Chapter 4: The Unmasking Threat

The Road Back to Zero

Mohit scaled the rough brick of the hostel's back wall, dropping silently into the deserted alley. The media carnival was still choking the front gate, microphone booms swaying like hungry snakes in a desperate, greedy search for a single soundbite. Their noise—a desperate, ugly hum—felt less like news and more like an infection he needed to flee.

He walked until the city's frantic energy faded to a quiet drone. He stopped at a roadside tea stall, taking a scalding cup to his trembling hands. His mind was a blank slate, his foot tapping a frantic, nervous rhythm against the pavement. He was utterly adrift, haunted by the image of the masked man.

If I don’t know where to go, I should go back to where this all started, he decided. He needed to be anchored in the place where his life and Krrish’s notoriety had become irrevocably intertwined: the abandoned warehouse district. It was a long, weary journey of crawling buses and endless walking, fueled only by a desperate need for a definitive answer.

Krrish’s Defiance

The temporary cell was a cube of sterile despair. A constable slowly slid the heavy security door open, his movements precise, his fear radiating off him in palpable waves. He dared a quick glance back at Commander Prakash, who stood rigid, backed by four armed officers. Their rifles were leveled, safety catches off, ready to turn Krrish into pulp at the slightest provocation.

The constable reached Krrish, his hand shaking as he extended it toward the cold, hard plastic of the mask. Just as his fingertips grazed the surface, Krrish's hand shot out. It was a blur of devastating speed, clamping down on the man's wrist with crushing force.

The armed unit outside instantly raised their weapons, the metallic snick-snick of safety catches clicking off echoing loudly in the tense corridor.

“Sir, save me!” the captured constable whimpered, his face sheet-white with terror.

Prakash tightened his jaw until it ached. “Krrish, release him now! Or we will fire!”

Krrish slowly tilted his head up. His voice, strained and low, cut through the tension with cold, terrifying logic. “You seem to forget the physics of this moment, Commander. Your bullets may only slow me. They will, however, eviscerate your man.”

Prakash slammed his fist against the wall, a sound of bitter frustration. “Guns down! Do not fire!” he roared at his unit. Then, to Krrish: “You win. Let him go!”

Krrish let out a low, mirthless chuckle that chilled Prakash to the bone. “What are you doing?” Prakash demanded, panic spiking in his voice.

With a sudden, violent motion, Krrish flung the constable out of the cell like a discarded ragdoll. The officer tumbled and lay groaning in a heap, miraculously alive.

Prakash rushed to aid his man, then turned back to the masked hero. His earlier doubt had vanished, replaced by a singular, burning certainty: Krrish was not a conflicted savior; he was an unmanageable, bloodthirsty force.

“Get him out of here!” Prakash yelled, pointing toward the cell. “Immediately move Krrish to a dedicated, unbreachable underground containment unit! He is not to see daylight again!”

Public Verdict

The hospital was a scene of controlled chaos, overflowing with the wounded. Reporters, though officially barred from the operating rooms, swarmed the waiting areas, microphone cables snaking across the floor.

“Doctor, the latest casualty figures are still unconfirmed. What is the official toll?” a correspondent pressed, shoving a camera lens close.

The exhausted Doctor, his scrubs stained and his eyes hollow, looked around the catastrophic ward. “As of now, 54 dead, 126 in treatment, and several in critical condition. We are critically short of beds and resources. This has to stop.”

“And who do you believe should be punished for this, Doctor?”

The Doctor sagged with fatigue, staring at the camera. “As a medical professional, I maintain neutrality. But as a human being? Krrish should be punished. This scale of destruction, this endless cycle of chaos, would not exist if it weren't for people like him.” He finally found a sliver of relief. “At least now that he is captured, the police can restore order.”

The city had spoken. Krrish was guilty.

The Great Disappointment

Deep in a dark, rural field, Vikram, Gayatri, and a thoroughly miserable Pooja were using a single flashlight, chasing the end of a long-held dream. The alien tracking device began to click faster, the sound growing louder, pulsing with certainty, like a frantic heartbeat.

“Right here. We’re close,” Vikram whispered, eyes wide with reverence.

They moved into the clearing, the tall grass swaying in an invisible wind.

Hidden some distance away, Robert gripped his transmitter. “Ma’am, they’ve reached the touchdown point. What are my orders?”

“Maintain a close watch, but do not approach them. I am on my way,” Rohini replied, already speeding toward the location.

Vikram looked up, his voice filled with impossible wonder. “Look! Movement in the sky!”

A colossal, obsidian vessel slid into view, its shadow consuming the entire clearing. It was silent, impossible, and terrifyingly real. Smaller geometric forms detached, heading toward the landing zone. The group watched in speechless awe, their scientific ambitions finally realized.

