A few days later, at Shin-Zhang Corporation, the air in Madam Di-Xian's office felt almost corporeal with tension, thick and weighty like a velvet curtain suffocating the senses. The muted glow of her brass-shaded desk lamp threw elongated shadows upon the lacquered floorboards, each silhouette dancing like spectres of the past. Before her stood five figures—Jun, Farhan, Masud, Roy, and Agent-90—assembled in grim anticipation.
At her side, Alvi stood statuesque, one hand clutching a dossier fat with documents, the other holding a neatly folded newspaper. Her hawk-like eyes flickered between the assembled agents, her body taut with restrained urgency. Madam Di-Xian herself reclined imperiously in her chair, her fingers steepled in thought, her expression a portrait of composed severity.
It was Jun, ever the irreverent one, who dared to rupture the silence. "Madam, something troubles you. Is it amiss?" His usual levity faltered, his voice carrying uncharacteristic gravity.
Madam Di-Xian exhaled a long, weary sigh, her gaze heavy as lead. "Read this," she instructed, her voice low yet immovable, gesturing toward her computer. A pen drive glimmered in the dim light, its contents ominously summoned to the screen.
Jun leaned in, his grin evaporating as he scanned the lines. He began to read aloud, his tone stripped of all frivolity. The others drew closer, curiosity withering into horror.
'In the Shadowmire Isles, in a village named Gazhutan Brudhan, 1,036,499 women and 22,349,700 girls aged five to eighteen were brutally gang-raped by a mob. The police attempted to intervene but failed, as political negligence and governmental incompetence shattered the last fragments of trust among the people.'
The words hung in the air like a death knell. A silence, oppressive as an iron shroud, cloaked the room.
Masud's fists tightened until his knuckles blanched, his whole frame trembling with a rage barely contained. Farhan lowered his gaze, jaw clenched so tightly it seemed his teeth might splinter; his lips compressed into a line as though to barricade the torrent of curses pressing against them. Jun's eyes darkened, his playful flame smothered, as he reread the horror, his shoulders stiffening as though he bore its weight upon his back.
Agent-90 adjusted his spectacles, the movement precise, deliberate. His crystalline blue eyes flashed with glacial fury. "This is abhorrent," he declared, his voice brittle and sharp as cracking ice upon a frozen lake.
Yet Roy was the most chilling of them all. His expression remained outwardly calm, eerily still, but behind the faint reflection of his glasses, his eyes burned—searing, incandescent, like a furnace barely caged. When he spoke, his words were measured, deliberate, heavy as a judge's gavel. "This is not merely a crime. It is an atrocity—an abomination upon the very fabric of humanity."
Farhan, unable to restrain his bewilderment, snapped, "Madam! How did you get this case file? It bears the sigil of the SSCBF—the dandelion petals seal is plain upon it."
Madam Di-Xian inclined her head, her tone calm, almost detached. "Agent-90 retrieved it—from Captain Robert Voreyevsky."
Every gaze in the room swivelled toward Agent-90. He stood unflinching, a statue carved from granite, offering no explanation beyond the unassailable stillness of his bearing.
Farhan pressed further, "But—how?"
"It matters not," Madam Di-Xian interjected, her voice cutting like tempered steel. "What matters is that we hunt this monster before the world drowns further in his vileness."
Her gaze turned briefly to Alvi. "You decrypted the communications?"
Alvi nodded and stepped forward, laying the file upon the desk. "The perpetrators form a cult-like horde known as Kala Dandakaranya," she said, her voice precise, resonant. "Its leader: Viram Borty—infamously christened The Rapeman. He is wealthy, ruthless, and unspeakably dangerous. A sociopath who lives above consequence, his immunity bought and bartered by his father's gold and political sinews."
Madam Di-Xian's eyes narrowed, her tone laced with contempt. "He has slithered out of justice time and again. His father shields him, draping a cloak of influence to conceal his son's putrescence, sacrificing lives for the sanctity of reputation."
Agent-90's voice sliced through the air, cold and merciless. "A sociopath cowering beneath his father's purse strings. He is not like Yang Xiao Lang—no, this vermin is something fouler. Another order of monstrosity."
Roy's composure fractured at last; his fingers twitched, his body quivered with pent-up violence, as though the mere mention of Viram's name ignited gunpowder in his veins. "Permission to handle this," he said, his tone controlled, yet trembling with restrained fury, each syllable weighed with deadly intent.
Madam Di-Xian studied him for a breath, her gaze a scalpel dissecting his composure. At last, she inclined her head. "You shall have your chance, Roy. But remember—anger is a double-edged blade. Wield it, lest it devour you."
Roy gave no reply. With a single curt nod, he turned and strode out, his steps echoing like distant war-drums.
Beyond the office, in the marbled corridors, Hecate and Hella wandered together. Their conversation, at once flippant and sombre, floated between them like cigarette smoke curling in the dim light.
"Working under Lady Sin," Hecate mused, her tone dry as dust, "felt like drowning in venom—a slow suffocation. Now here we are, playing saviours of mankind. It reeks of irony."
"At least this time it matters," Hella countered, her voice more buoyant, yet still laced with gravity. "No more shadow-bargains. No more puppetry. Just… justice."
Their chatter ceased as they noticed Roy striding down the opposite hall, his gait stormbound, his eyes thunderous.
"Shall we follow?" Hella whispered, curiosity gleaming in her eyes.
"No," Hecate murmured, though her gaze lingered, intrigued. "He wears the face of one who walks with ghosts. Leave him to them."
"Too bad," Hella smirked. "I'm following anyway."
In the restroom, the fluorescent light flickered erratically, strobing Roy's figure in fractured illumination. He leaned over the porcelain sink, cold water dripping from his face, his hands clutching the basin as though it were the last barrier between him and oblivion.
His reflection betrayed him: calm mask cracked, fury seething beneath. From his pocket he drew a small locket, opening it with reverence. Inside—an image of a little girl, bright-eyed, a smile as radiant as dawn, her hair bound with a pink ribbon. Roy's lips quivered as he pressed them to the photograph.
"Do not fear, Natasha," he whispered, his voice fissuring. "I will make them pay for what they did to you."
A sudden knock jarred him back. He snapped upright, shoving the locket into his coat. "Who is it?" His voice, raw, cracked the silence.
The door opened to reveal Masud.
Relief softened Roy's tone. "Masud."
