In a dim alley behind a small restaurant where the lower-class community lived peacefully, the warm smell of cheap cooking drifted in the air. Here, people ate to live, not to impress.
"You just got promoted and this is all you belanja for us?" one of the men joked as three social workers stepped out of the restaurant together.
"Oi, chibai. Be grateful and happy with what you're getting. I'm not paying one hundred ringgit for two bowls of bak kut teh," the promoted man snapped, slapping his friend's shoulder.
"Alright, you two. At least we had a good meal. Still can't believe you guys haven't changed since high school back in SMK Raja Lumu."
They laughed, stretching after the meal. As they parted, one of them paused, his eyes narrowing at a tall figure walking slowly past them. His steps were calm, almost silent, like he didn't belong in this world of noise.
"Hey… wait. Guys, isn't that him?"
"Who?"
"You remember back in Form 2? He's the guy who stabbed a bully in the eye with a pen. Said the bastard was too loud."
"Oh yeah. I remember now," his friend said, scratching his temple. "I heard he became a prosecutor. Why would someone like that live in a shabby place like this?"
"Right? That's probably not him."
"Yeah lah, bro. That was years ago. We were fourteen. He's probably living well off now."
They walked away, laughing.
But the one who got promoted didn't laugh.
He stared at the figure's back.
He knew that was Shiva Bhairava.
His chest tightened as memories flooded him.
Back in high school, he too had been bullied. The fat bully had demanded money every week, threatening to go after his blind mother if he didn't pay.
After they finished their usual beating, he had stayed behind, picking up his torn books while swallowing tears. Then he heard footsteps.
"Move."
He looked up. Shiva stood at the doorway, holding a bag of classroom trash.
"You're in my way. I'm trying to take out the trash."
The boy stepped aside, confused.
The words stuck in his mind.
"What's the point of taking that trash out?" the boy whispered, staring at a razor blade he had secretly brought. A soft click echoed as the blade extended. His hands trembled. He imagined pressing it to his wrist. He imagined finally being seen. Finally being free.
"When the trash that needs to be cleared remains as is."
That voice froze him.
Shiva paused at the doorway, eyes blank and cold.
"Nobody's gonna know. Even if you do that," Shiva said calmly.
The boy stared at him, shaking.
Shiva adjusted his grip on the trash bag.
"I'll get rid of that trash for you. Because I'm on cleaning duty today."
He walked away like it was nothing.
Minutes later, a scream ripped through the classroom.
"KUUAGGHH!!!"
Students crowded around in panic as the fat bully shrieked on the floor, a pen stuck deep in his right eye socket. Blood pooled under his cheek. Some fainted. Some vomited. All whispered one word:
Psychopath.
But the boy who had wanted to die simply stood frozen.
Shiva Bhairava had actually taken out the "trash."
He remembered that moment now, standing under the alley's fluorescent glow.
And he realized something terrifying:
Back then, he feared the bully.
Now, he feared Shiva far more.
He swallowed his breath and hurried after his friends.
Meanwhile, Shiva walked up a flight of stairs to an old apartment complex. At the entrance, a woman stood anxiously.
"She said she'd be back by now, but she hasn't called," she muttered, pacing. Her voice trembled with worry.
Shiva passed her without a word and continued up to the third floor. He reached the door, paused, and narrowed his eyes.
The lock had been tampered with.
Subtle. But not subtle enough for him.
His delusional mind sharpened like a blade.
His instincts screamed danger.
He entered the apartment silently.
Two men lunged out from the shadows.
One rammed forward with a knife, thrusting straight toward Shiva's stomach.
The blade pierced flesh.
Or so the attacker thought.
Instead, the knife went straight into Shiva's palm as he caught the man's wrist mid-thrust. Blood dripped down his arm, yet Shiva's expression didn't change. His eyes were cold, empty.
"Next time, take your shoes off before entering someone's home," Shiva said, tightening his grip. "Makes it harder for me to know you're here."
He twisted the man's wrist sharply.
A snap echoed.
Bone burst through skin.
The man screamed as Shiva slammed him across the room, smashing him spine-first onto a wooden table. The table cracked under the weight.
The second attacker appeared behind Shiva, swinging a broken bottle at his neck.
Shiva didn't turn.
His free hand shot backward, grabbing the man's face like gripping a melon.
The man struggled.
Shiva's fingers dug into his cheeks.
"You came into my mother's home," Shiva whispered, voice trembling with something darker than rage. "You shouldn't have breathed the same air she did."
