Sometimes later, In DJ's secret layer.
The DJ was doing push-ups. The mat under him was damp already.
DJ counted under his breath. Every breathe felt like a roar of a dying lion. Every breath ripping air in and out. His bare chest flexed, his back muscle tightened. He felt a burning feeling all over, he felt like his body was in damp moldy furnace. Every sit-up pulled at the bruises. Purple, yellow, angry red, but it was nothing compared to the anger in his eyes.
The big one near his ribs still looked wrong, like his body hadn't forgiven it yet.
He dropped back flat and stayed there for half a second, his eyes down, his breath was ragged, filled with tiredness filled with unsuppressed rage.
"Again," he muttered.
He rolled up and off the mat, grabbed the wraps, hands moving fast. Too fast. He wrapped them anyway, sloppy but tight too tight that was almost uncomfortable.
He didn't care, he crossed the room and shoved the old boxing bag onto the hook..
The chain rattled like it always did. He steady the boxing bag.
First punch.
Then another.
Then faster.
The bag started to swing. DJ followed it, feet sliding. His punches has no rhythm just raw force. Each hit landed heavier than the last, like he was trying to punch through something behind it. His breathing went sharp his face becoming angrier his frustration growing like it was about to burst.
Thud. Thud. Thud-thud-thud.
The bag squeaked. The chain complained. DJ didn't stop, he kept increasing the speed till he couldn't increase it more.
His wraps darkened. Red soaking through near the knuckles. He didn't look didn't care.
Adn when he finally leaned forward, the bag caught him. His forehead pressed into the cracked leather breathing heavily. He stayed there, shaking. Sweat dripped onto the floor.
"Damn it," he whispered. Not loud. Just tired, his anger replaced with deep frustration.
He pushed himself upright. Wobbled. Caught the bag again. This time he stayed standing. He looked down at his hands. Blood through the tape, slow and steady.
He lifted his arm to punch again just our of spite and desperation—
The door creaked.
DJ didn't turn.
Rony walked in with two takeout boxes balanced in one hand and an ice bag in the other. He stopped when he saw DJ and red knuckles. He pretended that be hadn't seen them.
Rong sighed, crossed the room, and tossed the ice bag at him.
"Leave that," he said. "I brought dinner."
DJ caught the ice with his chest and winced. He pressed it over the bruises anyway.
"I'm not hungry."
Rony didn't answer. He set the food on the table, pulled out a chair, and started eating like nothing was wrong. Fork scraping the box. Too loud. Loud on purpose.
DJ went back to the bag. Punching.
"Come on," Rony said around a mouthful. "Eat."
"I said I'm not hungry."
Rony didn't reply, just clicked the TV on.
The room filled with voices. Loud voices. Headline roared louder than voice. They slid across the screen. Bright red, typicall of indian news. DJ's name wasn't said, but his shadow was everywhere.
"…police have increased patrols—"
"…a dangerous terrorist—"
"…people are scared—"
DJ grew annoyed. The news was took loud .
"Shut it," he said.
Rony kept eating.
DJ turned. "I said shut it."
"Eat, then."
DJ walked over and turned the TV off himself.
The room went quiet again, except for the hum of computer running.
Rony didn't care, he just look out something.
The laptop chimed, and Rony immediately started the news.
DJ's head snapped toward the table. Same news.
Smaller screen. Same voices.
"Rony."
"Mm?"
"Turn it off."
"It goes off when you eat."
DJ stared at him. His eye saying I want is stop, but couldn't. He chest kept rising and falling. He looked at the bag. At his bleeding hands. At the laptop.
"…heroes like them don't exist—" the screen said.
DJ exhaled through his nose, long and sharp. He moved, and dropped onto the chair so hard it scraped.
"Happy now?" he muttered.
Rony slid a box toward him. "Very."
DJ opened it, still glaring at the screen. His hands trembled as he picked up the fork.
Rony finally shut the laptop.
Silence again.
DJ took a bite.
"Now what?" Rony asked.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, finally looking up. The room felt quieter than before, like it was waiting.
DJ paused mid-bite. looked at him. Just stared, like he didn't get the question.