Masud stepped inside, his brow furrowed, eyes heavy with unspoken concern. "Are you well, my friend?"
Roy forced a smile, brittle as glass. "I am… fine."
Masud placed a steady hand upon his shoulder, firm yet fraternal. "We will have your justice, Roy. For Natasha. You will not walk this road alone."
"I thought tI forget those nightmare a long ago" Roy says, "when hearing this news from Shadowmire Isles it gives my blood boil"
Behind the half-closed door, two shadows lingered. Hecate and Hella, curiosity overcoming restraint, peered in.
"What are they saying?" Hella whispered, eyes wide.
Hecate rolled her eyes, unimpressed. "Eavesdropping makes you look like a child."
Masud, sensing eyes upon him, turned sharply—his hawk-like gaze meeting theirs. "And what, pray, do you two think you are doing?"
Hella froze, fumbling for words. "W-we were just—uh—passing by! Right, Hecate?"
Hecate smirked, entirely unbothered. "Passing by, overhearing your confessions. What's the great mission, Roy?"
Roy sighed, shoulders heavy, shaking his head. "It is not for your ears."
But Hella's eyes glittered with excitement, irrepressible. "A mission? Dangerous? Terrifying? Perfect."
Masud waved them away with impatient authority. "Child's play. Leave it."
As the two women slipped away down the corridor, Hella whispered with a grin, "It is something big, I know it."
Hecate shrugged, her expression unreadable. "Whatever it is, they will need us. They always do."
The underground hangar stretched vast and cavernous, a metallic basilica of industry where machines dozed in silence yet hummed with latent menace, as though dreaming of flight and destruction. Overhead lights flickered intermittently, their pallid glow elongating the agents' shadows into phantoms that slithered across the steel walls. The scent of jet fuel lingered—sharp, acrid, and unrelenting—mingling with the damp tang of oxidised iron, as if the air itself remembered war.
The five agents—Jun, Farhan, Masud, Roy, and the ever-composed Agent-90—moved with unwavering purpose, their boots striking the polished floor with echoes that reverberated like drumbeats in a requiem. Before them loomed their private plane: sleek, angular, and shrouded in darkness like a predator poised to spring. Its fuselage gleamed faintly beneath the fickle light, every contour sharp, predatory, uncompromising.
Alvi approached with clipped strides, a dossier pressed firmly in her grasp, her demeanour betraying neither haste nor hesitation. Though her expression remained composed, her hawk-like eyes carried the burden of intelligence too grave to be spoken lightly.
"Agents," she announced, her voice measured, cutting through the cavernous air. She extended the folder. "This contains the latest intelligence on Viram Borty and the Kala Shaar Dal—their hideouts, their alliances, their operational latticework."
Jun took the file, his usual mischievousness subdued as he scanned the first pages. His brows knit tightly, his levity receding like sunlight at dusk.
"Viram has entrenched himself within Shadowmire," Alvi continued. "His mobs operate as a hydra—decapitate one head and another writhes forth. But there is a vulnerability: their communication hub is centralised. Sever it, and their orchestration collapses into cacophony."
Masud gave a terse nod, his broad shoulders stiffening. "That is our entry point."
Her eyes softened ever so slightly as she turned towards Roy. "Roy, remember—this is not solely about vengeance. It is about justice. For all."
Roy's jaw tightened, though his silence spoke volumes. The muscles in his cheek twitched; his eyes, burning beneath his glasses, betrayed a storm shackled only by discipline. He gave her the briefest of nods.
The exchange ended with unspoken understanding, and the men filed into the plane. Its interior was equal parts luxury and lethality—sleek leather seats, retractable monitors, discreet compartments concealing an arsenal. A muted amber glow bathed the cabin, cultivating a space for contemplation, preparation, and inevitability.
As the reinforced hangar doors yawned open, moonlight spilled upon the fuselage, casting the aircraft in spectral silver. The engines roared awake, a bestial growl reverberating through steel and marrow alike. Alvi stood sentinel on the hangar floor, watching as the leviathan lifted into the void, swallowed whole by the obsidian night.
Once airborne, each agent retreated to ritual.
Jun traced the map of Shadowmire with his finger, annotating ingress points and exfiltration paths as though rehearsing a dance of inevitability.
Farhan disassembled and reassembled his weapons with mechanical precision, his hands moving faster than his eyes.
Masud hunched over schematics of the comms hub, his gaze ironclad, every line of his face a study in diligence.
Agent-90 sifted through encrypted transmissions, his gaze icy, his hands swift and exacting—every keystroke a scalpel incision into chaos.
At the cabin's rear, Roy sat alone. The locket in his palm glinted faintly under the dim lights. He traced its edges tenderly before opening it, revealing the photograph of a girl with ribbon-tied hair and a smile like dawn. Natasha. His thumb lingered over her face, reverence mingled with fury.
Jun, noticing, approached and laid a hand gently upon Roy's shoulder. His voice—so often flippant—emerged hushed, fraternal. "We'll get him, Roy. Viram. All his vermin. They'll bleed for what they've done."
Roy's voice trembled, controlled but raw. "They took everything. From her. From me. I will not permit them to ravage another soul."
Agent-90's gaze lifted briefly, his words colder than frost on steel. "Do not drown in wrath. Precision kills monsters; rage merely feeds them."
For a heartbeat their eyes locked—Roy's ablaze with fury, Agent-90's frigid with reason. Then Roy inclined his head faintly. "I will remember."
Jun, sensing the gravity, muttered with a crooked grin, "You know, 90, you'd make a marvellous life coach—if only you weren't terrifying."
Agent-90 returned to his terminal without a word, though the faintest twitch at his lips betrayed acknowledgement.
The descent into Shadowmire Isles was an intrusion into a nightmare. The plane cut through violent winds, slicing through storm and shadow alike, before touching ground upon sodden grassland with a bone-jarring thud.
The agents disembarked, their boots sinking into moss slick with mist. The air was thick, bitter with salt and decay, tinged with metallic tang as though the land itself bled.
The ruins stretched before them: jagged cliffs like broken teeth, lightning fracturing the heavens, and the skeletal silhouette of the central palace—once Atharva's citadel—now reduced to a cadaver of empire. Its gates hung rusted and sorrowful, its fractured spires clawing skyward like supplicants unheeded.
To the west sprawled the execution plaza: stones steeped in centuries of blood, crowned by a lone monument inscribed, "Tyranny Falls, Justice Rises." Its presence was both dirge and promise.