He slammed the man's skull into the wall.
The plaster dented.
Blood sprayed.
The man collapsed, twitching.
The first attacker crawled away, clutching his mangled wrist.
Shiva walked toward him.
Slow. Calm. Deadly.
"You should've made sure I died in that funeral hall," Shiva said, crouching. "Because now…"
He grabbed the man's jaw and yanked it upward violently.
"…you won't."
The scream echoed through the entire apartment block.
Shiva stood over the dying attacker, blood dripping from his palm where the knife had pierced through.
The apartment was quiet except for the faint wheezing of the injured woman in the bathroom.
A deep, unhurried voice came from behind him.
"Who sent you?" Shiva asked without turning.
A bottle clinked. A sloppy gulp followed.
A man in his forties leaned against the wall, finishing a cheap beer. His face was ugly and swollen from years of drinking, his posture reeking of street-level arrogance.
"So you must be Prosecutor Bhairava," the man sneered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"And here I thought you'd be fucking richer than this. Guess all that law shit doesn't pay well, huh?"
He stumbled forward, standing face-to-face with Shiva. The stench of beer hit like poison.
The man tilted sideways slightly, just enough to see the corpses behind Shiva—the shattered table, the broken bones, the pool of blood.
"Damn," he muttered. "Tough. Are you really a prosecutor? I was gonna settle this cheap since I assumed you were some soft bookworm with shitting glass skin."
He clicked his tongue, then walked toward the bathroom door.
When he opened it, the fluorescent light revealed a young woman—no more than her twenties—tied, gagged, barely breathing. Her face was swollen, eyes reddened, and each inhale trembled like her lungs were failing.
"This won't do," the gangster scoffed. "We'll have to negotiate the price."
Shiva's eyes slid toward the woman—just a small glance, but enough.
She was still alive. Suffering.
The man shrugged.
"This is why I never trust you Malaysian dogs," he muttered, kicking aside a towel. "There won't be any revenue left after the cleaning fee."
Shiva's voice was cold.
"Is that woman included in your deal?"
"I dragged that bitch from the floor downstairs," the man said proudly. "Tough girl. Bet the old hag outside is still waiting for her."
He laughed—loud, vulgar.
"I put up with her bullshit just to set the perfect alibi for you, Mister Prosecutor."
He pointed at the desk.
Small packets of white powder lay scattered.
One pack was torn open, its contents spilled like powdered snow. A used syringe lay beside it. A belt was dropped nearby.
"A well-respected yet junkie prosecutor," the man said proudly, waving his phone like a weapon.
"Who took Mexican smack and violently raped the girl next door. That'll make top news, don't you think? Better than those political scandals. Heh."
He laughed at his own story.
Shiva didn't laugh.
Shiva didn't even blink.
"You lack creativity," he said quietly. "Nowadays, that's not enough."
The man froze for a second. Something in Shiva's tone felt wrong.
When Shiva slowly raised his head, the gangster's smile collapsed. A cold shiver crawled down his spine.
Shiva was smiling—
but not like a man.
Like something feral. Something wrong. Something unhinged.
A smile stretched by malice instead of joy.
"You'd at least have to kill her parents to gather some information," Shiva whispered.
His voice was low, dark, promising violence.
"Babi."
Same time in Shula Group,
an old man sat stiffly on a leather chair, glaring at his phone as if it had personally wronged him.
In the shadows ahead of him stood Kaala Bhairava, towering and silent.
"Goodness…" the old man muttered, massaging his temples.
"The eldest son becoming a prosecutor should have been solid support for his father. But instead—he went rogue."
His voice carried complaint, frustration, and fear.
He glanced nervously at Kaala.
"What do you think about Shiva suddenly turning rogue? If this goes wrong, even you won't be able to take responsibility. The higher-ups won't just sit and watch anymore."
Kaala's eyes narrowed—slow, cold.
The way a predator stares before deciding whether to bite.
He turned his head slightly, recognizing the tone for what it was—
not a warning.
A threat.
Without a word, Kaala walked forward.
His shadow swallowed the old man.
He leaned down, placing one heavy hand on the armrest beside the old man's head.
His stare was deep, suffocating, colder than steel.
Election season was near.
One wrong step meant the end of everything.
"To bury this," Kaala said in a low, rumbling voice,
"You'd have to dig up the entire Malaysia.
Are you okay with that?"
"Hey, hey—I was just joking, hahaha…"
The old man raised his hands defensively, sweat gathering on his forehead.
