Sirens from ambulances and fire engines wailed across the night as firefighters swarmed the burning apartment block.
Flames crackled violently, licking up the walls while smoke poured into the sky. The ground was soaked with water, ash, and fear.
Crowds were pushed back as medics rushed toward the woman who had been tied up by the drunken gangster who attempted to frame Shiva Bhairava.
She was pale, trembling, and barely conscious, but alive. Her mother, who had been waiting outside before the explosion, broke into a desperate sprint the moment she saw her daughter being carried out.
"Please, that is my daughter," she cried. The medics lifted the young woman onto a stretcher with practiced speed.
"Ma'am, can you remember anything that happened before the explosion?" one firefighter asked while jogging beside her.
Her mother was shaking too much to speak. The medics, however, exchanged looks when they found signs of earlier first aid. Someone had tended to the woman before the explosion.
The police stopped her for a moment. "Ma'am, we need to know what happened inside."
She swallowed hard. "At first… there were three of them. One was drunk. He smelled like alcohol. The other two were his men. I do not remember much after that, but…"
"But what?" an officer pressed.
"There was another person who came into the apartment," she whispered. "I think he was her relative. Maybe her son."
The officer leaned in. "Can you describe him?"
"All I know is he was an Indian man. A young man. Black long hair down to his shoulders. Wearing a black suit like a business or lawyer outfit."
She hesitated, then said something that froze the officers in place.
"And those eyes…"
"Eyes?" the policeman repeated.
"Red," the woman whispered. "Scarlet, blood-like. Eyes that even death would not go near."
The officers exchanged confused glances. They had enough to act. The medics loaded the mother and daughter into the ambulance and drove off toward the hospital.
The police radio lit up as an alert spread to locate the mysterious man they didn't yet realize was Shiva Bhairava himself.
Later that night, Shiva appeared before a Shivan temple. His prosecutor's coat was half soaked in blood, his hair stuck to his face, and his hand was wrapped in a rough bandage where a hole had been blown straight through his palm.
His mother's apartment—his childhood sanctuary—now reduced to rubble by his own desperate choice.
Shiva stepped inside the temple and sat cross-legged on the cold marble floor. He closed his eyes and began to chant silently, a prayer that trembled between pain, rage, and sorrow.
Worshippers nearby moved away, disturbed by the blood dripping from his sleeves.
Heavy engines rumbled outside. Jeeps and vans halted.
Men stepped out—gang members—with shoes still on, weapons in hand. Knives, metal bats, chains, clubs, and brass knuckles.
They marched straight into the sacred temple without hesitation.
The civilians scattered instantly.
Shiva remained unmoving.
"Remove your shoes," he said calmly. "Or did Arwind send you."
He did not open his eyes. He didn't need to.
The gang tightened their grips and charged.
The first man leaped ahead, his blade raised. The instant his hand came close enough to brush a strand of Shiva's hair—
Crack.
His skull twisted a full half turn as his neck snapped clean backwards. His body staggered like a puppet with cut strings before collapsing lifelessly on the marble floor.
The gang froze. A heavy silence pulsed through the temple's air.
Shiva rose slowly.
Crick. Crack.
He cracked his neck left, right, right, left, the sound echoing like bones breaking under pressure. A deranged calm washed over his face.
"Dude… didn't the boss say something about him?" one of them whispered.
"Yeah. He has an illness. Something like delusional syndrome."
Shiva turned his head sharply. His breath hitched, deep and heavy. His nostrils flared. Then he opened his eyes.
Scarlet. Burning. Furious.
The kind of gaze that made the soul recoil.
He stepped forward. The marble under him vibrated with each step.
One of the gangsters scoffed, unimpressed. "Acting tough, ah? You think we scared, boy?"
He swaggered forward.
Shiva's arm moved faster than a blink.
A sharp flick. A brutal thrust.
His fingers stabbed directly into the man's throat. A wet cracking sound followed as Shiva crushed his windpipe with a single squeeze.
Blood sprayed from the shattered airway as the man choked violently. Shiva lifted him off the ground with one hand and tossed the limp body aside like discarded meat.
He turned toward the rest.
"Now," Shiva said, voice low and trembling with fury. "If you babis step on this marble with shoes again, death is not the only thing you will get."
His scarlet eyes glowed harsher. Rage, grief, and divine wrath blended into something inhuman.
The gang trembled, but they raised their weapons.
And Shiva walked toward them.
Like a storm. Like a curse. Like a god who had lost too much to forgive anyone.
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Chapter 5 — End.