The isles whispered contradictions: mournful wind, funereal silence, bioluminescent flora glowing faintly like cursed jewels.
Farhan muttered, his voice low. "This place…" He could not finish.
Jun quipped, though his tone lacked buoyancy. "Idyllic, isn't it? Perfect for a first date—if one were courting despair."
Farhan smirked faintly, though his eyes remained guarded. "Not even the Night Stalkers would swipe right here."
Masud advanced, his baritone sombre. "The very stones exhale anguish. History is written in scars."
Roy, apart from the group, clenched his fist around the locket, his spectacles catching spectral light. His words seared the air. "And we are here to cauterise the wound."
Agent-90 flexed his gloved hands, eyes cold, voice surgical. "Mission first. No distractions. Monsters deserve no quarter."
Faint campfires shimmered upon the horizon—survivors huddled, their shadows wavering like restless spirits. Whispers carried on the gale: fragments of courage strung together from tatters of loss.
Roy looked toward the flames, his voice soft but resolute. "They deserve peace. We will deliver it."
Masud's hand settled firmly upon his shoulder. "Viram's reign ends here."
Agent-90's gaze cut toward Roy. "No mercy. No loose ends. Monsters must vanish without trace."
And so they advanced, swallowed into Shadowmire's depths—its shadows conspiring, its scars awaiting vengeance, its soil yearning for justice once more.
Jun tilted his wrist, the dim light of his tactical watch flickering across his face. The device pulsed faintly, a spectral glow mapping their quarry. His eyes narrowed as he traced the coordinates, the figures aligning with precision. He inhaled slowly, then leaned towards his comrades, his voice hushed yet edged with anticipation, like steel drawn halfway from its sheath.
"There," he whispered, pointing towards the map that shimmered upon the watch face. "Viram's den lies yonder—nested beyond the village's husk, a serpent coiled in shadow."
Roy's gaze followed the line Jun indicated. The gleam of his spectacles caught the bioluminescent glow of the flora, rendering his eyes momentarily otherworldly. His jaw clenched as though grinding down an oath, and his voice emerged low, deliberate, laden with weight.
"Then we tread where vipers thrive," Roy murmured, his fingers tightening around the locket hidden in his palm. "No matter the labyrinth, I shall find him—and end him."
A silence followed, not empty but brimming, as if the very air had been suspended in reverence of his resolve. The others looked upon Roy, their expressions softening, their lips curving into rare smiles—faint yet luminous, like dawn breaking through stormclouds.
Farhan broke the stillness, his grin carrying both mischief and solemnity. "Then let today be the day you lead us, Roy. Let your vengeance chart the course." His words carried no mockery; only faith.
Roy glanced at them, the stern lines of his face easing into a gentler contour. A faint smile, small as a crescent moon, stirred upon his lips. He inclined his head, his tone quiet but resonant, as though each syllable were carved into stone.
"Very well," he said softly. "I shall lead. Not for myself—nor for vengeance alone—but for her. For all."
His hand drifted briefly to the locket, brushing against it like a pilgrim at a shrine. The gesture was fleeting yet profound, his companions watching with silent understanding. The moment bound them—not with chains of command, but with the unspoken covenant of brothers-in-arms.
The agents donned their guises with swift precision, rough cloaks of coarse hemp and weather-beaten shawls that veiled their identities. Their boots, once polished, were dulled with dust and earth to mimic the weary trudge of peasants. Even Roy, whose eyes usually gleamed like surgical steel, allowed his spectacles to catch a faint smear of grime, dimming their dangerous glint.
Together, they moved into the village, their posture altered, shoulders hunched, strides slowed to echo the languor of the oppressed. From afar, they were but shades of the populace—embers within the ashes.
The villagers noticed them almost at once. A pair of women, faces worn by grief, clutched their children closer, eyes narrowing beneath threadbare veils. Men gathered in small knots by broken doorways, whispering as the strangers passed. The air carried their murmurs—half suspicion, half forlorn hope.
Jun, ever adept at masks, lowered his gaze and murmured beneath his breath, a smirk ghosting across his lips unseen by the others. "Feels almost theatrical, doesn't it? Like actors upon a cursed stage." His voice was but a breath, disguised beneath the shuffle of feet.
Masud, beside him, offered no reply save for a tightening of his jaw. His eyes, sombre and unyielding, scanned the street as though each broken wall were a witness to an unspeakable testimony.
Roy, leading at the fore, bore himself with a curious duality—his body hunched, humble, as though beaten by toil, yet his eyes, beneath the veneer, burned steady. His every step was measured, carrying a muted authority, like a priest walking through a desecrated temple.
From the alleys, children peeked out, their eyes wide, innocent yet fractured by fear. One boy, no older than ten, stared too long, his gaze snagged upon Roy's faintly gleaming spectacles. The boy whispered something to his sister, and she tugged him back into the shadows, vanishing like smoke.
Farhan bent his head slightly, lips twisting into a faint smile as he murmured for the others' ears alone. "We are already ghosts in their eyes—strangers draped in their sorrow."
Roy glanced back at him, his light smile returning for but a moment—thin, solemn, yet genuine, as if acknowledging both the truth and the tragedy of it. "Then let us haunt wisely," he whispered.
They pressed deeper into Gazhutan Brudhan, the ruins closing around them like the ribs of some long-dead beast. Every lantern that flickered dimly upon its post seemed to cast more suspicion than light, illuminating their path yet cloaking their intentions.
The weight of the villagers' stares followed them with every step, not unlike the eyes of the condemned following the priest who carries the final prayer.
And above it all, the storm-wracked sky seemed to brood in silence, as though the very heavens awaited the reckoning to come.
However, a figure slipped noiselessly through the labyrinth of shadows, moving with the furtive certainty of one well-accustomed to treachery. His gait was brisk yet soundless, each step a whisper upon the cobblestones. His destination lay ahead like a blight upon the horizon—the Kala Manzar Bhavan, once a mansion of grandeur, now a mausoleum of ruin and debauchery.
The edifice loomed, its façade weeping with mould and decay, shutters sagging like eyelids too weary to open. Inside, the atmosphere was rank—a miasma of stale spirits, sweat, and the faint, acrid tang of gun oil. The chandeliers, long extinguished, hung skeletal above the hall, their crystal teeth dulled with dust.
