City Streets – Night Pursuit (Climax)
The remaining car reached the main city road — traffic lights red, horns blaring all around. The leader kept his voice low but firm.
"Guns down. Cylinders out of sight. Act normal."
Ambulances and police cruisers flashed past in the distance — sirens cutting through the night. A group of traffic police stood talking near the intersection.
The car rolled forward slowly. One officer glanced their way, then walked over.
The boss nodded to the driver. "You talk. Stay calm."
The driver rolled down the window, forcing a polite smile.
"Sir, be careful ahead," he said. "I heard there was a shootout near the old sector."
The officer nodded, about to move on — then paused. His eyes narrowed on the car's rear: crumpled metal, shattered glass, deep dents like something massive had struck it from behind.
He stepped closer.
The men inside tensed.
The boss whispered, "Keep talking."
The conversation dragged — questions about where they were coming from, why the back looked like that. It quickly turned suspicious.
The officer reached for his radio.
"Drive," the boss hissed.
The driver floored it. Tires screeched. The car lurched forward into traffic.
Behind them, the officer spoke urgently into his mike, giving the car's description and direction.
The boss cursed under his breath.
"Stop the car."
They pulled into a side lane. The boss quickly handed the remaining cylinders to two of his men.
"Go to the base. Now. Take separate routes."
The two men slipped out and disappeared into the crowd.
The boss turned to the driver. "Get us out of here."
Police cruisers appeared in the rearview — lights flashing, closing fast.
"Fire if they get too close," the boss ordered.
AK-47s came up — short, controlled bursts aimed at tires and engines, not people. One police car swerved, slowing but not crashing.
The men inside cursed each other in panic. One cylinder still sat in the boss's lap.
"We're not using this one," he said firmly. "It'll ruin everything."
A soft knock sounded on the windshield.
They looked up — nothing.
Another knock.
Fear rippled through the car.
Then a calm voice spoke from nowhere.
"I think you have something that belongs to me."
The men screamed. Guns came up — bullets sparked uselessly against an invisible face. A blue figure flickered into view for half a second, staggering back slightly, rubbing his eyes like someone caught off-guard.
"You're acting immature," Pitamah's voice said dryly in Raghav's mind.
"I'm learning," Raghav replied, half-amused.
The car swerved wildly onto the main street — weaving through civilian traffic, clipping mirrors, forcing cars to brake hard. People shouted, horns blared. One civilian vehicle spun and blocked the road — forcing the pursuing police to stop.
Inside the terrorists' car, silence fell.
"The exits are probably sealed," one man muttered. "Mission's done. There's nothing left."
They looked at each other — faces grim.
"For God," the boss said quietly.
"For God," the others echoed.
A voice cut through from the left side.
"I don't think God wants anything to do with you."
They turned.
Raghav hovered there — blue suit glowing faintly in the rain, eyes calm.
He moved — a single dash. The car flipped once, rolling to a stop on its side.
Raghav landed lightly, walked to the rear door, and tore it open — metal bending easily but without violence.
He reached in, took the last cylinder. It vanished in a pulse of blue light.
Then he lifted the boss out by his shirt collar — gentle enough not to harm, firm enough to hold him suspended.
"Who the hell are you?" the man spat.
Raghav didn't answer.
Pitamah's voice came quietly.
"Police are seconds away. Let them handle him. You can question him later."
Raghav glanced at the distant sirens, then back at the man.
"You have two more to catch," Pitamah reminded him.
Raghav nodded once — set the man down gently on the pavement — and rose into the air.
In the distance, one man sat on a crowded city bus — clutching a small bag like it was his lifeline.
Raghav spotted him from above.
A tiny blue fish — no bigger than a coin — drifted silently through the rain, landed on the man's shoulder, and attached itself like a living tracker.
Pitamah's voice: "What are you doing?"
"Putting a tracker on," Raghav answered softly. "I need to know where they're taking it."
He hovered above the city — rain running down his suit — watching the streets below.
Drishyam News & Paper Office – The Next Morning
The news played on every screen in the office — headlines screaming the same thing: "Krish Strikes Again: Dozens Detained After High-Speed Chase & Failed Arms Deal." Anchors debated names. Clips showed overturned cars, stunned men in handcuffs, and police cordons — no clear footage of the blue figure, only rumors and shaky phone videos.
