Downstairs, police cars poured in like fireworks. Sirens stacked over each other.
Red and blue washed the glass walls.
In a quiet lounge, Roy sat with John. Across from them, the police commissioner—old eyes, perfect posture—kept talking.
"…your friend will be safe. We've sealed the building. Whoever did this won't escape."
Roy said nothing.
Cops moved past them like furniture. Nobody asked for names. Nobody slowed down.
Minutes later, a voice crackled through a radio upstairs. Then another. The ground team has reached the eight floor where Samir was held hostage.
The commissioner's phone buzzed. He glanced at it. Just a flicker—then control snapped back into place.
"They've reached the floor," he said calmly.
"Guards are down."
Roy finally shifted. John straightened.
Another call. Shorter this time. The ground team walked forward, and they found Samir.
Slumped on the ground not moving. They checked the pulse, no results.
The commissioner inhaled. "Samir… is dead."
Silence.
Roy set his glass down. Slowly. Leaned forward.
"How?" he asked.
"Blast wound. Shoulder. Second-degree burns. Weapon unknown."
John's eyes moved.
The commissioner started saying something about condolences. Roy cut him off.
"Where is the killer?"
"We're searching."
Upstairs, the ground team walked forward in the dim light when one of them spotted something. "Sir—there's a mark."
Photos came through. Fresh paint. Huge.
Grinning.
The devil.
The word spread fast. Same man. Same signature. Sakshi Mehra. Now Samir.
The commissioner's eyes lit up. Too fast.
"This confirms it. Same perpetrator."
He excused himself, already dialing higher up the ladder.
Roy watched him go. Then looked at John.
"Screen."
—
The police hand touched the painted mark upstairs.
Then—
A sound.
Deep. Violent. Metal screaming alive.
Roy heard it.
Everyone did.
In the basement, cops froze. "Where's that coming from?"
The roar grew closer. Red light bled across concrete. CCTV screens went black—one by one.
Radios spat static.
"Signal's jammed!" Everyone started to panic.
Out of the dark, something tore through the middle of them.
A bike. Too fast. Too low. A blur of red and black.
Shots rang out. Bullets sparked and died.
Then he was gone.
Lights snapped back on. Cameras blinked alive.
"He escaped," someone shouted.
Too late.
—
By morning, it was everywhere.
Headlines. Panels. Breaking news banners stacked over each other.
HORSEMAN CO-FOUNDER KILLED. SAME SUSPECT AS SAKSHI MEHRA CASE.
Speculation ran wild. Motive. Revenge.
Terrorism. Vigilante.
CBI took over before noon. There was murmur about foreign help, but the current prime minister denied that.
The news that was big became bigger.
Horseman said nothing.
Roy, Gaurav, and John were photographed entering the hospital.
—
The morgue was cold. Too bright.
The doctor pulled the sheet back and left without a word.
Samir looked smaller. Lines cut into his skin.
Burned flesh dark and angry at the shoulder.
Gaurav turned away immediately. Hand over his mouth.
Roy didn't blink.
He stepped closer. Studied the burn.
"…That's familiar," he murmured.
Behind him, Gaurav shook his head. "I don't— — I've never seen something familiar in autopsies."
Roy ignored him.
"John," he said quietly. "You've seen this before."
John leaned in. Took his time.
"…Project Drum."
Gaurav spun around. "What? That's impossible. Only four of us knew about that."
"And yet," Roy said, eyes still on the wound, "here it is."
Gaurav's voice dropped. "He couldn't have built that without—"
Roy raised a finger. Just one.
"Don't finish that."
He looked at John. "Any chance he stole it?"
"No," John said. "No digital files. Only physical copies of it in the mine."
Gaurav swallowed. "What if he's one of Carl's test subjects? We've heard reports. People dodging bullets. Causing chaos."
John shook his head. "He didn't dodge. The bullets bounced." A pause. "Blue ripple. Like a shield."
Roy straightened slightly.
"Could he have built it himself?"
Silence.
Gaurav spoke, slower now. "That bike… no stock machine moves like that. Someone made it. Someone smart."
Roy nodded once. "Possible. Plausible."
"Then his tech is better than ours," Gaurav said.
None of them liked that, they spend billions on it.
