"How long do you plan on keeping me here, exactly?" Akshar asked, taking a slow sip from his tea as he shot a raised eyebrow and a crooked smile at Bose. "We've been on break for over an hour now. The sergeant's gonna lose it."
Bose, engrossed in feeding biscuits to a stray dog and gently scratching its head, mirrored Akshar's expression. "The sergeant's gonna lose it anyway. That's what he does best. We're not going anywhere until you tell me what's really going on."
Akshar waved his arms, feigning confusion. "What are you talking about? Nothing's going on. Everything's fine."
Bose fixed him with a piercing stare—the kind parents give when they know their kids are lying, waiting for the truth to spill out without needing to say a word. And Akshar felt it, clear as day.
He slouched a little, his elbows resting on his knees, eyes drifting between the empty street and the star-speckled sky where planes blinked by in the distance. They sat on a bench under the soft glow of a streetlight, near a small tea and paratha stall. Something was gnawing at Akshar from the inside; pressing against his chest, but the words just wouldn't come.
"Another paratha?" Bose asked, breaking the silence.
"We've already eaten six," Akshar replied with a half-hearted chuckle.
"So what's one more? Sanjeev bhai, two more aloo parathas!" Bose called out to the stall owner.
Both men leaned back on the bench, quietly waiting for their order. The street was still, the night air cool, and Akshar broke the silence first, his eyes distant. "It was Butcher's men, wasn't it? The ones who attacked you?"
"Yup," Bose muttered as he lit a cigarette, taking a slow drag. "We got a tip about these ice cream trucks making odd stops in even odder places. All of them suspected fronts for unlicensed catalysts."
He exhaled smoke, letting it linger in the air before continuing. "So, I intercepted one. At first, everything looked clean, but one of the tires seemed off. I cut it open and, sure enough, found a whole stash of Arcazine."
"In the tires?" Akshar turned his head, surprised. "Is that even safe?"
"Who knows?" Bose shrugged. "Anyway, the guy bolted with the truck, and I went after him. That's when I walked straight into their trap."
"I'm guessing this is the part where you almost got yourself killed?"
"Pretty much," Bose said, flicking ash to the ground. "They flanked me, I flanked back, and then somewhere in the middle of it my car blew up. Next thing I know, I'm waking up in Dr. Hassan's lab."
For a decorated WDA officer like Bose, incidents like these were routine. He spoke of them with the cool detachment of someone who had danced with danger too many times to count, almost proud—as if surviving a near-death experience was its own badge of honor. But for Akshar, the weight of the conversation pressed heavier. Whether it was the sergeant's words on the bridge or the burden he'd been carrying inside, he couldn't shake the feeling that all of this chaos was somehow his fault.
"Butcher's really torn this city apart, hasn't he?" Akshar muttered, his eyes downcast, the guilt threading through his voice.
"Panaha was never a safe haven, but Butcher has made things worse. We've got more lunatics with reactions than ever before," Bose replied, his sharp eyes noticing the strain in Akshar's tone.
Akshar hesitated, the doubt gnawing at him. "Maybe the sergeant was right, Uncle Bose. Maybe I did make a terrible mistake."
"I can't say unless you tell me what happened," Bose responded, his voice steady but probing.
Akshar knew Bose was right, but his mind was a battlefield, torn between the overwhelming guilt and the fear of reliving his mistakes. The thoughts weighed on him, raw and unrelenting, the bitter taste of failure clawing at his chest. He wanted to share it—yet something inside resisted.
"Bose sirji, your order's ready!" the stall owner called out, breaking the tension as he served them their parathas.
"Thanks, Sanjeev! What would the Panaha police do without you?" Bose chuckled, taking the plates and handing one to Akshar. He softened his tone. "Alright, kid. Let's hear it."
Akshar sighed, taking the plate. "You're as persistent as Mom," he said with a reluctant smile.
"Well, I am her brother, so…" Bose grinned.
