The Mirror
The mirror reflected a skull.
The Masked Man stood in the motel bathroom, the fluorescent light humming a dying note. He stood in a simple black t-shirt and jeans, his frame lean and dangerous. No armor. No kevlar. He didn't plan on getting hit.
He slotted a fresh magazine into the Glock 19. The click echoed off the cheap tiles. Next came the flashbangs, hooked onto his belt. Then the knife—carbon steel, serrated spine.
He looked at the white ceramic face staring back. The eyes were black pits.
"Hell just clocked in," he grunted to the reflection.
He walked out.
Surya Steel & Chemicals. The Gujarat Border.
The main gate disintegrated.
The breach charge turned the iron doors into shrapnel. Smoke billowed, thick and white, choking the floodlights. The Masked Man stepped through the haze before the debris hit the ground.
Inside, the factory floor stretched like a metal canyon. Catwalks crisscrossed above. Heavy machinery thundered below. And between the gears and the steam, an army waited.
Mercenaries. Ex-military, hired guns, syndicate enforcers. They stood in a defensive phalanx, rifles raised, shouting orders that died in the roar of the machines.
The Masked Man raised his pistol.
Phut-phut.
The first two men dropped. Holes in their foreheads.
The mob opened fire. The air turned into a storm of lead. Bullets sparked off the steel pillars, shredding the smoke.
The Masked Man moved. He didn't rely on armor; he relied on geometry. He slid across the polished concrete, knees bent, body low. He became a shadow in the chaos. He fired as he moved. Every shot found purchase. A throat. A knee. An eye.
He reached the first line of defense. A cluster of men sheltering behind a forklift.
He pulled a pin. He bowled the sphere along the floor.
FLASH.
White light erased the world.
The Masked Man surged forward. He holstered the pistol. The time for ballistics ended. Now came the physics of bone.
He crashed into the blinded group. He grabbed the nearest barrel, twisting the rifle from the mercenary's grip. He swung the stock. Wood shattered against a jaw. Teeth sprayed like confetti.
He spun. A blade flashed at his ribs. He didn't block; he slipped the strike by an inch. He caught the wrist. He twisted. The radius bone snapped with the sound of a dry branch. The attacker screamed. The Masked Man drove the mercenary's own knife into the man's femoral artery. Blood jetted, hot and bright.
More came. A wave of bodies.
He flowed through them like water.
A punch to the throat crushed a windpipe. A kick to the knee hyperextended the joint, snapping the leg backward. He used a stumbling guard as a human shield, letting the man's comrades riddle him with friendly fire.
He grabbed a heavy chain hanging from a hoist. He swung. The steel links whipped through the air, wrapping around a mercenary's neck. The Masked Man yanked. The windpipe collapsed.
He vaulted over a conveyor belt. Bullets chewed the rubber matting behind him. He landed in a cluster of five men.
He moved faster than they could track. He shattered an elbow, spun the man around, and used him to absorb a shotgun blast. He grabbed the shooter's barrel, forcing it up. The discharge blew out a halogen light above. The Masked Man drove his palm into the shooter's nose, driving cartilage into the brain.
He saw the steam valve.
Three men charged with machetes.
The Masked Man turned the wheel.
A jet of superheated steam blasted outward. It cooked the skin instantly. The men dropped their weapons, clawing at melting faces, shrieking.
He kept moving. He claimed the space. He turned the factory into a weapon. He kicked a mercenary into the spinning gears of a sheet-metal press. The machine groaned, crunched, and sprayed red mist.
He pulled two grenades from his belt. He tossed them onto the upper catwalk where the snipers camped.
BOOM. BOOM.
The walkway collapsed. Bodies rained down, hitting the concrete with wet thuds.
The remaining guards hesitated. Fear infected them. They saw the bodies. They saw the blood slicking the floor. They saw the white skull mask, pristine, unspotted.
The Masked Man walked toward them. He didn't run. He walked.
They broke. They fired wildly, panic ruining their aim.
He closed the distance. He dismantled them. He broke fingers. He ruptured spleens. He crushed throats. It was efficient. It was industrial.
The last man crawled backward, empty gun clicking. The Masked Man stepped on his chest. The ribs gave way. The heart stopped.