Vishit Mandraon, the informant, pushed open the warped doors and entered with a half-bow. His eyes, quick and nervous, flickered over the assembly of hardened men who sprawled upon decrepit furniture like carrion crows. The air throbbed with their jeering, crude laughter, and muttered blasphemies.
At the centre, enthroned upon a battered armchair as though it were a throne of bones, sat Viram. Heavyset, with slicked-back hair shining like oil, his face bore a perpetual sneer—part arrogance, part cruelty, as if the world itself existed merely to displease him. His thick fingers drummed idly upon the armrest, a rhythm both mocking and impatient.
"Boss," Vishit began, bowing lower, his voice pitched carefully between reverence and fear. "I bring word from Gazhutan Brudhan. The strangers who arrived—five of them—are no villagers. They move with purpose, cloaked in disguise. I suspect they are the very interlopers spoken of—the hunters from afar."
Viram's eyes, dark as tar pits, narrowed to slits. "Hunters?" His voice was low, a rumble like distant thunder.
Vishit swallowed his Adam's apple bobbing. "Aye, my lord. They walk among the peasants with feigned humility, but their bearing betrays them. Soldiers. Wolves in shepherd's raiment." He hesitated, then added, "And their path veers toward us. They come for you."
The room's mirth evaporated as though snuffed by a sudden wind. The laughter died, the smoke hung still. Every man's gaze shifted to Viram, awaiting his decree. The silence thickened until it could be carved with a blade.
Then, slowly, Viram's sneer twisted into a grin—cruel, predatory, a crescent moon over a battlefield. His teeth gleamed faintly in the jaundiced lamplight. "Is that so?"
From the shadows of the table, Suryant Laskari leaned forward, his scarred face lit by the wavering glow of a half-burnt candle. "What's your command, boss?" His tone was reverent, but his eyes glittered with the hunger of a hound awaiting blood.
Viram rose to his feet. His bulk cast a looming silhouette upon the wall, monstrous and distorted in the flickering light. He stretched his neck with a crack and then gestured with two fingers, dragging them mockingly across his throat.
The men erupted in laughter, a guttural chorus that rattled the rotting beams above. Their mirth was vile, echoing in the hollow chamber like the cackle of hyenas over a carcass.
"Listen well," Viram intoned, his voice now sharpened to a cruel clarity. "Suryant, double the guards along the perimeter. No rat crawls in, no ghost slips out."
His eyes flicked toward two wiry men slouched near the door. "Manikhilam, Madhujay—spread fear like fire. Whisper into the ears of the villagers. Remind them of their place. Let them choke on dread until they cannot breathe."
He turned next to a pair crouched beside a table littered with broken bottles and rusted blades. "Amritin, Rakeshor—lay the snares. Make the very ground rebel beneath their boots. I want the soil itself to devour them."
Finally, his gaze settled upon Vishit. The grin widened, vulpine and venomous. "And you, my little shadow… keep your eyes sharp. Watch them. Herd them, if you can. When night descends, we shall hunt the villagers like deer in the thicket. Their screams shall be our trumpet."
Vishit nodded hastily, bowing so low his forehead nearly touched the cracked floor. Sweat glistened upon his brow as he retreated toward the door, his heart hammering with the terror of both loyalty and betrayal.
Behind him, Viram's laughter burst forth, jagged and cruel as shattered glass ground underfoot. It echoed in the hall, reverberating off walls already steeped in despair, a dirge masquerading as mirth.
And in that ruinous hall, the air itself seemed to curdle—an omen of carnage yet to come.
At the derelict rucksack house upon the village's fringe, its timbers groaning like an old man's lungs, the five agents huddled close around the faint cerulean glow of Roy's holographic watch. The ghostly projection of the Kala Manzar Bhavan flickered in the air before them—walls, guards, choke-points—all bathed in spectral light like a phantom fortress.
Roy's eyes glinted behind his spectacles as he traced the perimeter with a steady finger. His voice was taut, low, a whisper meant for conspirators. "Their mansion bristles with sentinels—guards posted at every ingress, their vigilance like hounds starved and straining at the leash."
Masud folded his arms, his brow creased with thought. "So, how shall we breach it?" His tone carried the weight of earnest calculation, his eyes darting across the hologram as though searching for unseen fissures.
Farhan leaned back upon a splintered beam, his lips twitching into a half-grin that betrayed his reckless streak. "In disguise." His voice dripped with roguish bravado, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of anxiety.
Jun smirked, cocking his head as though a mischief had taken root in his mind. "Yes—but not merely in disguise. We will be one of them." His words fell with an almost impish relish, his eyes glinting like a gambler laying down a bold wager.
Masud bristled. "So how, precisely, do we achieve this?" His tone was sharper now, his pragmatism clashing with Jun's devil-may-care grin.
It was then that Agent-90, seated in stillness with his hands folded neatly upon his knees, finally spoke. His voice descended like a cleaver, cleaving the room's air into silence. "I have observed them already. A figure—no, a procession—of shadows moving amidst the villagers."
The silence that followed was not merely quiet, but paralytic—a paronomasia silence, the kind that swelled like an invisible fog. Even the wind through the broken shutters seemed to hold its breath.
Masud's eyes narrowed. "A figure of shadows? Explain yourself."
Roy's jaw clenched, his words coming with grim finality. "It's Viram's men. They slither through the populace already. And if we wait, the village will bleed before dawn."
Farhan's fists tightened, the veins rising against his skin. "Then we act first. Always strike before the serpent coils."
Roy straightened, his breath shallow but resolute. He looked to each of them in turn, his spectacles catching the blue light of the map as though he carried within him both reflection and fire. "I have a plan. Jun, Farhan, Masud—you remain here. Guard the villagers. Protect every innocent soul within these walls."
His gaze slid to Agent-90, who sat motionless as a statue, his icy eyes betraying neither assent nor dissent. "You and I, 90—we infiltrate the base. We shall wear their skins, walk their steps, and tear their empire from within."
Agent-90 gave no nod, no flicker of expression; his face was stone, impassive, carved of cold purpose. Only two words left his lips, his tone devoid of ornament: "In disguise."
The silence stretched again, but this time it was charged—with unity, with peril, with the weight of a shared destiny.
Roy's voice broke it, steady yet imbued with a faint tremor of restrained fury. "Then let us end this nightmare." He paused, the weight of his words measured, and with a small, mirthless smile that bore the shape of resolve more than joy, he declared, "Mission: Five Lawless Men Hunts Rapeman."