A faint smile flickered at the corners of his lips as he took the plate from Bose. His mind wrestled with the thought of opening up, the memories gnawing at him like a constant ache. Part of him wanted to shove them deep down, too painful, too raw to revisit. But another part, the part that had been silently bearing the weight for far too long, urged him to release it. The pressure was unbearable, teetering on the brink.
"You're doing it again—over thinking," Bose said, his voice calm but knowing, as he pulled a cigarette from his pack. Curling it between his lips and lighting it, he exhaled a thin stream of smoke before continuing, "Don't think—just let it out. Trust me" he said as he put his hand on his shoulder.
"Trust me" Those were the words Akshar's heart had longed to hear. The moment they reached his ears, a dam broke, and he poured it all out. He recounted a night that followed closely after Bose's incident—a night eerily similar to this one, but far darker and drenched in blood. It all began with a call from the WDA dispatch.
"Attention all Ace units: we have a 10-31 in progress at Maheswari Bhavan, Mehmood Street. Multiple casualties reported. Suspect is believed to be wearing a red hood."
"Unit 3579 to central, I'm about four blocks away, heading southbound on Vedanta road. ETA three minutes. I'll take point."
"Copy, Unit 3579. Backup is en route. Proceed with caution; the suspect is armed with a reaction."
Akshar raced through the sky, jetting air from his feet as he sped toward the reported location, a famed wedding venue of Panaha. The 10-31 had occurred in the middle of a ceremony. On stage, the groom in a traditional sherwani lifted a jasmine-and-rose garland, while the bride, radiant in red and gold, smiled shyly. Family and friends cheered as he placed the garland around her neck, sealing their union—until a hooded figure burst in, turning the celebration into havoc. By the time Akshar landed on the scene the venue was already painted— red.
"Oh god," he quavered, his voice struggling to match the horror of what his eyes saw. The once massive ground, acres of land, had become a pool of blood. Piles of severed hands, legs, and heads lay scattered, their faces lifeless yet still screaming in agony.
At the dead center of this nightmarish scene sat the bride, cradling the lifeless body of a young boy in her lap beneath the blood-soaked canopy. Beside her lay what remained of the groom—shredded, unrecognizable. Towering over her, stood a man cloaked in a red hood, his gaze fixed upon her.
"Why... why did you do this? You killed my brother, my family... everyone..." She said as she howled in tears. No harm was done to her body but her soul felt nothing but pain.
The man in the red hood spoke, his voice eerily calm as he pulled back his hood to reveal his face—gaunt, with lank, black hair draped over hollow, haunted eyes. "You left me no choice," he whispered. "How could you even think of being with someone else?"
His gaze softened, but his words dripped with madness. "Don't you see? You belong with me. I... love... you." He reached out, his hand trembling as he gently caressed her quivering shoulder. But instead of comfort, his touch only deepened the terror coursing through her, as the weight of his obsession crushed her spirit further.
"YOU STAY AWAY FROM HER!!!" Akshar screamed as he lunged and threw a kick so hard straight to the man's face that it produced a deafening boom sound. The man got shot into a faraway border wall of the venue and got stuck in the crater created by the force of his own body.
"Miss are you okay? Are you hurt?" Akshar asked hurriedly but his words fell on deaf ears. Her eyes still fixed on her brother's lifeless body. She didn't move, didn't even try to speak, as if she was incapable of it.
"She is MINEEEEEEEE," The man screamed setting himself loose from the wall and standing up glaring like a demon.
"How the hell is he still standing? That was a 2000 PSI kick. He shouldn't even be able to move." Akshar exclaimed in disbelief. A kick delivering 2000 PSI equals about 20,000 pounds of force—far more than a heavyweight boxer's punch, which reaches only 1,000 to 1,500 pounds. Such a powerful kick could easily cause severe injury or even death.
