heard him use before.
"H–hello, sir. Yes, of course. Good afternoon, Mr. Bhairava—"
Shiva turned toward the door, ready to leave the room.
Until the head's voice suddenly cracked mid-sentence.
"Sorry? …What did you say?"
His expression changed—color draining, eyes widening.
Slowly, he lifted his gaze toward Shiva.
"Uh… Mr. Bhairava," he said, swallowing hard.
"Haven't you received a message on your phone yet?"
Shiva stopped.
His body stilled, breath tightening.
The head hesitated, then spoke the words that split the room in half.
"…Your mother has passed away."
Silence.
A heavy, suffocating silence.
Shiva's head turned slightly, just enough for his red eyes to catch the light.
And then—
they changed.
A shadow bled through the scarlet.
The faint color of blood pooled deeper, spreading like cracks across a mirror.
Something inside him snapped.
The delusional syndrome—
the beast he chained for years—
finally tore free.
Shiva's gaze darkened, hollow, unrecognizable.
The world around him drowned into a dim, crimson haze.
---
Chapter 2 — End.