Chapter 3: The Price of the Mask

The Vlogger’s Regret

The street outside Mohit's apartment was chaos. Reporters, a frenzied hive, clawed at his door and hammered on the windows, their microphones thrust forward like weapons.

“Mr. Mohit, do you hold Krrish responsible for the casualty count? Was the blast his fault?” one reporter bellowed.

Another woman followed up with cold certainty. “Do you believe Krrish may be planning a larger, coordinated attack on the city?”

Mohit pressed his back against the wall, overwhelmed. “Can’t you go cover the actual blast site? People are dying! Go report the tragedy!”

A smug-looking reporter shoved his way to the front. “Our teams are already there. But you are the trending footage, sir. Maximum views mean maximum impact.”

Views. Is that truly all that matters? Mohit thought, sinking to the floor. They have no pity for the dead, only for the click count. I sought fame, but not this. I made a terrible mistake.

He glanced at the television he had been watching. The news headline screamed of the massacre. The broadcast showed raw, devastating visuals: survivors running in panic, and the undeniable horror of a masked figure—Doga—casually executing the wounded. Mohit watched himself on the screen, his face twisted with fear and shame.

The news anchor cut back in. “Who will save us from this monstrous killer? Yet, incredibly, a segment of the public still defends the disgraced Krrish.”

The screen displayed a clip from Mohit’s earlier interview: “To be honest, a part of me believes Krrish couldn’t have done it.”

The anchor’s disbelief was palpable. “Even after this carnage, you still hold onto that belief?”

Mohit stared at his own image, unable to answer the question then, or now. But the truth slipped out into the empty room. “Krrish is the only hope we have left.”

Krrish’s Intervention

The battle was a blur of smoke and superhuman speed. After the blast, the city looked like a charnel house. On a singed wall, a faded Krrish poster was aggressively defaced with a scarlet cross.

Mouni slammed through a remaining section of wall, landing in a heap of shattered concrete. Her breathing was ragged; the fight had drained her. Doga stood over her, his masked head tilted in cruel assessment. “The new hero is already broken. A fleeting light.”

Mouni hauled herself up, every nerve ending screaming. She lashed out with six whips of concentrated purple energy, their tips dense with kinetic power. She had unlocked a new level of focus, anticipating Doga’s movements, forcing him to fight defensively.

Doga roared in frustration, unable to land a blow. “I’m ending this nonsense now!” He pulled a heavy double-barrel shotgun and fired. Mouni blocked the blast with a shield, but the kinetic force sent her flying, crashing hard against a pile of scrap metal.

Doga stood motionless for a moment, then vanished.

Mouni blinked. Her vision failed her; he was moving too fast. Before her mind could register a sound, Doga materialized behind her, grabbed her head, and slammed it repeatedly into the cracked pavement. She felt the concrete grind against her mask. She tried to counter, but he was gone before her fists could connect.

“He’s invisible, Mouni! What are you swinging at?” Sharmila cried out from her hidden vantage point.

Krishna stood beside the girl, his face dark, his fists trembling. His eyes, fixed on the chaotic blur of Doga, were beginning to glow a volatile, angry red. “He is not invisible, child. He is simply faster than she can perceive.”

Mouni threw one last, desperate blow into the empty air. Doga reappeared in front of her, smiling, and fired the shotgun. She raised her shield and initiated a counter-attack, but everything slowed to an agonizing crawl in her mind. She saw the shotgun shell exploding, Doga effortlessly dodging her counter, and then, the second bullet already tracing a slow, deadly path toward her.

This is the end.

Suddenly, an immense force yanked Mouni and Sharmila backward, pulling them violently off the road. The second bullet struck the ground a millisecond later, carving a crater where they had stood.

Mouni spun, her vision clearing. Krrish was there.

He had Doga slammed face-first into the asphalt, his massive boot crushing the villain’s head. Krrish was an incarnation of rage; his red eyes seemed to vent steam. Doga strained, but Krrish's strength was absolute.

Knowing he was physically outmatched, Doga resorted to sabotage. He tossed a smoke bomb, and as the haze bloomed, he let out a high-pitched whistle. A feral, wild dog erupted from the shadows, latching its jaws onto Krrish’s arm. Doga seized the opportunity, whistled to recall the dog, and fired his double-barrel at Krrish’s mask. Krrish’s vision instantly blurred.

“Trying to hide behind an animal?” Krrish spat.

Doga laughed, aiming again. “No. I’m running.”

Just then, Commander Prakash and his troops arrived, throwing military-grade smoke grenades to blanket the conflict zone. As the thick, acrid smoke enveloped everything, Doga gave Prakash a quick, chilling smile, then vanished.

A single gunshot echoed from within the smoke.

Prakash and his men advanced with gas masks. They found Krrish lying unconscious, his body badly burned and his suit smoking.

“Sir, we found Krrish. He’s down. No sign of the other person,” a cop reported.

Prakash approached the downed hero. “Should we remove his mask, sir?”

Prakash hesitated, remembering the raw courage Krrish showed protecting the child. “No. Bring him in. Mask on.”

The Confession

Krrish was shackled and taken away. Doga, watching from a distant rooftop, gripped his bruised ribs. “It seems even a bullet to the face is not enough to defeat Krrish,” he muttered. Mouni and Sharmila, hidden from view, watched the police convoy disappear.

Krrish awoke in a police infirmary. His mind was a maelstrom of violent flashes: the dog's attack, Doga's triumphant sneer, the massive blast, and the final, crushing memory of cradling Priya. He gasped, sucking ragged breaths of air.

Prakash sat opposite him. “You’re finally awake. When that brute shot you, I thought you were dead. Lucky for us, you’re not.”

Krrish looked at the officer, his mind slow and confused.