Raghav walked through the bullpen, coat over his arm, expression calm. Heads turned. Whispers followed. He didn't stop.
City Police Headquarters – Interrogation Wing
Raghav entered the station lobby. A young constable stepped forward, hand raised.
"Sir, restricted area—"
Another officer — older, higher rank — placed a hand on the constable's shoulder and shook his head once. The younger man stepped back.
A senior inspector approached Raghav, voice low.
"Five minutes. Then we call you out."
Raghav gave a single nod. No words.
They walked down the corridor toward the one-way glass of the interrogation room. Through the mirror, the man from last night sat handcuffed to the table — head bowed, lips moving silently in prayer.
Raghav stopped in front of the glass.
"Did they say anything?" he asked quietly.
The inspector shook his head.
"We can't share that with you, sir. And honestly… you shouldn't even be here."
Raghav didn't reply.
Inside his mind, Pitamah's voice murmured dryly:
"Having the Prime Minister as a friend really does open doors."
Raghav ignored it.
"He's praying," the inspector said, nodding toward the room. "Salah. He asked for time."
Raghav studied the man — calm, focused, completely absorbed.
"How many did you capture?" Raghav asked.
"Forty-plus," the inspector answered. "Most injured — broken bones, concussions. A few didn't make it. Your friend Krrish did most of the work. They're terrified of him. Talking nonsense, mostly. We've identified some hired muscle, low-level guys. That's all so far."
Raghav's gaze stayed on the praying man.
"Any idea why they're here? In this city?"
The inspector exhaled.
"They were planning something. Big. We're still piecing it together."
Raghav nodded once.
The prayer ended. The man lifted his head, eyes steady.
The inspector opened the door.
Raghav stepped inside. The door closed behind him with a soft click.
The man at the table looked up — calm, composed.
"Walaikum assalam," Raghav said quietly.
"Assalamu alaikum," the man replied, voice steady.
Raghav sat across from him. A faint shimmer passed through the air — Pitamah's work — sealing the room. No sound would leave. No microphone would catch a word.
Raghav met the man's eyes directly.
"How did you know about Soma?"
The man studied him for a long moment.
"You already know what it is," he said.
"That's not what I asked," Raghav replied evenly. "How do you know about it?"
Outside the one-way glass, officers exchanged glances. One tapped the mic in his ear.
"Nothing. No audio."
The inspector frowned. "Keep trying."
Inside, the man leaned forward slightly.
"In the old days… when the divine walked among us, they guided humanity. Lifted us from darkness. Protected us from things far worse than men. We worshipped them — not out of fear, but gratitude. In my hometown , there was a legend, about a man that united, everyone together to fight for a same cause. They saved us from demons, from monsters, from ourselves."
He paused.
"But we betrayed them. We betrayed the person who United us. We wounded them. We turned the world into what it is now — and they left. Hurt. Disappointed. Because of us."
Raghav listened without interrupting.
"Now man has become the monster," the man continued. "And because we denied them, because we forgot, the world calls a masked man a god. Your Krrish. They call us terrorists because we fight back. But they don't see. They don't feel what it is to be looked at like you're less than human. To be judged the moment you speak, the moment you pray, the moment you exist. To be treated like you're beneath them — because of your faith, your tongue, your skin, your way of life."
Raghav's expression remained even.
"That doesn't give you the right to harm innocent people."
The man tilted his head.
"Innocent…" He let the word hang. "May I know your name? I'd like to address you properly."
"Raghav."
"So, Mr. Raghav…" The man's voice softened, almost gentle. "Have you ever been to their countries? The ones they call civilized? Have you seen their smiles — so sweet, so welcoming — while they sit on wealth built from centuries of taking everything from places like yours?"
Raghav stayed silent.
"Your country was under their rule once. They left in 1947 — after looting, after bloodshed, after breaking generations. They took 45 trillion dollars — that's what your own historians say. Did they ever return it? Did they ever apologise? Did they ever admit what they did was wrong?"
Raghav's hand rested on the table — fingers still.
The man leaned closer.
"You feel it now, don't you? That anger. Just hearing about it. Imagine carrying it every day. Imagine it being done to your children. Your family. Your people."
His voice rose — not in rage, but in pain.
"That's why we know about Soma. Because the angels of God showed us. They revealed its power — to remind us what was once ours. To remind us who we were before we forgot."
