CANVAS OF COURAGE [Ongoing]

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The man with the onyx and green eyes scans the remaining minions, his gaze cold and unforgiving. "Anyone else have any questions?" he asks, his voice dripping with menace. The minions shake their heads vigorously, their eyes wide with terror.

"Good," he says, holstering his gun. "Now get back to work. We have time for your opinions."

The scene is a chilling tableau of power and control, the air heavy with the scent of fear and the sudden metallic tang of blood. The smell hit him then—a pungent, sharp metallic tang wave that seemed to seep into his very being. It was a scent that others might recoil from, gagging at the scent, but to him, it was something else entirely.

 He inhaled deeply, savoring it like a fine wine. To him, it wasn't just blood—it was power, raw and unfiltered. It spoke of control, of dominance, of life slipping through trembling fingers.

The smell clung to him, wrapping around him like a lover's embrace. It was a reminder of his superiority, his willingness to do what others couldn't—or wouldn't. He crouched down near the boy body he just shot, dipping a gloved finger into the blood, watching it drip slowly, deliberately. "This," he murmured, almost reverently, "is art. And they are too blind to see it."

The others turned away, their stomachs churning, but he only laughed—a cold, hollow sound that echoed in the silence. To him, their disgust was weakness, and weakness was unforgivable.

He turns to his second-in-command, a burly man with a scar running down his cheek. " Victor, make sure everything is ready for the delivery. I don't want any mistakes."

The second-in-command nods. "Yes, boss. It will be done."

The man with the onyx and green eyes smirks, a cruel glint in his gaze. "Good. And remember, failure is not an option."

"And ensure the special gift is ready. It's crucial that it is delivered without any mistakes. It's a message he won't forget."

Victor nods, "Yes, boss. It will be done."

The second-in-command swallows hard and hurries off to oversee the preparations. The warehouse buzzes with activity, the minions working with a renewed sense of urgency, their every move driven by fear of their ruthless leader.

Outside, the forest looms, a dark and silent witness to the sinister deeds unfolding within the warehouse. The night is still, the only sound the distant call of an owl, a haunting reminder of the danger that lurks in the shadows. The warehouse, now a hub of malevolence, stands as a stark contrast to the peaceful forest, a place where power, fear, and death reign supreme.

***

Police department

The police department's conference room is filled with a palpable sense of urgency. The walls are adorned with maps and photographs, and a screen projector displays photos and crucial information in real-time. The air is thick with the scent of coffee and tension. The police commissioner, a stern man in his early 50s, stands at the head of the table, his eyes scanning the faces of his subordinates. The room, designed for critical meetings, is equipped with all necessary tools to strategize and plan. The officers, seated around the table, await the commissioner's instructions, ready to tackle the situation at hand.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Mr. Harshvardhan Desai began, his voice steady and authoritative, "we're here today to discuss a man who has eluded us for far too long—Vikram Mehra."

As he speaks, he slides to a photograph of Vikram Mehra on the projector screen, pointing to specific details on the screen with a laser pointer. "This is Vikram Mehra,"