The Satpura Range's underground "cube" blazed with blinding light, every cavern and corridor flooded with high-powered LEDs that banished shadows to oblivion. Aryan Kapoor—The Man—sat in his fortified office, eyes locked on a sprawling wall of monitors displaying feeds from the village, jungle, and cube. His 1000 fighters were poised: 500 outside, their Sound-enhanced senses forming a detection net across 10-15 kilometers, and 500 within, spaced to trap any intruder. Snipers waited on ridges, assault teams crouched in ravines, and Sound-disruption devices hummed, tuned to shatter darkness. Kapoor's own power scanned the soundscape, catching a faint disturbance as Amar infiltrated. "He's inside," he hissed to Rajan via comms. "Close the noose."
Amar had teleported to a shadow outside the village, under a gnarled banyan tree, evading the outer fighters' Sound senses. He'd noted the village's anomaly—every soul contracted, their vibrations repelling his shadows. Gliding through the jungle, he reached the tunnel entrance, only to be hit by a wall of light inside the cube. "No shadows," he growled, his form flickering, weakened by the relentless radiance. Cameras swiveled, tracking his every move.
As he breached the cube's main entrance, the trap sprang: 25 fighters, visors shielding their eyes from the glare, charged him. Suppressed rifles fired, bullets slicing through the air, while Sound pulses vibrated, disrupting his shadows. Amar dissolved into darkness, letting bullets pass through his fluid form. "Not yet," he muttered, dodging a knife strike, shadows deflecting blows. He fought fluidly, vanishing and reappearing, but the light was merciless, sapping his strength. His vision blinded with light, the fighters' visors glinting as they pressed relentlessly, their movements synchronized like a silent orchestra.
"I can't outrun them," Amar panted, darting through corridors, seeking any sliver of shade. But the light was everywhere—no dark corners to regroup. The fighters' Sound senses tracked his flickers, their attacks unyielding. The Messenger's warning echoed: Kill the proxy, and all contracted die. "No killing," Amar vowed, but the fighters gave no quarter, their loyalty absolute.
Desperate, Amar slid his hands into the pockets of his heavy black leather jacket. The interior—sealed from light—was a haven of pure darkness. "A spark," he whispered, shadows surging within. His body, already cloaked in swirling darkness, face obscured, pulsed with renewed power. From the pockets, he summoned 12 shadow soldiers—hulking, fluid forms of night, their limbs twisting like ropes, moving in unnatural, elastic ways.
"Go!" Amar commanded. The shadow soldiers lunged, engaging the 25 fighters in brutal hand-to-hand combat. Their forms stretched and coiled, wrapping around enemies like rubber, ensnaring arms and legs. One soldier looped around a fighter's torso, pinning him; another twisted around a rifleman's legs, toppling him. The fighters fought back, knives flashing, but the shadows' unnatural movements overwhelmed them—coiling, constricting, capturing.
Amar didn't want to kill. "Subdue them!" he shouted, shadows holding fighters in tight grips. But the battle was chaos. Nine fighters fell, their visors cracking under the shadow soldiers' relentless strength, bodies crumpling from broken necks or crushed chests. The remaining 16, pinned and struggling, bit down on hidden capsules—cyanide, a final act of loyalty. "Death before capture," one gasped, blood foaming as he collapsed. Within moments, all 25 lay dead, some by shadows, others by their own hands.
Amar stood amidst the bodies, shadows flickering in the harsh light, his chaotic heart heavy. "I didn't want this," he whispered, golden eyes dimming. The cube's light pressed harder, his strength waning, but the path to Kapoor lay ahead, guarded by hundreds more. The trap was tightening, and Amar's resolve wavered under the weight of unintended deaths.