The declaration hung in the stale air like a battle standard unfurled.
Jun's smirk deepened, his hands slipping into his pockets with a casual air, though his eyes blazed with mischief barely masking loyalty. Masud inclined his head gravely, his lips pressed into a thin line, the furrow upon his brow etched deeper by the resolve to shield the helpless. Farhan, unable to suppress a grin, clapped Roy upon the shoulder, the gesture both comradely and conspiratorial.
And Agent-90—he remained unchanged, his visage an impassive mask, his eyes as frigid and implacable as a glacier. His silence, as ever, was its own form of assent.
Each agent then reached into his coat, producing their thin, black spectacles. One by one they slid them on, the lenses catching the dim lantern light, flashing like the eyes of hunters poised in the dark. In that synchrony there was poetry, a parallelism that was as ritualistic as it was lethal.
The five stood together, shadows among shadows, their silhouettes sharp against the fractured walls of the ruinous house. Outside, the night howled, but within, the resolve of men stood still, steadfast, and unyielding.
back to the Kala Manzar Bhavan. Its halls seethed with malignant activity, a grotesque hive where Viram's men stirred in chaotic purpose. The mansion itself groaned under the weight of corruption, its walls mottled with mildew and its chandeliers swaying as though recoiling from the depravity they illuminated.
Suryant Laskari strode down the main corridor, his boots splashing through puddles of stale liquor spilt across the cracked tiles. His hawk-like eyes darted, barking orders to the men who scurried like vermin at his command. "Double the watch-towers! I want spears and rifles pointed at every angle—no insect enters uncrushed!" His voice cracked like a whip, the words carrying with them both fury and fear.
Outside, men armed with dull machetes and rifles staggered into place. Some were drunk, their steps uneven, yet their brutality was sharpened by habit. Oil-soaked rags were wrapped around their wrists like talismans of savagery. One guard, grinning with rotted teeth, spat on the ground and muttered, "Let 'em come… I've been itching for fresh blood."
Manikhilam and Madhujay moved among the villagers like wolves clothed in tatters, spreading whispers that curdled the air. They knocked upon doors with clenched fists, their threats hidden in honeyed tones. "Resist, and your children will vanish into the mist," one hissed to a trembling mother, his shadow slithering across her wall like a serpent poised to strike. Another grabbed an old man by the collar and growled, "Remember the plaza, old one. The stones still drink blood." Their words slithered into the villagers' ears, planting dread like a parasite.
Deeper within the grounds, Amritin and Rakeshor oversaw the rigging of traps—crude yet murderous. Iron bear-traps were buried beneath the moss like the jaws of subterranean beasts. Pits camouflaged with branches were filled with sharpened stakes, their tips glistening faintly with poison brewed from wild roots. Rakeshor, a hulking brute with arms knotted like tree trunks, licked his lips as he tested a snare by pulling it taut until the rope sang like a strangled violin. "When they run," he chuckled, "the forest itself will devour them."
Meanwhile, Viram reclined in the hall's central chair, a tyrant upon a throne of ruin. His bulk spilled against the armrests, yet his posture oozed command. He gnawed lazily on a strip of dried meat, the grease staining his fingers, his eyes glinting with malevolence beneath the sputtering candlelight. The stench of sweat, tobacco, and spilt rum clung to him like a second skin.
Vishit Mandraon, the trembling informant, returned to his side, bowing so low his spine seemed about to snap. "The villagers are restless, my lord. Some whisper of strangers among them… men not of our kin." His voice faltered, his Adam's apple bobbing with every syllable.
Viram's sneer grew into something wider, a grin that resembled the cut of a butcher's knife. "Strangers?" His voice dripped venom. "Then let them wander into our jaws. We shall hunt them when the moon is highest, when even their shadows quiver in fear." He leaned forward, his breath sour, his teeth bared. "Tell your people this: the night belongs to me."
The men erupted into cruel laughter, their mirth jagged and unnatural, echoing against the mouldering walls like the caw of carrion crows. One slammed his mug of liquor against the table, sending droplets flying like dark rain. Another brandished his machete, the steel catching a lick of flame from the nearby torch.
Viram raised his hand, and the room fell into reverent hush. His voice became a whisper, but it carried the resonance of a verdict. "By dawn, their screams will be the village's hymn. Let the world know—Kala Shaar Dal does not forgive, and it never forgets."
His words curled into the air like incense of damnation, lingering long after the echoes died.
The night descended upon Gazhutan Brudhan like a velvet guillotine, smothering the village in a silence too deliberate to be trusted. The lanterns guttered in the wind, their pale flames bowing as if in obeisance to the violence about to unfold.
From the treeline came the silhouettes of Viram's men, skulking in formation, blades glinting faintly like the fangs of wolves prowling for prey. Their voices were low growls, muttered jests about slaughter, their laughter sounding hollow and malignant in the hushed air. One ran his thumb along the edge of his machete, another adjusted the rifle slung across his shoulder, while a third dragged his boots in anticipation, his gait eager, his bloodlust palpable.
But the shadows themselves stirred, as if the darkness had grown a pulse.
Masud moved first—silent as a breath extinguished. His frame dissolved into the umbra, reappearing behind a guard with the grace of a phantom. His blade kissed the man's throat in a whisper of steel, and in a single exhalation, blood blossomed like ink upon parchment. The corpse crumpled without protest, swallowed by the night. Masud's eyes gleamed faintly under the fractured moonlight, hard and unblinking—like obsidian made flesh.
Jun, ever the nimble trickster, weaved between the shadows like mercury. He scaled the crumbled wall of a ruined barn, his figure haloed by the dim lantern-light for an instant before he vanished once more. A sentry beneath him paused, sensing something amiss—too late. Jun dropped from above with feline precision, twisting mid-air, his dagger sinking into the man's chest with surgical elegance. He pressed a hand over the victim's mouth, his lips curled in a grim half-smirk, then slid the body gently to the ground as though laying a child to sleep.
Farhan, by contrast, was a storm clothed in restraint. His silenced rifle whispered its dirge, each bullet an unerring messenger of death. A guard barely had time to frown at the faint prick upon his temple before the world vanished into oblivion. Farhan's face betrayed nothing—no triumph, no hesitation—only the cold discipline of one who knew the difference between justice and indulgence. His breathing was measured, his stance unyielding, a soldier carved from granite.
