Chapter 1: The Anatomy of a Myth

The Ghost City

The sky above hung like a bruise, heavy and low. This was the place where the city went to die—a sprawl of abandoned industrial ruins, brick dust, and skeletal concrete. A desolate, forsaken place.

Mohit had lost his way.

A self-styled travel vlogger, he wasn't charting an adventurous path; he was simply broke. Each trip cost him more than he earned. He was a low-level celebrity, defined more by his mounting debt than by his struggling view counts. Now, exhaustion was a lead weight in his legs, and his phone showed nothing but a persistent, soul-crushing "No Signal."

He looked around. Twisted rebar and fractured building skeletons offered no direction. The only sound was the hollow whistle of the wind through the glassless windows.

“Where in the hell am I?” The silence was suffocating. “It’s going to rain, and if I don’t find a road soon, I’ll be stuck here.”

The air turned instantly colder as the wind picked up speed, tasting of dust and decay. Then, the first fat drops began to splatter on the broken pavement. Mohit bolted, finding fragile shelter beneath the jutting awning of a collapsed warehouse. He rubbed his arms, irritated by the damp chill already seeping into his clothes.

"Just great. First lost, now trapped," he muttered, watching the downpour. "I guess I wait it out."

Thunder cracked like a whip across the plains. Lightning split the sky, illuminating the ruins in brief, terrifying flashes. The mild shower rapidly escalated into a chaotic, fear-inducing tempest. Mohit felt the first tendrils of panic wrap around his chest. He was utterly alone, battling not just the rain, but a full-blown storm.

He rummaged through his backpack, checking the survival kit he'd packed with a desperate hope he wouldn't need it. As his hand found the zipper, his eyes caught the small, plastic figure dangling from the pull: a miniature of the masked crusader, Krrish.

Mohit was a devout fan. The keychain was a talisman against the mundane dread of his life. Inside the bag, he confirmed his prepared cache—water, some dry rations, and his core equipment.

He spent the next hour scrolling through old videos on his phone, seeking distraction. The comments section was brutal: a handful of encouragement lost in a sea of bile, criticism, and hateful insults. The ingratitude stung, especially after all the effort he poured into his work.

Just as he was about to switch the phone off, a notification flashed. "Krrish Saves 20 Lives in Industrial Fire."

A reporter's voice, full of breathless awe, praised the hero. "He stands guard over us all, ensuring peace."

Mohit smiled, instantly restored. He held up his keychain, a deep breath settling his shoulders. “Whenever I feel defeated, you’re there, Krrish. Your courage, your dedication to protecting others—that’s what keeps me moving.” He stood up, chest out, ready to brave the rain.

KA-BOOM!

A tremendous clap of thunder rattled the broken structure. Mohit yelped and instantly crumpled back into his corner. "Okay," he mumbled, pulling his coat tight around himself. "I'll go after the rain stops."

The Hero's Betrayal

A distant, muffled sound pierced the drumming rain—a cry. It was faint, unclear, and seemed to originate from a dilapidated building far beyond the ruins. Mohit’s fear instantly morphed into a surge of relief. He wasn't the only one here.

He pulled his hood over his head and ran towards the sound. As he drew closer, the noise sharpened, evolving from a cry to a sound of genuine, agonizing distress. Mohit slowed down, caution replacing relief.

He crept forward, finally reaching a vantage point behind a mound of wreckage. The scene that unfolded made his blood run cold.

Krrish—not a distant figure on a screen, but the real man, the myth—stood atop a jagged pile of broken concrete. He held a man suspended in the air by his throat.

Mohit couldn't process it. His mind, trained by years of vlogging, acted on instinct. He whipped out his phone and started a live stream.

The viewer count spiked: 100... 500... 1000... Mohit couldn't look away from the horror, barely registering the comments flooding the feed: confusion, excitement, terror.

The man in Krrish’s grip was pleading, his face contorted with pain. “Please, I beg you! Let me go!” he croaked. He looked to be in his forties, utterly desperate. But Krrish’s expression remained perfectly still, untouched by pity, guilt, or even effort. He was merely watching the man suffer.

Krrish tightened his grasp. The man’s voice turned into a choked, high-pitched shriek of agony. He put his hands together in a final, futile gesture of prayer. “Please! Please!”

Then, Krrish closed his fist entirely.

The sound was sickening—a wet, dull thwack that was somehow worse than a roar. The man’s head burst like an overripe melon.

Mohit dropped his phone, which clattered on the ground but kept recording. His body was seized by violent tremors; he couldn't stand straight. All the courage, all the hope the Krrish keychain represented, shattered. He’s a murderer. He’s a monster.

