Delhi's nights now had a heartbeat—a slow, ominous rhythm of fear. In the choked alleys of Chandni Chowk and the tense silence of Shahdara, whispers didn't just speak of a ghost; they spoke of a reckoning. The name they gave him was not born of respect, but of primal terror: "Khoon ka Devta." The God of Blood.
The legend was woven from grim details: a figure who moved with the shadows, who preferred the visceral finality of hands and blades over the impersonal crack of a gun. It was said he made them see him, made them understand the why in their last moments. But Alok Nishant, navigating these same arteries of the city, was no god. He was a master architect, and his blueprint was drawn in vengeance. Every life he took was a calculated variable eliminated, a step closer to balancing the equation of Shree's death. The pain was not a side effect; it was the product.
---
The air in the hostel room was thick enough to choke on. Ankit stood, a newspaper trembling in his hand.
"They're calling it 'systematic cleansing,' Alok! Do you understand? This isn't revenge; it's a public service announcement written in blood! The police aren't just investigating; they're forming a task force!"
Alok didn't look up from his desk. He was sketching on a map, his movements precise, surgical. "A task force implies chaos," he stated, his voice devoid of inflection. "My work is orderly. They will find patterns that lead to dead ends. Each target is a thread. I am not cutting them; I am unraveling the entire tapestry."
"Your work?" Ankit's voice cracked. "Since when is murder work? Look at me! Look at what you've become!"
Finally, Alok turned. His eyes were not those of a madman; they were the eyes of a strategist who had sacrificed his soul for the campaign. "I became what the situation required. The law is a sluggish beast, Ankit. It gets bogged down in procedure and politics. My justice is efficient. It is absolute."
"It's a one-way road to hell!"
"Then hell," Alok said, turning back to his map, "is where I will find the men who sent Shree there."
---
The Delhi Police were baffled. The killings were not just precise; they were orchestrated. Victims were found in locations that were symbolic—a corrupt property dealer left in the rubble of a building his riots had destroyed. The lack of forensic evidence was not luck; it was professionalism. The media speculated about rival gangs, but the higher echelons of intelligence knew better.
In a sterile, secure conference room, a RAW Deputy Director addressed his team. A holographic map of Delhi glowed on the table, dotted with red pins. "Pattern analysis confirms a single operative.The targets are all mid-level facilitators from the Chandni Chowk riot—muscle, logistics, local instigators. The perpetrator is working his way up the food chain. He's intelligent, patient, and possesses tradecraft. This is not a common vigilante. This is a calculated escalation."
A senior analyst interjected, "The methodology suggests military or paramilitary training. Or… extreme adaptation."
"Our hypothesis," the Deputy Director continued, "is that he is personally connected to a victim of the riot. Find the missing piece. Cross-reference all serious casualties from that night with individuals possessing the potential for this level of… focus."
The machine of the state had begun its hunt, and it was hunting him.
---
Alok's transformation was a wall his friends could not scale.
Sandhya found him near the library, a place now haunted by ghosts of their past. "I don't even know you," she whispered, her voice thick with tears. "The Alok I knew loved numbers, not… this."
He regarded her with a chilling detachment. "The Alok you knew was weak. He believed in systems. He believed in fairness. That man died in an alley with the woman he loved. I am what survived. I suggest you forget him." His words weren't cruel; they were factual. It was this clinical coldness that horrified her most.
Nishant, drowning his own powerlessness in parties, could only watch the monster he'd helped create from a distance, a toast dying on his lips.
Only Ankit remained, a silent, grieving sentinel, watching his friend's soul erode away, hoping for a miracle he knew would never come.
---
The Plan: Operation Silent Account
Objective: Eliminate Rakesh "Rinku" Malhotra, a key local mob enforcer directly responsible for leading the charge into the alley where Shree was killed. His death must send a clear message and provide zero forensic evidence.
Phase 1: Intelligence (3 Days)
· Pattern Mapping: Track Rinku's movements for 72 hours. Note his routines: his favorite gambling den (a backroom in a spice shop), his route home (through a poorly lit service lane near the Nallah), his bodyguards (two, lax and often drunk).
· Weakness Identification: Rinku is arrogant, considers himself untouchable after the riot. He is averse to rain, always cutting his evenings short during downpours. This is the key variable.
· Asset Procurement: Acquire a common, untraceable weapon—a heavy, lead-filled jutti (slipper) wrapped in cloth to muffle sound and prevent distinctive bruising. A length of nylon cord. Industrial-grade chloroform stolen from a university lab. All items to be disposed of separately post-operation.
Phase 2: Environment (D-Day)
· Weather Manipulation: Wait for a forecasted night of heavy rain. The sound will mask noise, the water will cleanse evidence, and the weather will force Rinku to take his preferred shortcut home earlier than usual.
· Area Denial: Earlier in the evening, a small, smoldering trash fire will be "accidentally" lit further down the main road, creating a diversion and ensuring minimal foot traffic in the target lane.
Phase 3: Execution (T-Minus 10 Minutes)
· Positioning: Take position in a recessed doorway 50 meters into the service lane. Wait. Absolute stillness.
· Approach: Let Rinku and his guards pass the position. Move from behind, silent on wet stone.
· Neutralization of Assets: As the bodyguards laugh at a crude joke, use the chloroform-soaked rag on the trailing guard, lowering him silently. The lead guard turns; a single, brutal strike to the temple with the modified jutti. Swift, efficient.
· Primary Target: Rinku, now realizing, fumbles for a knife. Avoid the blade. Use the environment. Drive him into a wet brick wall, disorienting him. The message is not just death, but humiliation. The weapon is the hands. The final blow is the rope, not from behind, but facing him, letting him see the face of the man whose world he destroyed. A silent, terrible justice.
· The Message: Leave the body. No placard is needed. The method—the intimacy of the kill—is the message. The others will understand.
Phase 4: Exfiltration & Sanitization
· Disposal: Dump the jutti in the Nallah. The cord goes into a construction site's cement mixer at dawn. The chloroform bottle is crushed and placed in a hospital's bio-waste bin.
· Alibi: Be seen an hour later at an all-night chai stall near the hostel, clothes changed, demeanor calm, engaging in a mundane conversation about exams. Become a ghost.
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