Rony nodded toward him. "You had your moment," he said. "Punched the bag. Yelled at the TV. Cool." A beat. "Now what we gonna do?"
DJ set the fork down slowly. Metal clinked against the box.
"…Now what?" he repeated.
He leaned back, eyes drifting to the far wall. The concrete there was cracked, spidered from something old. He exhaled, then looked back at Rony.
"What do you think I'm gonna do in this?"
Rony shrugged and went back to eating. "About what?"
DJ let out a short laugh. No humor in it.
"Everything," he said. "The police. The people.
Their little speeches. His challenge." His chest still aches "Krish."
Rony stopped chewing.
For a second he just sat there, staring at his food. Then he looked up.
"How much do you trust me?"
DJ didn't hesitate. Not even a blink.
"More than anything."
Rony held his gaze. Something shifted in his face—less sarcasm, more focus. He nodded once, like he'd just locked something in.
DJ leaned forward. Elbows on his knees. Voice low.
"So," he said. "What's the plan?"
In the city, Krish touched down on the balcony without a sound. No crack in the tiles. No rush of wind. Just the curtain brushing his arm as he stepped inside.
And inside of the apartment was crowded.
People sat on chairs, on the floor, close to each other. Voices overlapped—low, careful, tired. In the center, against the wall, was Saakshi's photo. Someone had added a fresh flower garland. It hung slightly crooked, petals already starting to fall onto the frame.
Priya Mehra, Saakshi's sister in law, and physics teacher, stood near them, nodding, listening, answering the same questions again and again. Her smile came late and left early.
"Excuse me," she said softly, after a while. "I'll be right back."
She walked into the bedroom.
Stopped.
Krish was standing near the window.
For a second, her body just… froze. Like her mind hadn't caught up yet.
Then she crossed the room fast and hugged him, arms tight around his chest. Too tight. She looked worried.
"Are you okay?" she asked into his shoulder.
Krish hesitated, then lifted his hands and hugged her back. Carefully. He pulled his mask off.
Krishna Mehra, Sakshi's brother.
Her eyes went straight to his face, scanning for non-existing bruises, she only found sadness and guilt.
"I'm fine," he said. "How's Dad? And Daadi?"
Her shoulders dropped a little.
"He hasn't eaten," she said. "Days now. He just sits there. Doesn't talk." Her voice dropped.
"Daadi keeps trying, but… he keeps saying it's his fault. That if he'd just called her. If he'd stopped her."
Krishna's eyes harden a little.
"It wasn't his fault," he said quickly. " He wasn't even in the city. I should've been here. I could've—"
"Krishna." Priya grabbed his arm.
He stopped.
"It's not your fault either," she said. "You weren't here too."
"What if I was?" he snapped back. "What if I could've—"
"It's over," she cut in, firm but gentle. "You can't be everywhere at once. You know that."
He looked away. His eyes were wet now. He didn't bother hiding it.
"I could have saved her," he said quietly.
Priya hugged him again, tighter this time.
"Don't," she said. "Please don't do this to yourself. You already blame yourself too much."
They stood there for a moment, breathing in sync.
She pulled back first. Looked at him.
"You didn't catch him," she said. Not accusing. Just… asking. "How did he get away from you?"
Krishna exhaled. "He vanished."
Her brow creased. "Vanished how?"
"I searched the entire city," he said. "Every trace. Every signal. Nothing. Like he was never there."
She frowned. "One of Carl's?"
He shook his head. "No. I didn't feel anything like that. I didn't feel anything at all like he wasn't even there ." A pause. "He felt normal, yet different somehow."
" Then he has powers?"
" I don't know," he replied, and she asked. "He didn't teleport, did he?"
Krishna frowned too now. " Maybe. But whatever it was… I've never seen it."
Priya grabbed his hand. Squeezed it.
"Listen," she said. "He got lucky. Once."
Krishna met her eyes.
"He won't get another chance," she continued. "Find him. Put him behind bars. Make sure he never hurts anyone again."
Something hardened behind Krishna's eyes. Focused.
"I will," he said
Then, quieter: "I'll put an end to him." And he puts back his mask.
" He won't escape this time."