Silence returned to the floor, save for the rhythmic thumping of the machines.
Zero remainders.
The Glass Tower.
Rohan stood pressed against the soundproof glass, his Armani suit soaked in sweat. Three elite bodyguards stood between him and the door, weapons raised, trembling slightly as they watched the slaughter below.
The door to the office exploded inward.
The Masked Man stepped through the splintered wood.
The two bodyguards on the left fired.
Phut. Phut.
The Masked Man didn't break stride. Two clean shots. Both guards dropped before their casings hit the floor, dark holes drilled into their ocular cavities.
The third bodyguard—a massive man, built like a tank—roared and charged. He didn't fire; he swung the butt of his rifle, aiming to crush the skull mask.
The Masked Man stepped inside the arc. He caught the rifle with one hand, halting the momentum instantly.
He looked at Rohan over the guard's shoulder. Dominance.
With a sickening crunch, the Masked Man drove his elbow into the guard's throat. The man gagged, dropping the weapon. The Masked Man grabbed the guard's head, twisted his hips, and slammed the man's face into the glass wall.
CRACK.
The safety glass spiderwebbed. The guard slid down, leaving a smear of red.
Rohan backed away, hitting his mahogany desk. His face was pale, but his eyes were wild with entitlement. He pointed a shaking finger at the intruder.
"Do you have any idea who I am?!" Rohan screamed, his voice cracking. "Do you know who my father is?! He is the Minister! He owns this state!"
The Masked Man walked toward him. Silence against the scream.
"One phone call!" Rohan yelled, retreating until his back hit the window. "One call and the entire army comes down on you! My father will burn you alive! He will hunt down everyone you know! You can't touch me! I am untouchable!"
The Masked Man stopped. He grabbed Rohan by the lapels and hurled him across the space. Rohan crashed into a bookshelf, trophies tumbling.
Rohan scrambled up, gasping. "Please! I'm just logistics! I just move the trucks!"
The Masked Man was on him. He grabbed Rohan's left hand.
SNAP.
He broke the index finger. Clean backward.
Rohan screamed—a high, bubbling sound.
"Location," the Masked Man rumbled. His voice was gravel grinding on steel. "Malak."
"I don't know! He moves! He—"
CRACK.
The middle finger.
Rohan fell to his knees, clutching his hand, snot running down his face. "Kolkata! He's in Kolkata!"
"Specifics."
"The Underground Sector! Near the old metro tunnels! He needs the humidity! He—he's harvesting!"
"Harvesting what?"
"Organs! Premium clients! He needs fresh stock! He takes them alive! Keeps them fresh!"
The Masked Man released the hand. He looked at the weeping man.
"Thank you."
He grabbed Rohan by the hair and dragged him out of the office. Rohan kicked, heels skidding on the carpet, then the steel grating of the walkway.
"No! No! I told you! My father! You can't do this!"
The Masked Man dragged him to the railing. Below, the ore crusher churned. Two massive, toothed cylinders rotated slowly, grinding rock into dust.
He lifted Rohan.
"No! NO! PLEASE!"
He dropped him.
Rohan hit the rollers feet first.
The machine didn't stop. The teeth caught the leather shoes. Then the ankles.
Rohan shrieked. It was a sound that stripped the throat raw. The metal teeth pulled him in, crushing bone to powder, popping joints like grapes. The scream cut off abruptly as his torso vanished between the gears.
Red pulp sprayed from the bottom of the chute.
The Masked Man watched until the shoes disappeared.
He wiped a speck of dust from his glove.
He pulled out his phone. The screen glowed blue in the dark factory.
He typed.
TO: RANVEER [SOLDIER]
TARGET LOCATED: KOLKATA UNDERGROUND. HARVESTING FACILITY.
INSTRUCTION: DIRECT ASSAULT WILL FAIL. SENSORS DETECT HIGH-DENSITY BIOLOGY.
NEW ORDERS: DISGUISE. ENTER AS PATIENT.
STAGE 4 ONCOLOGY. LOOK WEAK. LOOK DYING.
WAIT FOR THE HARVEST.
CONFIRM.
He hit send.
He turned and walked back through the carnage, boots splashing in the red puddles, leaving the factory to the ghosts.