Akshran thought he'd have control over his death.
The room was a coffin disguised as an interrogation chamber. White walls closed in on him, the buzzing fluorescent light overhead casting sharp shadows across his face. The air was stale, heavy with the metallic tang of blood and sweat. His wrists ached against the leather straps binding him to the chair. Not that it mattered. There was no escaping this. Not this time.
They had him.
The steel door clanged shut behind him, sealing away whatever sliver of freedom still existed beyond. The sound reverberated in his chest, a final, mocking echo of everything he'd lost. He let his head rest against the chair, his breaths slow and deliberate. Not out of calm—he wasn't calm. But fear? No. That wasn't it, either. What gnawed at him was the one thing he couldn't stand: powerlessness.
In the mirrored glass, Akshran caught his reflection and barely recognized it. His once sharp, commanding face looked hollow, worn.
But something made him pause—his reflection stared back with unnerving intensity, a flicker of movement where there should've been none. He blinked, and it was gone.
Bruises marked his jaw and temple, reminders of their failed attempts to break him. He looked like a man drained of everything that once made him... him.
Except his mind. That, they couldn't touch.
Across the mirrored glass, he could hear muffled voices. The suits. The watchers. They weren't waiting for a confession; they didn't need one. They wanted closure. Justice. Or maybe just a clean end to the mess he'd made. It didn't matter. They'd already decided his fate.
The door hissed open, and Detective Greer stepped in, his boots heavy on the tiled floor. Greer. The man who had dedicated years—his entire life, really—to hunting Akshran. His hair was grey now, his face lined with exhaustion. He'd won the battle, but it had cost him everything. Akshran couldn't help but think Greer looked more like a ghost than a man.
Greer didn't speak at first. He didn't need to. The silence was enough, heavy and suffocating, filling the room like smoke.
"Akshran," Greer said, his tone even, measured. "You look like hell."
"Funny," Akshran replied, finally lifting his head. "I was about to say the same about you,"
Greer smirked faintly, the kind of expression that didn't reach his eyes. He pulled a chair from the corner and sat down across from Akshran, setting something on the table between them. A syringe. Sleek, efficient, filled with a dark, viscous liquid that seemed to absorb the room's light.
Akshran's gaze settled on the syringe. "So that's it, huh? After all these years, you're going to kill me with a needle?"
"It's not about how," Greer said, leaning back in his chair. "It's about making sure you're gone. No trial. No headlines. Just silence. You'll disappear. Like you were never here."
The dark liquid glinted under the harsh light, a symbol of inevitability Akshran couldn't ignore. Fear was long gone—what lingered was irony. After all his power and planning, it ended like this: clinical, quiet. But death wasn't an eraser. It was a pivot, a transition. The only question was what lay beyond.
Akshran chuckled, low and dry. "You really think I didn't plan for this?"
"I don't know," Greer admitted. "And that's the part that scares me."
The room fell silent. The two men studied each other, their hatred simmering just beneath the surface. But beneath the hatred, there was something else—a grudging respect, a recognition of the years they had spent locked in this private war. Each of them had been the other's greatest challenge, greatest failure, and greatest obsession.
"You know," Akshran said after a moment, his voice quieter now, "if things had been different, I think we might've been friends."
Greer snorted. "Don't insult me."
"It's not an insult," Akshran replied. "You're good at what you do, Greer. Better than I ever gave you credit for. And, honestly… I respect that."
Greer's expression hardened, but there was something in his eyes—a flicker of acknowledgement. "Don't try to humanize this. You don't get to make this about respect, admiration, or whatever story you're trying to tell yourself to make it easier. You killed people, Akshran. Good people. And now, you pay the price."
Akshran met his gaze, unflinching. "I never said I didn't deserve it."
Greer didn't respond. Instead, he reached for the syringe. The needle glinted under the harsh light as he held it up, studying it for a moment before turning back to Akshran.
"This isn't about winning," Greer said, the weight of his own words pulling his shoulders lower. "It's about making sure you can't hurt anyone else." His fingers hovered over the syringe, tightening just enough to betray a flicker of hesitation. This moment had loomed large in his mind. Now, standing here, it felt smaller than he expected. Not a triumph. Just… an ending.
"You tell yourself that, Greer," Akshran said, his voice low, almost amused. "If it helps you sleep at night."
Greer didn't respond right away. He studied Akshran, his jaw tightening. The syringe in his hand felt heavier than it should have.
For years, Greer had dreamed of this moment. He was certain that Akshran's death would bring peace—not just for the families of his victims, but for himself.
Now, staring at the man strapped to the chair, doubt crept in. Would justice bring closure? Or had he sacrificed his own life to an obsession?
"It's not about me," he said finally, his voice sharper than he intended.
Greer stepped closer, the syringe gleaming between his fingers. "Any last words, Akshran?"
Akshran finally looked up, meeting Greer's tired, triumphant gaze. He didn't blink. Didn't flinch. Slowly, a smile tugged at the corners of his lips—not one of fear or regret, but the kind that could twist a knife in a man's gut.
"Tell me something," Akshran said, his voice barely a whisper now. "What happens to you when I'm gone? Who do you become when there's no one left to chase?"
For a moment, neither of them moved. The tension in the room was palpable, thick enough to choke on. Then, without another word, Greer drove the needle into Akshran's arm and pressed the plunger.
The liquid hit his veins like fire. Heat coursed through him, sharp and unrelenting, his muscles jerking involuntarily. His vision blurred, the room tilting violently as the light above him flickered. But even as his body betrayed him, he kept his focus on Greer.
Greer didn't look away. He watched, his expression unreadable, as Akshran's body seized against the restraints.
The room blurred. The walls, the glass, the light—they all swirled together, twisting and distorting as his senses began to collapse. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, erratic and fading.
For the first time, panic clawed at him. Not fear—Akshran wasn't afraid of dying. But the realization that this was truly the end.Or was it? A flicker of a thought, unwelcome and undeniable, slithered into his mind: endings are merely thresholds.
No more moves. No more plans. Just… nothing. Power had been his only currency, the lifeblood of his existence. For decades, he'd hoarded, wielded, letting it consume him. And now, stripped of it all, he wondered what would remain. Would the world remember the empire he built? Or only the blood he spilt along the way? He had forgotten he cared once, long ago, before the power devoured everything. Was that regret? No. Regret was for the weak. But the hollow ache in his chest told a different story.
'If only I could get another chance, would I truly be able to reach it?' The thought came unbidden, a fleeting spark of hope before the void yawned wide.
The fire in his veins turned to ice. His chest felt heavy like a weight was crushing him from the inside. His breaths grew shallow, each more of a struggle than the last.
'This is it,' he thought. 'This is how it ends. Not with a bang, but a slow, suffocating whimper.'
His vision darkened, the edges closing in like a noose. The last thing he saw was Greer's face, blurred and fading, before the darkness swallowed everything.
---
For a moment, there was silence. True silence. The kind that doesn't echo. The kind that presses down on you, like the whole world is holding its breath.
Darkness pressed against him, heavy and unyielding, like the weight of the grave. For a moment, there was nothing. No sound. No breath. No thought. Just the cold embrace of the void.
Then, a sound—no, a presence.
"AKSHRAN."
It wasn't a whisper. It wasn't a shout. It was something deeper, something that pierced through the darkness and struck his very core.