The three slipped out of the city through the underground sewer tunnels, vanishing like smoke in the night. The police found nothing—no trace, no clue, not even a whisper of their presence. The conspiracy to assassinate the Prime Minister dissolved into a void of unanswered questions. No one knew who had orchestrated it, and the government dared not breathe a word to the media. After all, the Foreign Minister and the Defense Minister had already been claimed by "mysterious illnesses"—or so the official story went. At first, even the doctors and the administration believed it was just some unknown disease. But when the attack on the Prime Minister came to light, the threads began to connect in chilling clarity. Yet the masterminds behind it all remained shadows. Who were these four men? How had they woven such an intricate web of death? If anyone held the answers, it was them alone—these four ghosts who knew every secret.Let me give you a glimpse of their introductions.
The Drunkard—that's what they call Prashant. There's a long, twisted tale behind why he earned that name, but for now, understand this: he's hunting the killer of his girlfriend. Ever since her murder, he's drowned himself in liquor, a bottomless pit of booze and rage. He's lost count of the murders he's committed—dozens, maybe hundreds. The Drunkard's code is ironclad: he only kills VIPs and the truly wicked. And his methods? They follow rules too. Every kill must look natural—a heart attack, a stroke—or accidental, like a tragic mishap. Not a single drop of blood spilled. You might wonder how a perpetual drunk pulls this off. Here's the truth: he's been practicing martial arts since he was four years old, a prodigy in hand-to-hand lethality. And he's a mathematician, his mind a razor-sharp calculator of angles, forces, and probabilities. Imagine it—a staggering genius who sends souls to the god of natural death with effortless precision.
Lambu and Chhotu—these two are childhood friends, idiots through and through, crude and utterly depraved, the kind of filth that revels in obscenity. Back when they were nine, cruising on a single bicycle, they raped and murdered a pregnant widow. Now, they do the same on a motorcycle, prowling the streets with surgical cleanliness. No one's ever caught them. They've racked up 890 kills—tiny girls to 75-year-old men, no discrimination. In every sense, they're psychopaths. They derive pure ecstasy from their work, lost in blissful paranoia with every life they snuff out. Oh, and their real names? Manish and krishna—though such mundane labels feel like a joke on characters this monstrous.
Now, come to The Poisoner, whom his family once called anand . Hardly anyone remembers his real name anymore. In ninth grade, during a chemistry practical, he accidentally concocted a poison. Its scent was so intoxicating, so deceptively sweet, that it made you want to drink it. He tested it on a friend—nothing happened. Emboldened, he slipped it to his teacher and nearly thirty lab students. Within a month, they all succumbed to an "unknown illness." From that day, he's been brewing toxins—undetectable in any lab or hospital. Now, blending science with ancient Ayurveda, he's crafted poisons so deadly he could erase an entire city without a soul suspecting a thing.Just think: when did these three cross paths? And there's only one man they all fear—the Drunkard. When did he meet them? How terrifying must the Drunkard be to instill dread in monsters like these? And how did he infiltrate their group?To find out, wait for the next chapter.