Without a word, without a moment of hesitation or even a glance at the corpse, Krrish casually released his hold. The limp body tumbled down the concrete pile. The rain washed the blood from the rocks. Krrish stood perfectly still, turning his face up to the rain, closing his eyes in what looked like blissful peace.

"I have to get out," Mohit whimpered, his voice barely audible. "I’ll die of fear if I stay, or he’ll find me."

He ran, scrambling away from the ruin, oblivious to the phone still broadcasting the murder to thousands of horrified viewers. His body resisted, his mind screaming at him to stop, but pure, animal terror drove his legs. His life was the only thing that mattered now.

The chilling, recorded footage instantly broke the internet. Krrish the hero was now Krrish the killer. Fear, uncertainty, and anger consumed the public. Was he justified? Had he killed a villain? Or was the savior they worshipped nothing more than a predator?

The Emergence of Hope

Meanwhile, in a vibrant, untouched sector of the city, a harsh contrast to the ruins, the same storm raged. Streets were crowded, lights painted the slick asphalt, and traffic moved nervously under the downpour.

People sought refuge beneath awnings and flyovers. Umbrellas bobbed frantically as citizens hurried home. But amid the chaos, one woman walked with deliberate slowness, her face and body shielded by a long, heavy coat.

Her real name was Mouni, but she was used to the whispers and the labels. She stopped by a television shop displaying the Krrish footage. The scene showed the "hero" calmly bathing in the rain after his heinous act. Mouni tilted her face up to the falling drops, finding a strange, quiet tranquility in the moment.

Her reflection in the glass showed a face marred by extensive white patches—a visible, genetic mark that defined her isolation. In a familiar, reflexive panic, she pulled her hood tighter.

A small toy car rolled and stopped at her feet. A little boy, chasing it, slipped on the wet pavement. Mouni rushed forward, helping him up. His clothes were soaked and muddy. She gently cleaned his knees and returned the car.

"Where is your mommy?" she asked, her voice soft.

Before the boy could answer, his mother arrived, immediately irritable. "How many times, you fool! Your clothes are filthy! I’ll deal with you at home. And you—who are you? Why are you touching my son? Go away!" The words were like physical shoves.

Mouni recoiled, feeling the familiar sting of rejection. She quickly covered her face, her anxiety spiking, and started to hurry away.

Suddenly, a massive shudder ran through the ground.

An earthquake.

Panic amplified the chaos tenfold. People scrambled desperately for safety, prioritizing their own survival over anyone else’s. Cars slammed into each other, and a deadly stampede began. No one stopped to think; they only acted selfishly.

Mouni saw a flyover pillar collapse. Beneath the falling rubble, a tiny girl was crying, her injured mother trapped and lifeless in the crushed car beside her. Mouni ignored the stampede and the speeding cars, sprinting toward the child.

Just as she reached the girl, a lorry, driven by a desperate, selfish man, hurtled toward them. To save them both, Mouni acted on instinct. With a roar of effort, two gigantic purple, shimmering hands erupted from her body . The hands crushed the lorry into a metal husk and tossed the driver aside.

When the purple energy dissipated, it left behind tiny, beautiful sparks that drifted in the rain. The little girl stared up at the spectacle, mesmerized.

Then, the supporting pillar above them snapped.

People shrieked and ran. Mouni met the little girl’s wide, terrified eyes. The girl gripped Mouni's hand with cold, trembling fingers and pleaded, “H-help me... please.”

Looking past the fear and the patches, Mouni saw only the child’s profound helplessness. She rose, using every ounce of her remaining strength to conjure the massive purple hands again, holding the collapsing bridge from above them.

“Run! Get away from the bridge!” Mouni screamed.

Finally, the crowd moved with purpose, saving one another as they fled. When the last person was clear, Mouni, utterly drained, released the structure. The bridge crashed, sending up a massive cloud of dust that the rain slowly cleared.

The remaining citizens looked up, searching for their savior. Ugly, her hood down, emerged from the dust cloud, revealing her marked face. The crowd stopped, hushed by shock.

The little girl, however, ran up to Mouni, gently pulling the hood back and revealing Mouni’s face fully. The girl stood beside her, holding her hand.

The crowd erupted. They didn't see the patches; they saw the power and the courage. Phones flashed. Voices cheered, praising their new hero.

In the wake of Krrish’s horrifying betrayal, a new, unexpected source of hope—a quiet, gentle woman with purple power—had emerged to claim the city's shattered trust.