The night became a theatre of death. Men vanished as though plucked by invisible hands. One staggered, clutching at his neck as crimson streamed between his fingers. Another reached for his comrade, only to find him already limp, lifeless eyes staring up at the starless sky. Their whispers of alarm rose, but each was cut short, choked by the relentless, unseen executioners.
It was a symphony of shadows—Masud's blade, Jun's dagger, Farhan's rifle—interwoven with silence, each movement deliberate, each death intimate. In anime-style flourish, the scene cut between close-ups of widened eyes, steel flashing against muted moonlight, arterial spray erupting in crimson arcs against the black canvas of night, and finally the stillness of corpses collapsing upon the damp earth.
And then—Vishit.
The informant staggered from the fringes, his nerves taut as violin strings, his eyes darting like a trapped hare. He had come to witness the carnage, to bear testimony for Viram. But as he turned, trembling, he felt a presence—heavy, suffocating, inevitable.
Behind him stood Roy.
The lantern's flame flickered, catching Roy's spectacles, casting his gaze into black pools devoid of mercy. His shadow loomed impossibly tall, stretching across Vishit's quivering frame like a noose tightening around the condemned.
At Madam Di-Xian's office, the tension was palpable. Alvi, standing by her side, was unusually quiet, her eyes darting toward the display showing the agents' progress.
Madam Di-Xian, ever perceptive, glanced at her. "Something troubles you, Alvi. Speak."
Alvi hesitated, then said, "Rapeman is a notorious criminal, Madam. A clever sociopath. If the agents… misstep, the blame will fall on them. The world doesn't see what they see."
Madam Di-Xian's lips curved into a faint, knowing smirk. "And that is precisely why they are the Five Lawless Men. They do not walk the world's path—they carve their own."
Vishit's breath hitched. He turned fully, and in that instant the world seemed to narrow into two eyes—dark, abyssal, swallowing him whole. The smirk upon Roy's lips was faint, yet it bore the weight of finality, a promise whispered by the reaper himself.
Vishit's mouth opened to scream, but no sound came—only the hollow silence of a man who had just glimpsed eternity staring back at him.
The Kala Manzar Bhavan breathed malevolence that night, its decrepit chandeliers flickering as though recoiling from the depravity festering within its walls. The grand hall—once a ballroom—reeked of sweat, gunpowder, and congealed blood. Stained banners sagged like corpses upon the cracked walls.
Viram sat enthroned upon a cracked leather armchair that he styled as a throne, his corpulent frame swathed in shadow, his hands sticky with gore from a "work" recently concluded. His lieutenants were assembled like jackals around him—Amritin and Rakeshor brooding at his flanks, Manikhilam and Madhujay whispering crude boasts of slaughter.
The heavy doors creaked open. A figure entered—Vishit. Or so it seemed. In truth, it was Roy, cloaked in his enemy's visage, the dim light glancing off his spectacles, concealing the fury beneath. The other agents had already infiltrated, camouflaged as Viram's men, their shoulders stooped, their gazes lowered, blending perfectly with the rabble.
Viram's voice slithered through the hall, thick with arrogance.
"Vishit," he drawled, drumming his meaty fingers against the armrest. "Did you do as I commanded? Are the vermin silenced?"
Roy, his posture humble yet his eyes sharpened with concealed fire, gave a shallow bow. His voice, rasped to mimic Vishit's, carried an eerie calm:
"The task is complete, my lord. The villagers squeal no longer."
A ripple of dark laughter tore through the hall, the lieutenants baring their teeth like hyenas. Viram's sneer stretched into a grotesque grin, exposing gold-flecked teeth. He leaned forward, his bulk quivering with smug delight.
"Splendid! Splendid indeed! At last the soil drinks their coward's blood. Vishit—perhaps you've earned more than a dog's ration tonight."
But the grin faltered. A tremor passed through the hall—an unplaceable stillness, like the held breath before a storm. Then came the eruption.
The agents moved as one, shadows tearing free of disguise.
Jun sprang first, his dagger slicing an incandescent arc across Madhujay's throat, the spray glimmering like crimson starlight before vanishing into darkness. His smirk flashed, feline and merciless, as the lieutenant's body crumpled noiselessly.
Masud, the phantom of the void, materialised behind Manikhilam. With a fluid twist of the garrotte wire he carried, he wrenched the man backward; cartilage snapped, the eyes bulged, and the corpse sagged like a puppet with its strings cut. Masud's expression never changed—eyes like volcanic glass, resolute and pitiless.
Farhan's rifle coughed once, muffled, surgical. Rakeshor staggered, clutching the neat crimson hole blooming upon his temple. His knees buckled, his sneer evaporating into eternal silence as he fell against the crumbling wall. Farhan adjusted his stance, cold, precise—an executioner with no need of spectacle.
Then Agent-90 moved—swift, brutal, mechanical. His blade speared Amritin through the sternum, twisting with clinical deliberation. The lieutenant's scream barely breached the air before Agent-90 ripped the blade free, expression as unyielding as carved marble. He discarded the corpse with the indifference of a man sweeping dust from his coat.
The carnage blossomed in grotesque choreography—anime-style flourishes of motion and stillness, blood glistening in slow-motion arcs before plunging the hall back into silence.
Amidst the slaughter, Viram's eyes widened. His sneer curdled into disbelief, then terror. He staggered back from his throne, sweat mingling with the blood on his brow. His lips trembled, muttering to himself like a man haunted by phantoms:
"Why… why my own men betray me? How… how can shadows turn against me?"
He bolted, lumbering through the corridor like a boar cornered by hunters.
But Roy was upon him.
The disguise peeled away with every stride, his gait no longer Vishit's craven shuffle but Roy's relentless march. His locket, hidden beneath his collar, throbbed against his chest like a second heartbeat, Natasha's face searing his memory.
Viram crashed through a rotted doorway, his chest heaving, his mind a whirl of panic. He turned—too late. Roy stepped through the threshold, his silhouette black against the fractured moonlight seeping through a shattered window.
"Y-you," Viram stammered, stumbling backward, his jowls quivering. "You're no man… you're a ghost. A demon!"
Roy's spectacles glinted, his eyes fathomless. He advanced slowly, each footfall deliberate, resonant—like the tolling of a funeral bell.
Viram swung wildly, his blade catching nothing but air. Roy sidestepped with balletic precision, his own fists clenched like iron forged in grief. A punch to the ribs—Viram wheezed, spittle flying. Another to the jaw—teeth cracked, the grotesque sneer shattering at last.