Yet this man was standing with a ferocity that was unscathed. "Noone will take her away from me..." He declared with a horrifying grin, and as he did, strips of flesh sprung out of his innards wrapping him up completely. They merged and tightened, swelling up into figure so large that its shadow spanned all the way to where Akshar stood encasing him in it.
"There is no fucking way, a Daemon reaction, who the hell would be crazy enough to do this?" Akshar's eyes widened in shock, it felt like his heart had skipped several beats in a row, this was beyond anything he expected tonight.
The Daemon Reaction was no trivial matter. Though not officially banned by the WDA, its use was heavily restricted. It could only be authorized after a formal request from a ruler, prime minister, or president—addressed directly to Zachraya Hemwick himself. Only with his approval could the reaction be administered, and even then, it was performed on candidates who had undergone a battery of rigorous tests.
Unauthorized use, on the other hand, carried severe consequences. Life imprisonment at the very least, and in many cases, the death penalty. Why? Because the Daemon Reaction lived up to its name: it transformed an individual into a true demon, in every horrifying sense of the word.
The man was now a giant mass of muscles human only in outline, with the face of a grinning goblin. Horns had stemmed from the top edges of his forehead while fumes whipped from his violet skin. He stood like a ferocious beast, his arms spread out ready to torture, His legs coiled, one knee up ready to lunge, and his jaw gaped ready to rip through.
This was the Daemon reaction on full display.
Fortunately, Akshar was an ACE and that too with one of the strongest reactions in history—the Stormsong. A reaction that gave him the ability to suck in substances like air and then keep it in a condensed form inside his body, ready to be released in precise bursts of pressure at any moment.
The demon hurled towards Akshar with a force so strong that it brushed away the surface beneath. Akshar steadfastly curled his arms inwards, air throttling into him. As the demon's massive size loomed over his head, he released it all with the swing of his arms. The air blast at point blank range hit the demon like a train, so strong that it sent him right back from where he came.
"What the hell...How? ...I..I have the daemon" He struggled to speak as he forced himself to a limpy stand. The blast had left him tired, sweating and gasping. He stared in shock, a flicker of fear crossing his face, as Akshar approached him slowly, each deliberate step echoing with an unsettling intent.
"Anyone can hold a sword but it's only dangerous in the hands of a swordsman" Akshar remarked as he coiled like a spring, while his torso leaned slightly forward, channeling gushes of wind into his right arm drawn back. He clenched his fists tightly, ready to unleash a devastating blow. "And I am the FUCKING KNIGHT!"
Air exploded from his legs and back, bolting him like a bullet. To the demon he was just a streak of green and black impossible to see. "AHHHGGGGGGHHH!!!!" he howled in gut wrenching pain, puking blood as the blow landed straight and deep into his stomach twisting the flesh inwards. Air cannoned out his back piercing through the boundary wall behind. This was Akshar's Gazelle punch, a punch that on impact pushes air at 5000 PSI or above straight through the skin pores of its target wrecking the internal organs and then exiting from the other side. It's an attack that leaves no mark on the outside but several on the inside.
The demon was brought to his knees, hands clutched tightly around his stomach, head bowed to the ground, blood dripping from his lips. Pain coursed through his body — excruciating enough to make him shiver.
"How... how is this possible? He said... he said this would be enough. This would make me strong. THEN WH—"
Before he could finish, a cold voice, paired with even colder eyes, whispered in his ear.
"You think you're strong? Why? Because you killed some defenseless people? No. You're just pathetic. Let me show you what real power looks like."
Akshar cocked his fist back, ready to strike. Air spiraled into his arm like a storm gathering in his shoulder.
"Now go to hell," he said boldly — and unleashed the punch.
It was pure instinct, fueled by a primal fear of death. Nevertheless, the demon jerked his head just in time — and just far enough — to avoid taking the full brunt of the blow. Still, the right side of his face — eye, cheek, and ear — became a gooey stain on the wall behind him. Somehow, he still had a face.