But as the object got closer, it began to dematerialize. Piece by piece, the enormous spacecraft slowly faded into nothingness.

“Wait, why aren’t they landing?” Pooja asked, the confusion in her voice quickly turning to bitter disappointment.

“They’re moving further away,” Gayatri said, her initial excitement dying in her throat.

“Something is profoundly wrong,” Vikram whispered, staring at the empty sky, heartbroken. “They were supposed to land here.”

The massive presence receded completely, shrinking back into the black expanse of space.

“They’re turning back?” Vikram stammered, reality crushing his hope.

Pooja threw her hands up in disgust, the flashlight beam bouncing wildly. “The aliens saw us and got scared! I’m done with this nonsense. I’m going home.”

“Pooja, calm down. There has to be another reason,” Gayatri pleaded, though her own resolve was cracking.

“The universe just gave us the ultimate snub, Gayatri! I’m done.” Pooja grabbed her arm. “Let’s go. Staying here is useless.” They turned and walked away, leaving a defeated Vikram to stare at the void.

Rohini arrived moments later, pulling Robert aside. “Status?”

“Ma’am, the ship retreated back into space. Vikram’s team left, severely disappointed. Nothing more to see.”

Rohini looked at the lone, broken scientist sitting in the grass. “Right. Let’s head back.”

The Unholy Workshop

In the ruined shed, Doga was painstakingly working to repair the intricate life-support machine. “There are extensive repairs needed,” he sighed, inspecting a burned-out circuit. “If we want to speed this up, both of you need to help me.”

“What? No,” Mouni replied instantly, exhaustion making her wary.

Sharmila, too, looked suspicious. “What if you hurt us again?”

Doga offered a smirk that was unsettlingly close to sincerity. “I promised you life. I won’t break it over a few circuits. I need you both to interact with the machine’s power source. Now, Mouni, the cube.”

“Promise you won't hurt us,” Mouni demanded, her voice raw.

“I promise. Neither of you,” Doga agreed, a subtle, cold glint in his eye. “Now, bring me that large component.”

Sharmila pointed to a heavy, cube-shaped piece of machinery. “Tell your friend to use her magic.”

Mouni focused her purple energy. The component, dense and impossibly heavy, shimmered with violet light and effortlessly levitated toward Doga.

“Interesting,” Doga thought, watching the smooth, effortless application of pure, raw power. She’s more capable than I thought.

Doga caught the component but wasn’t prepared for its sheer mass. He stumbled and crashed to the ground under the unexpected weight.

“Are you okay?” Mouni asked, startled.

Doga groaned, struggling to his feet. “I underestimated its mass. That was… considerable.”

Sharmila crossed her arms and glared. “That’s why you don’t mess with us. Mouni is very powerful.”

Doga looked at Mouni with new, chilling respect, a flicker of something calculating crossing his face. “Yes. She is powerful indeed. And necessary.”

The Twin Mask

Mohit finally reached the abandoned warehouse district and climbed the highest pile of debris. His heart, though still fast, was calmer, assured that Krrish was safely behind bars. He searched every fissure and stone. He spotted a pair of shattered spectacles, a small, potential lead, and tucked them into his bag. Finding nothing else, he climbed down.

As his feet hit the ground, his phone buzzed—a message from his friend, checking if he was safe. A genuine smile touched Mohit’s lips. At least someone cares how I am.

He scrolled through their old chat, settling on the screenshot—the very video frame that had changed his life. He zoomed in on the mask of the man committing the murder.

Mohit froze. He noticed a subtle, yet massive difference: the definition of the jawline, the ridge of the eye-socket. He quickly pulled up a genuine, official image of the Krrish mask and placed it side-by-side with his screenshot.

His breath hitched. He wasn't mistaken. The real Krrish mask was seamless and matte; the one in the video had a distinct, silver-threaded seam running along the jaw and brow. The man he had recorded was not the real Krrish.

An electric rush of triumph surged through him. “Yes! Yes!” he whispered, a fist pumping the air in the empty lot.

But the relief was instantly replaced by a paralyzing dread. His heart hammered a desperate rhythm against his ribs. If the Krrish in my video was fake, then the fake Krrish—must still be here...

The thought was barely formed when the moonlight above was swallowed, not by a cloud, but by a long, dark, and utterly disproportionate shadow. Mohit slowly tilted his head back, his gaze traveling up the imposing shape.

Standing motionless on the crumbling parapet of the warehouse opposite him, outlined against the sickly moon, was the figure. Doga. The Fake Krrish.

He was looking not at Mohit, but at the entire city, like a predator contemplating its prey. Mohit’s body seized, every muscle locking in pure, animalistic terror. He had gone from a celebrated journalist to a hunted man in a single, fatal discovery.