The night was silent, except for the soft hum of machines.
Blue holographic screens glowed across the room — mechanical limbs suspended midair, drone parts half-assembled, schematics spinning in slow motion.
Radhe sat at his desk, cigarette between his fingers, the smoke curling up like lazy ghosts. His face was calm — too calm — the kind of stillness that hides chaos.
On the desk lay an old family photo. Faded. Torn. His mother's smile, his father's eyes — both long gone, burned out of existence twenty-seven years ago.
He'd spent his life chasing enemies, and when he caught them, he thought he'd finally found peace.
But peace was a lie.
The phone on the table buzzed. A single word flashed on the cracked screen — *Anaya*.
His brightest subordinate. The only one who ever understood his equations without needing his notes.
He answered.
"Professor…" her voice came through broken, almost drowned in static. "They… they found me. You have to listen. The government… they're behind it all."
Radhe's eyes narrowed slightly. "Behind what, anya ?"
"The people you killed… they were pawns. Just pawns. The real ones — they're in the system. They made you—"
A sharp sound cut her off. Then — silence. A long, cold beep.
Radha didn't move. The only sound was the hiss of his cigarette. He stared at the phone, expression blank, eyes unreadable.
Slowly, he took a drag, exhaled, and whispered to himself:
> "Pawns? No… I checked everything."
He turned toward his wall of data — photos, files, digital maps. He tapped a few keys, and streams of encrypted information spilled across the holographic screens.
Every man he'd killed — politicians, businessmen, gangsters — they all had connections to the same shell companies.
Companies that led nowhere.
He leaned back, fingers brushing his temple. His mind was a machine — sharp, relentless, merciless.
> "So what did I miss…?"
Then, like a glitch in his memory, a face appeared — smiling, young, standing beside him in a greasy parts shop.
*verdhan.*
"Need help finding something?"
"Yeah," Radha had said, "something that doesn't exist yet."
That day, at age twenty-one, Radha met the only person who ever called him brother.
He crushed his cigarette into the ashtray and muttered,
> "verdhan… your father… he was an MP back then."
The realization hit like a bullet.
> "No…" he whispered, shaking his head. "No, that can't be."
He stood up abruptly, pacing. His mind replayed every memory, every conversation, every plan they'd built together — weapon designs, missions, intelligence drops.
Most of the information… had come from verdhan.
His chest tightened. The air felt heavy.
He looked down at his hands — hands that had built machines, saved lives, taken lives.
> "How could this happen…? I verified everything…"
The calm cracked for just a second. He slammed his fist on the desk, the impact making the holograms flicker.
Then the calm returned.
The professor in him reassembled. Cool. Calculated. Deadly.
He picked up his lighter, flipped it open, and lit another cigarette. The flame's reflection danced in his eyes — the eyes of a man who'd seen too much to fear anything anymore.
> "They played me," he said softly. "Used me to clean their dirt. Fine."
He took a long drag, smoke curling from his lips like a vow.
> "Then it's time they see what I really am."
He turned toward a locked steel cabinet, pressed his palm to the biometric scanner. The door hissed open, revealing a neatly arranged arsenal — tools, gadgets, cybernetic augmentations, old weapons wrapped in cloth.
He ran his fingers over a mechanical arm prototype he'd designed years ago. The cold metal gleamed in the low light.
> "Lesson one…" he said with a faint smirk, slipping the arm into a carry case.
> "Never trust the system."
He put on his coat, flicked the lighter one more time, and whispered to the empty room:
> "Class is in session."
Outside, the city lights shimmered beneath the rain. Somewhere, government drones watched. Somewhere, verdhan slept in comfort.
But Radhe —
Radhe was awake.
And the storm was just beginning.