“Let me introduce myself. I’m Prakash, the lead investigator on your case.”

“Why am I here?” Krrish demanded.

“You committed public murder. And you instigated a fight that led to this latest disaster,” Prakash stated.

“I didn’t cause the blast,” Krrish countered.

“You were the catalyst. You were the match that lit the fire.”

Krrish didn't argue the point. He asked instead, “Why is my mask still on? Why haven’t you shown the world who I am?”

Prakash leaned forward, his voice earnest. “We were about to. But I saw you save that little girl. A man who defends an innocent child doesn’t fit the profile of a brutal killer. I kept it on because I have doubts. The moment I find the goodness in you is gone, the mask comes off.”

Krrish felt a surge of panic. Prakash saw Krishna—the man desperate for peace and forgiveness. That vulnerability was dangerous. He had to be the monster the world expected. He had to save Priya by convincing Prakash he was beyond redemption.

“What do you want from me?” Krrish asked, his voice now cold and lifeless.

“Tell me why you murdered that man.”

Krrish sat silent.

“Talk!”

Krrish slowly raised his head. He looked Prakash directly in the eye, and a chilling, predatory smile stretched across his mouth. “I killed him because I knew I had to. It’s a sickness in me. It’s the same sickness that drove me to burn down an entire village. I reduced them all to ash.”

Prakash recoiled. “What in God’s name are you saying?”

“I have a craving for chaos. A terrible addiction to murder,” Krrish whispered, his voice dangerously serene. “The burning of that village was a prelude. I love the destruction. I crave the blood.”

Prakash’s face went white with revulsion. “How many murders have you truly committed?”

Krrish chuckled, a deep, mirthless sound, and gave him the slow, evil smile once more.

Prakash bolted from the room, rushing to his constables. “We didn’t catch a criminal. We caught a serial killer who annihilated an entire community! He must not, under any circumstances, leave this facility!”

A constable nervously pointed out, “Sir, it will be impossible to get a full history without knowing his identity.”

Prakash nodded, his eyes hard. “You’re right. We need to see who is behind that mask. Grab your weapons and come with me.”

Approaching Storm

In his laboratory, Professor Vikram was excitedly showing his salvaged alien device to Gayatri and Pooja. The room was a whirlwind of complex formulas, space diagrams, and jury-rigged machinery.

“This is it,” Vikram announced, pointing to the strange, glowing artifact. “I won’t reveal where I found it, but I’ve successfully used it to contact extraterrestrial life. And recently, they have responded.”

Gayatri’s eyes went wide. “We are going to meet aliens?”

“Yes, we are,” Vikram replied with absolute confidence.

“When will they arrive?”

Vikram pointed to a separate detection machine. “The moment they get close, this machine will give us the precise coordinates.”

Pooja voiced her skepticism. “But if we’re picking up the signals, wouldn’t the International Space Station be picking them up too?”

At the International Space Station, the control room was abuzz. Robert, a junior operator, rushed to the senior officer, Rohini.

“Ma’am, we are receiving consistent signals from deep space,” Robert reported, his voice tight. “The problem is, we are not the source. We cannot trace their exact landing zone because they are responding to a rogue signal on Earth. Someone down there has made first contact.”

Rohini’s eyes narrowed. “Immediately track the source of that rogue signal. If we know who sent it, we know where they intend to land.”

“Should we intercept the person sending the signal?” Robert asked.

“No,” Rohini commanded. “We track. We do not interfere.”

Doga’s Proposal

Mouni sat inside the ruined shed, her body still weak. Sharmila, despite her age, was expertly cleaning and bandaging Mouni's abrasions.

“You’re very skilled at this,” Mouni observed. “Did you practice?”

“I always bandaged my mother,” Sharmila said, focused on her work. “She was always getting hurt. She never said my daddy did it, but…”

Mouni’s expression was sorrowful. “Sharmila, do you love your father?”

“Yes! He would yell at Mommy, but he never yelled at me. He always played games.”

“Do you want to see him?”

“Of course! I’m waiting for him to come back from his long trip.”

Mouni took the girl’s hand, giving her a gentle squeeze. “Don’t worry. We will go together and find him.”

“What a truly saccharine moment,” a voice drawled.

Doga, having tracked them, was perched on a massive, broken machine. Mouni instinctively prepared to fight, but her exhaustion was too great; her limbs trembled violently. Sharmila bravely stood in front of Mouni, shielding her.

“The devotion between you two is quite remarkable,” Doga mocked.

Mouni ignored the pain and lashed out, but Doga easily stepped aside, observing her collapse back onto the ground.

“I could kill you easily now,” Doga stated, aiming his gun. “But I won’t.” He slowly turned the gun toward the five life-support chambers holding Mouni’s hallucinated family.

Mouni’s eyes went wide with pure terror. “Please, don’t hurt the people inside,” she choked out.

Doga sniffed her fear like a delicious perfume. “You want me to shoot? Huh?” He smashed the gun butt hard against the glass of one chamber. A spiderweb crack instantly appeared.

Mouni’s legs gave out. She fell to her knees, pleading, her hands clasped. “I beg you, leave them alone!”

Sharmila, unable to bear Mouni’s desperation, grabbed a piece of jagged metal. “You leave them alone and go away! Or I’ll hit you with this!”

Doga found the child’s attempt at intimidation endearing. “Very well. I will leave them alone. And I’ll even help you. I can revive the people in these chambers.”

Mouni and Sharmila instantly stood up, eyes alight with disbelief. “You mean it?”

“Yes. I will bring them back,” Doga said, the chilling hiss returning. “But on one condition: Mouni must kill Krrish.”

The shed fell silent, the shock absolute. Mouni’s newfound hope was twisted into a sickening moral bind.

What choice will Mouni make?