" What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from."
-T.S. Eliot
In the enigmatic town of Kshaya lurks a figure shrouded in infamy: SHAITAN, the most wanted criminal whose true id...
"Where are the rest of your group members?" Ashwath demanded, his voice sharp and unrelenting, echoing through the cold, desolate chamber. The room reeked of sweat, blood, and despair, its flickering light bulb casting ominous shadows on the cracked concrete walls.
The terrorist sat strapped to a splintered wooden chair, his bare chest rising and falling with labored breaths. Wires snaked around his torso, connected to a buzzing electric shock device perched ominously on a nearby metal table. His wrists and ankles were tightly bound with frayed ropes, the coarse fibers digging into his bruised skin. A sheen of sweat mixed with streaks of blood glistened under the dim light, his face battered and swollen from the relentless interrogation.
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On a rusted steel table beside him lay an array of sinister tools: a rusted screwdriver, a jagged rod smeared with old stains, a canister of unknown liquid, and an ECG machine that beeped steadily, monitoring his heart’s strained rhythm. Each item, though innocuous on its own, carried an unspoken promise of pain.
"You can kill me, but I won’t betray my brothers," the man muttered through cracked lips, his voice defiant yet quivering. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, staining his teeth a deep crimson as he met Ashwath's icy glare with unwavering eyes.
Ashwath leaned in, his presence suffocating, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. "Spill it, or you’ll be begging for death by the time I’m done with you."
The captive remained silent, his resolve unshaken despite the torment he had endured. Frustration flickered in Ashwath’s dark eyes, and without hesitation, he grabbed the screwdriver. His grip tightened as he knelt in front of the man, his movements deliberate, almost calculated. The room was filled with the sickening crunch of bone and enamel as Ashwath ripped a tooth from the terrorist's jaw. Blood sprayed onto the cold floor, pooling at the man's feet as he jerked in pain, his muffled groans filling the silence. Yet, even as agony etched itself into every line of his face, he bit back his screams, refusing to yield.
"Say it now," Ashwath snarled, his voice laced with venom. "Or the next thing I take will make you wish for mercy."
Still, the man said nothing, his stoic silence a shield against the torment. Ashwath’s patience thinned, his jaw tightening as he reached for a pair of pliers. One by one, he tore the man’s fingernails from their beds, each removal punctuated by the captive’s guttural cries of pain. Blood oozed from his trembling hands, staining the ropes that held him in place, yet his lips remained sealed.
Ashwath grabbed a sodden cloth from the table and pressed it tightly over the man's face. From the canister, he poured a stream of liquid onto the fabric, triggering a violent reaction. The man thrashed in his bonds as water flooded his senses, his body convulsing under the suffocating weight of simulated drowning. For a moment, it seemed his spirit might break, but he gasped out in ragged defiance as soon as Ashwath pulled the cloth away.
