The room didn't just smell like poverty; it smelled like the end of the world. Xavier sat on the edge of his rusted iron bed, listening to the metal shriek under his weight. It was a rhythmic, agonizing sound, much like the thoughts screaming inside his head. This place, a tiny, suffocating box in the city's industrial gut, was where dreams came to rot. The sun had long forgotten this address. Even the light that managed to squeeze through the cracked window felt tired, filtered through layers of smog and ash.
The walls were weeping. Literally. Green-black dampness seeped through the bricks, trickling down like slow, poisonous tears. The air was heavy—a disgusting, thick soup of cheap tobacco, moldy wood, and the salty stench of the nearby docks.
Xavier looked at the wall where a broken mirror hung, covered by a grease-stained, filthy rag. He hadn't looked at himself in months. Why? Because staring at his reflection felt like staring at a fresh crime scene. It was a reminder of a man who was butchered by his own blood.
His body was a map of his downfall. A year ago, this man was Arjun Vardhan. He was the golden prince of the corporate world, the guy whose face on a magazine cover meant stocks would soar. He had broad, powerful shoulders, tailor-made silk suits, and a smile that radiated the kind of confidence only billions of dollars can buy. Now? He was a hollowed-out shell. A bag of bones. His skin was pale, almost translucent, stretched tight over a skeletal frame. His hands, which once only touched gold fountain pens and luxury watches, were now black, rough, and calloused. Every scar on his knuckles told a story of a double shift at the docks, lifting heavy iron just to earn enough for a loaf of dry bread. He looked like a corpse that had simply forgotten to lie down. His eyes—once bright and sharp—were now two cold, dark craters. There was no fire left. Only a silent, soul-crushing void.
Xavier closed his eyes, and suddenly, he wasn't in the slums anymore. He was back in the Vardhan Mansion. It was exactly a year ago. A night of thunder and blood.
He remembered the smell of his father's expensive scotch. Vikram Vardhan stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass window, watching the storm. He didn't even turn around when Arjun entered, bleeding from a gash on his forehead, framed for a financial fraud that would destroy the company.
"I didn't do it, Dad," Arjun had whispered, his voice trembling. "It was the Russians. They hacked the servers. I have the proof."
Vikram finally turned. His face wasn't the face of a father. It was the face of a predator who had just decided which prey to kill. "I know you didn't do it, Arjun," he said, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "But the public needs a scapegoat. The investors need a sacrifice to keep the stocks stable. And I've decided... it's going to be you."
The betrayal hit harder than any bullet. His own father had sold him out to save his precious empire. Before Arjun could speak, the guards grabbed him. They beat him until his ribs snapped like dry twigs. They dragged him to the edge of the estate and threw him into the mud like a piece of unwanted garbage.
"Don't come back," Vikram's voice had drifted from the balcony. "Arjun Vardhan died tonight. If I see you again, I'll finish the job."
Arjun lay in the keechad (mud), the cold rain washing away the blood but not the shame. He looked at the golden gates of the estate—the place where he was born—as they slammed shut forever. He was ready to die. He wanted the earth to swallow him whole.
Just as the darkness was about to claim him, the rain stopped hitting his face. A massive black umbrella blocked the downpour. Arjun squinted through the blood in his eyes. Standing over him was a figure that looked like he had crawled straight out of the depths of hell.
The man was tall, dressed in a long, dark trench coat that seemed to swallow the light. His hair was stark white, and his eyes... they were the most terrifying part. They didn't just look at you; they looked through you, peeling back layers of skin to see the rot beneath. A thick, jagged scar ran from his ear down to his throat.
"Arjun Vardhan is a dead man's name," the man rasped. His voice sounded like stones grinding together.
"Then call me... nothing," Arjun managed to choke out, spitting a mouthful of red into the mud.
The man knelt down, his presence heavy and suffocating. "I am Silas. The world of shadows calls me The Architect. I don't save people, Arjun. I rebuild them. I can give you a new face. I can give you a name that will make your father's heart stop. But the price... the price is everything you have left. Your soul. Your mercy. Your humanity. I will take it all and leave you hollow."
Arjun didn't hesitate. He reached out with a trembling, muddy hand and grabbed Silas's coat. His grip tightened with a strength fueled by pure, unadulterated hate. The fire that had died in his eyes was replaced by something far more dangerous—a cold, burning ice.
"Take it," Arjun growled, his voice a low hiss. "Take everything. Just give me the power to turn that empire into ash. Give me the strength to watch him crawl."
Silas smiled. It wasn't a kind smile. it was the grin of a demon who had just found his masterpiece. "Then, welcome to the world of the living dead... Xavier."
The next twelve months were not about healing; they were about destruction. Silas took Xavier to a hidden facility beneath the city, a place of cold steel and shadows. There, the transformation began.
The physical pain was unbearable. Surgeons—men who owed Silas their lives—worked on Xavier's face for hours, changing the bone structure, the jawline, the very essence of his look. When the bandages were on, the real torture started. Silas put him through a hellish training regime.
"You are not a fighter, Xavier. You are a predator," Silas would bark while Xavier bled on the concrete floor. "A fighter waits for a move. A predator creates the move."
He learned to fight in total darkness. He learned how to kill with a pen, a coin, or his bare hands. He learned the secrets of global finance—how to crash a market from a single laptop. Silas stripped away the "Arjun" who cared for people and replaced him with "Xavier"—a man who calculated every breath.
One morning, the bandages finally came off. Xavier stood before a full-length mirror. He reached out and touched the glass. The man looking back at him was a stranger. He had sharp, high cheekbones, eyes as cold as a frozen lake, and a jawline that looked like it was carved from granite. He was handsome, but it was a dangerous, lethal kind of beauty.
"Who are you?" Silas asked from the shadows.
Xavier didn't look back. He just stared at his new face, a thin, cruel smirk touching his lips.
"I am the debt that Vikram Vardhan forgot to pay," he whispered. "And I'm here to collect it with interest."
Xavier picked up a black suit—the same brand his father wore, but it looked better on him. He adjusted his cufflinks and looked at an invitation on the table. It was for the Vardhan Anniversary Gala.
"It's time," Silas said. Xavier walked out of the room, each step echoing like a death knell. Arjun was dead. And the world wasn't ready for what Xavier was about to do.