" 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...
When Ashwath opened his eyes, a disorienting fog clouded his mind, leaving him momentarily unsure of where—or even who—he was. His body felt heavy, as if gravity itself had intensified, pinning him down. Cold seeped into his skin from the metallic surface beneath him. As his vision adjusted to the dim light, a chill ran down his spine. A translucent pipe extended from his arm, snaking upward toward a machine that steadily pumped blood into his veins. The rhythmic pulse of the device was unsettling, almost too precise, too clinical.
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This wasn’t a hospital.
He scanned the room, his breaths shallow and uneven. The air was sterile, thick with the chemical sting of antiseptic and an unsettling metallic tang—blood. The space was dimly illuminated by flickering fluorescent lights overhead, casting uneven shadows that seemed to move as if alive. The room resembled a laboratory, but it was unlike any medical facility he had ever encountered. Strange machines lined the walls, their screens displaying streams of indecipherable data in neon hues. Some emitted low, mechanical hums, while others were connected to vials filled with oddly colored liquids—red, green, and even a luminous blue—that bubbled ominously as though alive.
Ashwath’s heart began to race as he took in his own condition. Bandages covered his chest, hands, and head, each one tight and pristine but unable to fully mask the pain throbbing beneath them. Every breath he took seemed to tug at an invisible thread of agony, pulling it tighter with each inhalation. Slowly, he tilted his head, wincing as sharp pain shot through his neck like shards of glass piercing his nerves. That’s when he saw him.
A man stood at a stainless steel sink, his back turned. He wore a white doctor’s coat stained with dark smudges of blood, the crimson stark against the sterile fabric. His gloved hands moved methodically, rinsing a set of surgical instruments under a steady stream of water. The tools glinted under the faint light, their metallic surfaces stubbornly clinging to faint streaks of red. The man worked with a disturbing calmness, as though the grotesque scene was a routine part of his day.
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Robert turned at the sound, his face illuminated by the pale glow of the overhead light. His expression was neutral, eerily composed, yet there was something unnervingly hollow in his eyes. He set down the instruments with deliberate precision and walked toward Ashwath, his gloved hands still wet.
