#28 : THE BLACK FANG AND THE FALLEN BADGE.

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Platform A-13

The scythe spun through the air like a reaper's promise, slicing sparks from the tunnel walls. Steel shrieked. Wind howled. And in the middle of it all stood the man with the twin chain scythes, laughing like a mad prophet.

"Still standing?" he snarled, teeth bared. "You're fun, old man. Most people cry before the first cut."

Blood dripped down Kiyaan Malik's forearm. A gash across his ribs burned with every breath. And still, he stood tall. Unmoving. Watching.

The Serpent guard twirled the blades again, chains rattling like metal vipers. His eyes gleamed under the flickering lights.

"They used to call me Chakrakaal. You heard that name? No? Figures. Mumbai's too soft. I cleared out my last city, where I lived before, in one night. Every gang. Every crew. Gone. I made my name in blood. Then I got bored."

He tilted his head. "But you... you're fun. I've never cut a legend before."

Kiyaan didn't speak.

"What, nothing to say?"

Then the Serpent spat on the floor. "Crimson Fangs. All bark, no bite. Your little army's just a rebellion waiting to get buried."

That did it.

Kiyaan's knuckles clenched.

He stepped forward, slow. Measured. Like death taking its time.

"You want to know why they called me the Black Fang?" he said, voice low.

Chakrakaal blinked.

Kiyaan smiled.

"Because when I bite, I don't let go."

He moved.

Fast.

Too fast.

The chain came for his head. Kiyaan ducked. Grabbed the chain mid-air, wrapped it around his wrist, yanked the guard off balance, and drove a knee into his gut.

CRACK.

The man coughed blood, laughing. "YES! This is it! This is the fun!"

Kiyaan didn't respond.

He spun, twisted the chain, and disarmed one scythe. It flew across the tunnel.

Then he went to work.

Elbow to the temple. Headbutt to the nose. A brutal, bone-snapping uppercut.

Chakrakaal staggered. His laugh faded.

Kiyaan grabbed him by the collar.

"You want to be remembered?" he growled.

He drove him into the concrete wall hard enough to crack it.

"This is what legacy looks like."

Then he slammed his fist into the man's throat.

Silence.

The scythe dropped.

The body slumped.

The Fang still stood.

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Central Junction 13

Dev Sharma looked older, but not weaker.

His stance hadn't changed. Still firm. Still precise.

"I don't want to fight you," I said.

"Good," he said.

Then he moved.

Before I could even react, he disarmed me, wrenching the pistol from my hand and flinging it across the chamber. It slid across the floor and vanished into the shadows.

He didn't pick it up.

"This isn't about bullets, Amit."

I backed off, fists raised.

"You trained me," I whispered. "You taught me how to survive."

"I taught you how to fight," he corrected. "But I never taught you the truth."

Then he charged.

His fist came for my ribs. I barely twisted in time. His elbow snapped toward my face. I ducked, swept low, tried to take his legs out.

He jumped.

Spun mid-air.

Kicked me across the chin.

Pain exploded.

I hit the ground, tasted blood.

But I rolled, dodged his stomp, and threw a wild hook into his kidney.

He grunted.

"Still fighting like a street rat," he said. "Untrained. Undisciplined."

I spat blood. "Still standing."

We clashed again.

He used police martial arts. Efficient. Brutal. Every move meant to subdue or break.

I used instinct.

Corner tactics. Knee strikes. Elbows. Scrapes. I threw dirt from the floor into his eyes and followed with a knee to the jaw.

He staggered.

"Not bad," he muttered.

He grabbed my hoodie, slammed me against a pillar.

"But you're not ready."

I shoved my forehead into his nose.

"Then make me ready!"

We went again.

Blow for blow.

A war of history.

His strikes were faster. Mine were wilder. He knew my openings. I knew his weaknesses.

Pain blurred into adrenaline.

A memory flashed.

Him teaching me how to wrap my fists.

"Tighter," he'd said. "Loose wraps break fingers."

Now we were trying to break each other.

My arm locked around his neck. He flipped me. I landed hard. Kicked his ankle. He dropped.

We both rose.

Bleeding.

Breathing heavy.

No words.

Just the crackle of electricity and hatred.

And the sound of everything I believed in crashing down around me.

TO BE CONTINUED

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