Bengaluru mornings were unpredictable.
Rain one day. Heat the next. But on October 30, 2014, it was too cold. Too quiet. Too strange.
Basavanagudi was already awake—street vendors shouting, rickshaws honking, steam rising from hot chai.
At Karnataka Bhel House, the tea vendor noticed something unusual.
A man in his forties stood alone, staring into nothing.
He wore a faded grey baniyan, his belly round but firm. His hair was pepper-colored, his eyes dark and unreadable.
But what caught everyone's attention wasn't his face.
It was the prosthetic arm.
And the ugly old watch on his right wrist.
Ancient. Rusted. Uncared for.
The vendor whispered to himself:
What kind of man wears a relic like that?
Another customer asked, "Is that… a Patek Philippe? Looks ancient."
The man turned, discomfort flashing across his face.
"Maybe. I don't know."
Before more questions could come, his phone rang.
The ringtone was ridiculous. Old Kannada film music.
"ಜಿಂಕೆ ಮರಿನಾ, ನಿ ಜಿಂಕೆ ಜಿಂಕೆ ಮರಿನಾ…"
He answered.
"Yes. I'm Dwiruktha."
A pause. His expression darkened.
"What? That makes no sense. Insurance was supposed to cover it. I can't pay that… not from my wallet."
Another pause. Silence.
Finally, he whispered, "Okay. When and where should I meet you?"
The line went dead.
Dwiruktha placed the phone down slowly, his prosthetic fingers twitching.
For the first time that morning, the tea vendor felt a chill.
---
Chapter 2 — The Waiting Room
The next day, October 31, 2014, a yellow auto screeched to a halt on MG Road.
Dwiruktha stepped out, paid exact change again, and walked into a towering building.
His clothes were outdated, his stubble uneven, his eyes ringed with exhaustion.
The receptionist, barely in her twenties, smiled politely.
"You'll have to wait thirty minutes, sir."
He sighed and sat down. The waiting area was full of old men in their sixties.
Dwiruktha tapped his foot, growing restless. Everything irritated him—
The woman with the butterfly hair clip.
The old man clicking his pen.
The gentleman tapping his shoe.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Click. Click. Click.
Suddenly—he realized something.
The rhythms were synchronized.
Perfectly.
His chest tightened.
His pulse stopped for half a second.
He turned to the window.
It wasn't a window.
It was a screen.
Then it happened.
A man beside him screamed, tears falling down his cheeks:
"RUN AWAY! THEY ARE HERE FOR R-84!"
A hiss.
Orange gas poured from the vents.
People panicked. Screamed. Collapsed.
Dwiruktha ripped off his prosthetic arm and smashed it against the fake window.
Crack. Crack. Not enough.
Gasping, choking, his vision blurring, he reached for the small cylinder on a chain around his neck.
He bit down—glass shattered. Blue liquid spilled into his mouth.
But it was too late.
His legs buckled.
His pupils dilated.
His body went still.
From a monitoring room, a scientist whispered:
"No chest movement. Pupils dilated."
An ancient man stepped forward, watching the screen.
He smiled.
Across a stained file were the words:
NAME: Dwiruktha? Pranab?
ALIAS: THE MERCHANT OF DEATH
---
Chapter 3 — Resurrection in the Gas Chamber
Dwiruktha's body lay lifeless.
But his mind… drifted.
He saw flashes of fire. Mobs. A woman he loved, limp in his arms.
Her perfume. Her voice. Her hand—ripped away in the chaos.
He gasped awake.
Chest heaving, mouth bleeding, he clawed at the chamber wall.
The cracked screen had weakened the gas chamber.
A thin stream of air slipped through. Enough to breathe.
Scientists panicked.
"He's alive?!"
The old man muttered, "Send Unit C34. Stop him before Phase 3."
The alley door burst open. Soldiers in protective suits stormed in with AR rifles.
But before they could fire—
A blur.
When it stopped, the corridor was painted red.
Bodies twisted, intestines spilling.
Dwiruktha stood among the corpses, breathing like he had run a thousand miles.
His body was changing—gut gone, skin torn, muscles hardened.
Reborn.
He stepped over the dead and whispered,
"Phase 3 has already begun."