Viram bellowed, striking again, but Roy caught his arm, twisting it until bone groaned under pressure. The crime-lord screamed, his face distorted in agony.
Roy's final blow was swift, unadorned, inevitable. His fist, fuelled by grief, rage, and inexorable justice, crashed into Viram's face. The impact echoed through the corridor like thunder in a tomb. Blood burst, teeth scattered, and Viram's body flailed backward, collapsing unconscious amidst the rubble.
Viram's eyelids fluttered open. Darkness swallowed him, thick and oppressive, as though he had been entombed in a cavern carved from nightmares. His body refused to obey him; every muscle seemed bound by invisible fetters, every limb rendered as inert as marble. Panic spread through him like wildfire, his breath rasping in ragged gasps.
Then—sound.
The slow metallic scrape of steel on stone. The echo carried with funereal resonance, each note stretched out like the tolling of a death-bell. Out of the suffocating gloom, shadows began to detach themselves, assuming human form. One by one, the agents emerged, their spectacles catching the faintest glimmer of unseen light, their visages half-hidden, half-revealed—like revenants risen from some infernal tribunal.
Jun appeared first, twirling a serrated saw in his hand as though it were a jester's prop. His smirk carried neither warmth nor humour—only a cruel mirth sharpened by justice. "Wakey-wakey, Viram," he drawled, voice light yet edged like broken glass. "The curtain rises, and you're tonight's entertainment."
Farhan followed, stepping forward with the deliberation of a surgeon. His eyes, cold and clinical, glinted with a calm devoid of pity. The tool in his grip was polished to a mirror sheen; its reflection fractured Viram's terrified gaze into shards. "You carved fear into the flesh of innocents," he murmured, voice low, almost priest-like. "Now we carve the ledger clean."
Masud emerged from the far side of the chamber, his silhouette mountainous, his breathing heavy with controlled wrath. The chain he held dragged against the floor, producing a metallic lamentation that reverberated like the groan of some ancient beast. His lips scarcely moved as he muttered a verse, an oath half-prayer, half-curse.
Then Agent-90.
He did not announce himself with words. He stepped forward with machine-like precision, his boots striking the ground in measured rhythm. The gleam of his saw was merciless, the blade humming faintly under the trembling fluorescent light above. His eyes—cold, pale, unflinching—pierced through Viram like the gaze of an executioner who had long since forgotten the notion of mercy.
Finally, Roy.
He was the last to step from the abyss. In his hand he bore no blade, no instrument, no tool. Only the locket of his sister. He held it aloft, and the faint silver of its casing caught the sickly light. His expression was the most terrible of all—not wrath, not mirth, not icy detachment, but grief distilled into something unrecognisable. His voice cracked, low and hoarse:
"For Natasha. For every soul you defiled. Tonight, you answer."
Viram writhed, his eyes bulging with primal dread. His voice shrieked into the darkness, pleading, bargaining, cursing. But the chamber swallowed his cries, transforming them into echoes that hung heavy in the air—like the moans of condemned spirits.
The agents closed in. The saws glinted, their edges flashing as if thirsting for recompense. Shadows bent unnaturally across the walls, elongated into monstrous silhouettes. Each step forward was drawn-out, deliberate, and with it the atmosphere thickened until it became suffocating, funereal, grotesque.
Then—movement.
Jun's smirk widened; Farhan adjusted his grip; Masud pulled the chain taut; Agent-90 raised his saw with mechanical certainty; Roy lowered the locket and clenched his fist.
The screen went black.
Only Viram's scream pierced the void—an inhuman howl, raw and ragged, torn from the depths of a soul at last cornered by its reckoning. It stretched, fractured, multiplied, until it reverberated like shattering glass, like the howl of a storm tearing through a cathedral.
The nightmare ended with scream fading into silence, the last frame lingering on Roy's spectacles flashing in the dark, his jaw set like stone, before the credits rolled in utter, smothering blackness.
The journey back to the SDF Hideout was marked by a heavy silence among the agents. The victory they carried with them was tainted with the weight of what they had done. Their faces bore not just the grime of battle but also the invisible scars of vengeance fulfilled.
As they entered Madam Di-Xian's office, the familiar scent of incense mingled with the faint hum of ancient records spinning on a turntable. The office, as always, was a sanctuary of quiet authority, its dim lighting and rich décor exuding an air of calm.
Madam Di-Xian looked up from her desk, her sharp eyes appraising each of them. Her expression was a mosaic of curiosity, concern, and unspoken understanding.
At the side of the room stood Hecate and Hella, the Sinner who had found refuge under Madam Di-Xian's leadership. Hecate's sharp, analytical gaze flickered over the agents, while Hella's more expressive features betrayed a mix of admiration and curiosity.
"They're back," Hella whispered to Hecate, her voice tinged with awe. "The Five Lawless Men."
Hecate folded her arms, her tone measured but with an edge of humour. "More like four lawless men and a ghost," she said, glancing toward Agent-90, whose icy demeanour seemed to chill the very air around him.
Madam Di-Xian gestured for the agents to step forward. "You've returned," she said simply, her voice as smooth as flowing silk yet as firm as tempered steel. Her gaze lingered on Roy, whose face was still marked with grief. "What news do you bring from Gazhutan Brudhan?"
Farhan was the first to speak, his voice steady. "It's done, Madam. Viram and his men are no more. The village is free."
A faint smile curved her lips, though it didn't reach her eyes. "And what price did you pay for this freedom?"
Roy stepped forward, holding the locket tightly in his hand. "The price was blood," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "But it was a price worth paying."
Hella, unable to hold back her curiosity, stepped closer, her eyes wide. "Is it true what they say? That you took down the entire Kala Dandakaranya by yourselves?"
Jun chuckled, though his voice lacked its usual levity. "Not by ourselves. The villagers fought with us. We just showed them how to aim their anger."
Hecate arched a brow. "And the stories about Akku? That he begged for mercy?"
Roy's face darkened, and he didn't answer. Instead, he turned to Madam Di-Xian, his grip on the locket tightening. "Natasha's vengeance is complete," he said softly. "She can rest now."
Madam Di-Xian studied Roy for a long moment before nodding. "Justice is a heavy blade," she said, her tone reflective. "It cuts deep, leaving scars on those who wield it as well as those it strikes. But sometimes, the wound is necessary."