He raised his voice now — clear, forceful.
"And we will not forget again!"
The door burst open.
Two officers rushed in, grabbing Raghav by the arms.
"Time's up, sir."
They pulled him out — firm but not rough.
Behind them, the man continued — voice carrying even as the door closed.
"They call us terrorists… but they never ask why!"
The corridor door shut.
Raghav stood still for a moment — breathing even.
The inspector approached, awkward.
"Sorry about that. He… got loud."
Raghav looked back toward the room.
"He spoke the truth," he said quietly. "Just not the whole truth."
He turned and walked away.
Pitamah's voice followed, soft.
"Some wounds speak louder than words, child. But wounds do not justify more wounds."
Raghav didn't reply to that just chuckled.
" As long as people keep associating terrorizm to religion. The cycle of blame will keep rolling, and cycle seller will definitely sell more."
And somewhere in the city, a small blue fish remained on a man's shoulder — waiting.
Raghav stepped out of the police headquarters, collar up against the cool air. A cluster of media vans idled across the street — cameras already rolling, reporters murmuring into microphones about "Krrish's latest intervention."
He slipped around the corner to an empty alley.
Blue light rippled once — suit forming, mask settling — and he launched silently into the sky.
Pitamah's voice followed, calm as ever.
"So where exactly are you going?"
"Clearing a terrorist base," Raghav replied, voice steady. "They had Soma. That makes it my business."
"You've found quite the convenient loophole in all this chaos, Raghav."
Raghav didn't smile. "Yep."
He accelerated — a blue streak cutting through low clouds — leaving the city far behind.
He reached a desolate stretch of land hours from any main road: crumbling ruins of what might once have been a small fort, swallowed by vines and time. Below, a single truck sat half-loaded. Men in dark clothes moved quickly — AK-47s slung across their backs. Not shouting, not panicked. Professional.
Raghav dropped silently behind them.
Four quick, controlled movements — no unnecessary force. Four men down, bound with thin blue cords of energy, unconscious but breathing.
He checked the truck. No weapons. No cylinders. Just empty crates and a few sealed metal cases — ordinary-looking, but he could feel the faint pulse of Soma residue inside.
"Well," he muttered, "let's drop them off."
Minutes later, four neatly tied figures appeared outside a district police station — delivered by an unseen hand. A single glowing note hovered above them for three seconds before vanishing:
"Courtesy of Krrish."
The local news channels lit up within the hour.
Drishyam News & Paper Office – Evening
Raghav — back in his civilian clothes — slumped into his chair. The wall-mounted TV played muted footage: the four men being loaded into vans, reporters repeating the same phrase over and over.
"…another clean intervention by Krrish…"
Raghav sighed, rubbing his temples.
"I hate that Krrish guy."
Pitamah's voice came dryly from nowhere.
"Sure you do."
Raghav leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
"You know, if those terror—"
"Please don't," Raghav cut in quietly. "I don't want to hear about them right now. Let the police and the military handle it. I'll deal with the rest later. Today… I just want to rest."
He closed his eyes for a moment.
The door opened softly.
Daisy stepped in, arms full of folders. She paused when she saw his face.
"What happened, boss?" she asked gently.
Raghav opened his eyes, managed a tired half-smile.
"Nothing, Daisy. Just a little stressed."
"Hmm." She set the folders on his desk. "Here are the expense bills from last week — travel, equipment, the usual. Nothing urgent. Look at them whenever."
She turned to leave.
"Hey, Daisy," Raghav called.
She stopped.
"Do you have any work left?"
She shook her head. "No, all done."
"Take an early leave then. You need rest too."
She opened her mouth to protest.
"That's an order," he added, softer this time.
Daisy hesitated, then gave a small nod and a smile.
"Okay, boss. You too. Try not to stay too late."
She left the door slightly ajar.
The TV volume was still low — but the headline ticker caught Raghav's eye.
BREAKING: Drishyam News to Provide Exclusive Live Coverage of the Ram Setu Preservation Event
Raghav stared at the screen for a long moment.
Then he exhaled slowly.
"Great," he muttered. "Just what we needed."
Pitamah's voice returned — quiet, almost amused.
"Rest while you can, child. The world never stops moving."
Raghav reached over and muted the TV completely.
For the first time all day, the office was silent.