Roy pulled the sheet back over Samir's face.
His voice was calm. Too calm.
"So," he said, "where did he get it?"
Rony was in the lift listening to yesterday's news.
SAMIR FOUND DEAD — CITY ON EDGE
He reread it. Once. Twice. Hearing the news that he was part of, was really odd.
The lift TV flickered to a live feed. Roy stepping out, reporters swarming like flies.
"Mr. Roy, do you believe the killer is the same vigilante—"
Roy's mouth moved. Calm. Polished.
"…a very unfortunate situation. A murderer roaming free in the city. First he killed—"
Rony locked the phone. Didn't hear the rest.
The lift dinged.
The concern he had when he entered the lift drained out, replaced by something colder.
Focused, when he heard the voice of Roy. He adjusted the bag on his shoulder as the doors slid open.
Dark.
No lights. No music. No sarcastic AI voice greeting him.
"Okay!" Rony muttered.
He pulled out the device from his bag. Small.
Matte black. Not quite a gun, but close enough to make people rethink choices, and if I was made by this guy, it surely would.
He stepped in slow. Heel to toe.
"DJ?"
Nothing.
"Devesh."
Still nothing.
The apartment smelled off. Burnt metal.
Ozone. Something sharp.
He moved deeper—and stopped.
DJ was on the floor.
Not lying. Sitting. Back against the couch.
Arms loose at his sides like they forgot what they were for. In front of him, on the table, the helmet.
Bullet marks. Cracked visor. One clean mark near the side.
It looked like it was watching him.
Rony swallowed, reached back, and flicked the lights on.
White light flooded the room.
"What the hell happened?" he said, forcing the tone lighter. "If this is about panic attacks, I don't judge. First time getting shot messes everyone up. Trust me I have seen-"
DJ didn't look up.
"I killed someone."
The words landed wrong. Like a sentence missing context but it was loud enough.
Rony blinked. "You… what?"
DJ lifted his head. Eyes hollow. Red. Not crying—past that.
"I killed someone."
"Oh," Rony said quietly. Then, after a beat, "Okay. Yeah. I… did not think that through."
Silence pressed in. The kind that buzzes in your ears.
Rony crouched, resting his elbows on his knees. "It wasn't your fault."
DJ laughed. A short, broken sound. "Not my fault? I pulled the trigger. Of a gun that can blow a wall apart, Rony."
"DJ—"
"Please." His voice cracked. "Don't. I killed someone. A living person. He was talking.
Breathing. And now he's just—gone."
Rony watched him fold inward. Shoulders shaking, hands clenched like they were still holding something.
"Dj," he said, voice calmer. "He killed Sakshi. Or helped. You know that. You know what kind of man he was."
DJ shook his head hard. "That doesn't make it okay. He didn't deserve to die like that. Not by me. Not like this."
He pressed his palms to his face. "I don't get to decide that. I'm not a judge. I'm not… anything. I'm just a thief who wants justice for the girl he loves."
That one hit.
Rony leaned back against the table, exhaled through his nose. He saw it then. The gap between them. Same goal. Different lines they wouldn't cross, maybe this is why he chose him.
"Devesh," he said, using the name on purpose. "If he hadn't answered… would you have shot him?"
DJ didn't hesitate. "No. Never. I can't watch someone die. I can't—"
Rony sighed, then chuckled under his breath. He reached out, gave DJ's shoulder a firm pat. "Like I said. You're better than me."
DJ looked up. "What would you have done?"
Rony answered instantly. "Shot him."
DJ stared. "You're insane."
"In the leg," Rony added. "Relax. I'm not a monster. Nor you are. I'm just little more efficient."
DJ looked away, his gaze much calmer. The helmet's cracked visor caught the light.
"So," Rony said after a moment. "What now?"
"I don't know."
"You've got another murder on your head," Rony said bluntly. "And this one—you actually committed."
DJ flinched.
Rony held up a hand. "Bad phrasing. Sorry. What I mean is—you clear your name. You find proof."
"How?" DJ asked, tired. Empty.
Rony tilted his head. "Wasn't there another guy with him?"
DJ's eyes shifted. Sharp now. Focus creeping back in.
Rony smiled faintly. "Yeah. This time? Let me do it."