She glanced at Alvi, who stood silently beside her, her usual sharp composure replaced by a rare tension. "Alvi," Madam Di-Xian said, her voice softening slightly. "You doubted their path, didn't you?"
Alvi hesitated, then nodded. "I feared the consequences, Madam. That the world might not understand."
Madam Di-Xian gave a faint smirk. "The world rarely does. That's why they're the Five Lawless Men. They carve their own path, indifferent to the judgments of those who lack the courage to walk it."
As the agents began to disperse, Roy lingered near the window, staring out at the distant horizon. The locket remained in his hand, its chain wound tightly around his fingers. His shoulders shook slightly, and though he made no sound, the weight of his grief was palpable.
Farhan approached him, placing a steady hand on his shoulder. "You did right by her, Roy," he said softly. "She'd be proud."
Jun, Masud, and even Hecate and Hella moved closer, their presence a silent show of solidarity. Even Agent-90, whose stoicism rarely wavered, stepped into the circle.
In an uncharacteristic gesture, Agent-90 placed his hand on Roy's shoulder. Though his face remained impassive, the gesture spoke volumes.
Roy finally turned to face them, his eyes red but resolute. "Thank you," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "For everything."
As the group left Madam Di-Xian's office, the weight of their mission lingered, but so too did the knowledge that they had made a difference. The streets outside bustled with life, a stark contrast to the haunted silence of Gazhutan Brudhan.
Hecate glanced at Hella as they walked behind the agents. "They're more than lawless men," she said quietly. "They're avengers."
Hella nodded, her expression serious. "And maybe the world needs avengers more than it knows."
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the agents walked into the growing shadows, their figures outlined against the fading light. For them, the fight was never truly over—but for now, they had earned a moment of peace.
The Kishore family, nestled in the bustling heart of Alampur, was the epitome of modest contentment. Prakash Kishore, a schoolteacher, and his wife Anjali, a homemaker, had built their lives around principles of kindness, discipline, and unwavering love. Their children, Roy and Natasha, were the centre of their world.
Roy, the elder sibling by five years, was a quiet but fiercely protective brother. Natasha, by contrast, was a vivacious fifteen-year-old, her laughter as bright as the morning sun and her dreams as vast as the open sky. She wanted to become a journalist, a voice for the voiceless, and her determination burned like a fire in her chest.
It was an ordinary afternoon when the tragedy unfolded. Natasha, dressed in her crisp school uniform, had stayed late for debate practice, a passion she excelled at. As the school bell rang, she waved goodbye to her friends and began the short walk home, the strap of her bag cutting into her shoulder as she hummed a tune.
Unbeknownst to her, shadows had begun to gather. A black SUV trailed her, its windows tinted like the eyes of a predator waiting to pounce. Inside were Akku Agarwal and three of his men, their laughter low and predatory. Natasha turned onto a quieter street, and they struck.
The SUV screeched to a halt, the doors flying open like the jaws of a beast. Natasha barely had time to scream before rough hands grabbed her, dragging her into the vehicle. Her school bag fell to the ground, spilling books and a half-eaten apple onto the dusty road.
When Natasha didn't return home, panic set in. Prakash Kishore called every friend, every teacher, but no one had seen her. Roy, who had just returned from his university classes, joined the frantic search, his heart pounding like a drumbeat of doom.
Hours turned into an agonising eternity until a call came from the police. Natasha had been found—but it was not the reunion they had prayed for.
The Kishores were led to a deserted construction site on the outskirts of the city. There, amidst the rubble and broken beams, lay Natasha's lifeless body. Her uniform was torn, her face bruised, and her once-bright eyes stared blankly at the heavens.
Prakash collapsed to his knees, his cries piercing the night. Anjali clung to Roy, her sobs wracking her frail frame. Roy knelt beside his sister, his trembling hand brushing her cold cheek. His mind refused to accept the sight before him, a nightmare that no waking would end.
A bloodstained note was pinned to her chest, scrawled in jagged handwriting:
"This is what happens to those who don't respect men."
Natasha's death shattered the Kishore family. Anjali became a shadow of herself, her laughter forever silenced. Prakash withdrew, his shoulders stooped under the unbearable weight of grief. But Roy's pain ignited something else—a fury that burned with the intensity of a thousand suns.
He vowed that no one else would endure what his sister had. He trained his body and mind relentlessly, enrolling in martial arts and devouring books on criminology and law enforcement. His friends watched as the once-quiet Roy became a man possessed, his purpose as sharp and unyielding as the edge of a blade.
It was during a street brawl with local thugs—men who had tried to extort a grieving family—that Roy caught the attention of Chief Wen-Luo of the SSCBF. Wen-Luo saw not just a fighter but a man driven by a deep, unrelenting need for justice.
After the brawl, Wen-Luo approached Roy, his commanding presence impossible to ignore.
"You fight like a man with nothing to lose," Wen-Luo said, his voice calm but penetrating. "But rage alone won't change the world. If you want justice, you need precision, discipline, and allies."
Wen-Luo offered Roy a place in a covert training programme that prepared operatives for the Shadow Defensive Force (SDF). Roy didn't hesitate. He left behind his studies, his friends, and what remained of his old life, stepping into the shadows to fight the monsters that lurked there.
Under the tutelage of SDF mentors, Roy honed his skills to a razor's edge. He became an expert marksman, a master of hand-to-hand combat, and a strategist capable of outthinking even the most cunning adversaries.
Through it all, Natasha's locket remained with him—a reminder of why he fought, a talisman against despair. Every punch, every bullet, every plan was for her.
When Roy completed his training, Madam Di-Xian, the enigmatic leader of the SDF, welcomed him into their ranks. She saw in him not just a soldier but a force of nature—a man who could inspire fear in the wicked and hope in the oppressed.
On the day he donned the SDF insignia, Roy stood before Natasha's grave, the locket clutched in his hand.
"I swear," he whispered, his voice trembling but resolute. "I'll make sure no one suffers like you did. I'll hunt them, Natasha. Every last one of them."
Roy's path led him to Viram Borty and the Kala Dandakaranya, the culmination of years of pain and purpose. His vengeance was not just for Natasha but for every victim silenced by fear.
As he stood with his comrades in the aftermath of their mission, the locket clutched tightly in his hand, Roy felt a sense of release for the first time since that fateful day.
"Rest now, Natasha," he murmured, his voice carrying the weight of a promise fulfilled.