Kaala didn't blink.
The old man could feel death breathing inches from his face.
"I didn't claw my way up from the bottom by joking," Kaala said.
"Joke or not, I can teach you how to survive rock-bottom if you want."
He leaned even closer.
"It's simple. I never spare anyone who stands in my way.
Not even family.
No exceptions."
The old man's spine shook.
A cold chill flooded his face.
Kaala continued, voice quiet but heavy:
"Shiva is not your average Bhairava boy. He was diagnosed with delusional syndrome at eight months old. The day I saw him take down fifty former combat specialists trained by a Russian mafia lord—at the age of ten—because they killed the small puppy his mother gave him…"
Kaala paused, eyes remembering the blood.
"…I knew he was either my greatest weapon—or the thing that would kill us all."
The old man's phone rang suddenly.
He jumped.
He snatched the phone, assuming it was the men he'd sent to handle Shiva at Aisha's apartment.
"You idiot! Retreat immediately while you still have ti—"
He froze.
"What? W-what…?"
His voice cracked.
He handed the phone to Kaala with trembling fingers.
Kaala took it calmly.
"Speak."
The voice on the other end was broken, terrified, choking.
Kaala listened.
He closed his eyes for a second.
Then opened them slowly.
"Didn't you study to be a prosecutor, Shiva?" Kaala asked into the phone.
"Yet you're not smart enough to read the room. If you wanted, I could've made you general prosecutor. A position people dream of but never reach."
A suffocating silence lingered.
Then Kaala asked:
"Why did you do it?
Just because of the incident with your mother?"
---
On the other end…
Shiva walked up the stairs of the tallest apartment building he could find.
His steps were slow, heavy, controlled.
"I don't think you understand, Father," Shiva said quietly.
"What Mother's death meant to me."
He reached the rooftop
and the wind hit him like a whisper from the dead.
The slums stretched below like a sea of rust and broken dreams.
He looked toward the direction of Aisha's apartment.
"The only reason I held back my illness was her order.
Mother's order."
His voice darkened.
"I endured everything… until now."
He stared at the quiet night.
"…because Mother played the role of my chains.
And someone broke that for me."
---
Inside Aisha's apartment
The drunken gangster—the one who mocked Shiva—lay tied to a metal pipe.
His wrists were bound so tight the flesh had split open.
Blood streamed down his hands like red vines.
He drifted awake, groaning.
"What… what's that smell…?"
His eyes widened.
"G—GAS?!"
He thrashed desperately, chair scraping against the broken floor tiles.
No one in the entire slum expected the next sound.
"AAAAAGGGHHH!!!!!"
BOOOOOOM!!!!
A blinding inferno erupted—
shattering windows, collapsing walls, swallowing everything in a roaring blaze.
From the high window of Shula Group,
Kaala saw the explosion.
Just a few kilometers away.
Shiva stood on the rooftop, watching the flames consume the last remnant of his memories with his mother.
His face was still.
Burning with a dead, silent rage.
"Now I'll show you," Shiva whispered.
"I'll kill everyone involved in Mother's death.
No exceptions.
Not even family."
---
Back in Shula Group
Kaala's lips curled into a grin—
not of happiness.
Of madness.
"Heh… very good," he murmured.
"My men told me your mother's last words before she died."
He chuckled.
"She said—'Watch yourself. Once you face my Mahākāla, with scarlet eyes darker than the deepest void, not even every god can save you.'"
Kaala burst into laughter—
a madman's laughter.
Then he heard it.
A soft chuckle from Shiva.
Over the phone.
The first laugh Kaala had heard from him in years.
"What's so funny about your mother's dying words?" Kaala asked.
Shiva's voice came cold, almost amused.
"Mahākāla…
So Mother really allowed me to go full berserk."
Kaala frowned.
"What do you mean?"
"You know my name as Shiva Bhairava.
What you didn't know is that Mother secretly added a middle name when I was an infant."
Shiva's voice deepened.
"My full name is Shiva Mahākāla Bhairava."
"Mahākāla is my trigger word," Shiva said.
"It's what unlocks the animal in me."
Kaala grinned wider—eyes gleaming with insanity.
"Yes… yes.
Now you're starting to act like my child."
But he didn't realize—
Shiva was no longer on the line.
He had already dropped the phone behind him and disappeared into the night.
Kaala stared at the dead line and whispered:
"Feel the pain of the path you've chosen."
---
Chapter 4 — End