The gold of his eyes sings a tune uncertain,
The heart of the night schemes plans behind the curtain;

Shadow lurks, betrayal brays,
Around him, the dangers ring a bell,
With a gentle smile on his face, he says,
"Buddy, let me send you to hell."

*****

Battery Park City, Lower Manhattan
New York

"It's dark... too dark. Without light, we can't find our way," The voice of a young boy pierced the silence.

"Do you fear the darkness, boy?" A baritone voice replied him with a question.

"I do. Don't you?"

"I was born to rule the darkness," The deep masculine voice held a tinge of amusement. Dark amusement.

"Who are you?" There was a tremble in the young boy's tone.

"Me?" Laughter trailed his question. "I am a sinner. I am the punisher. Exiled from his lands, scathed under sun, moulded in fire. Light is a joke - I take pleasure to crack everyday. Because I grew up loving the evil that the darkness lulls. Over years of standing alone, viewing upon this world; I have come to know, the world is for people like us to rule. Be known or be gone. Kill, not to be killed. And I, for sure, didn't book a grave for me," Concluding he lifted a knife up in the air, looming over the boy like his death. A scre-----

"F**k it. I swear, Sid, I'll throw you and your T.V. out of the house."

Siddharth was invested a little too much into the show, airing on the television. Driven by the thrill of the jaw-dropping twist, he kept on devouring the roasted peanut like a starved man. He royally ignored the constant pokes and probs from his frustrated-to-the-cells friend. Truth to be told, at least he saw that twist coming in the long run of the show but his said friend was beyond his normal understanding.

The said friend was sitting on the floor chopping veggies near the couch. Siddharth spared him a glance through his periphery. One thing which he couldn't understand was this man's way of doing things, off the way. Like now, he was trying some Indian recipe by firing the cook in the morning.

Siddharth could care less as long his stomach was filled, because the gods above knew, this man had already gifted him a few grey hair. And he was only twenty seven. Moreover, his best friend was a commendable chef - though Siddharth didn't like to admit it. When thought about it, actually, he couldn't remember a single thing that the man was average at. He was diversely and dangerously talented, much to Siddharth's own good.

Siddharth was too preoccupied by his own thoughts to notice when his friend moved from his place. It was only after the loud sound of T.V. seized that he came back to their penthouse's living room.

There stood his best friend, Rudra. Rudra Pratap Rathore.

Rudra's height stood above six feet, adding another daunting streak to his overall physique. He towered a good few inches above Siddharth. His broad shoulders and well-built body were a tell-tale of the years of rigorous training he had undergone. His eyes, a rare combination for a person from where they hailed, were the colour of dark chocolate with tinge of golden swirls blended in them. For Siddharth, Rudra's eyes were the most hypnotic and mysterious gifts amidst all others. His shoulder length hair that was perfectly styled in layers only suited his persona. A royally styled moustache graced his handsome face. Formidability was in genes but the quality of being dangerously enigmatic was a gift he was born with.

Another factor that was distinctive about him was his smile. His lips were, more often, stretched into a smile, making his brilliant sense of humour evident on his face.

"For the love of life, Sid, stream some of Kishore Da's melodious songs. Hightime, I ought to get my mind out of the utter garbage, you had been torturing me with since afternoon," Rudra exasperated, grinning all the while.

"Torture? God forbid!" Siddharth scoffed.

"Not sure. Lest an army of furious neighbours march in, banging our door down," Siddharth muttered audibly. Which was highly unlikely as a possibility, considering the exclusiveness of their penthouse. A person had the rights to dream, though.

Rudra chortled in merriment.
"Bro, your impressive jab of humour wants me to go and retch my stomach out in appreciation. Do not try it on others. Everyone might not be as good as me. I wouldn't want my friend to come home with a broken nose, now would I?"

"Hurray! Rudra-1, Sid-0. Always had, always will." Siddharth could feel a headache crawling at the back of his head.

Indeed this was Rudra. Just his luck, there wasn't any Callie, Milli, Lily to swoon over him here. The man was a heartthrob of many, and this was an undisputed argument. Girls and ladies swooned over him irrespective of place. Certainly, he did welcome the 'love and affections' poured by his females fans heartily. Fame, money, looks and an extraordinary education list, courtesy his intellectual brain. Name it, he had a generous disposal of them.

A little too generous.

Siddharth lifted his gaze over to Rudra who was smiling like a kid. Unwilling as he was, he couldn't help reciprocating the gesture. All said and done, Rudra was his best friend and he wouldn't trade him for anything. The roots of their friendship went all the way back to Jodhpur, before they shifted their base to Jaipur, and then New York. So, with due compliance, Siddharth smiled again while Kishore Da's voice graced their audience albeit with the intensity of a live performance.

"Nothing that I couldn't live through," he mused, plugging his ears.

.
.
.

Rudra stood in front of the huge glass window which opened up to the breathtaking night view of Hudson River. The sweeping darkness was well-muted in accordance with the pleasantly lighted up city. A strange calm prevailed in the air, veiling its deception behind the cover of peacemaking.

Pawns were out. A game laid out.

An abandoned chessboard fought for his undivided attention at a corner of the room.

A buzz from his phone skewered through the pretense of calm mercilessly. He took it out and read the message he had been waiting for.

'Time has come for you to return.'

Rudra closed his eyes and stretched his arms behind, flexing the muscles beneath his shirt.

A smirk crossed his face and his chest rumbled with deep laughter. A plethora of exultation coursed his body like electricity.

Behind him, his shadow grew taller, falling over the chess pieces in awaiting. He couldn't wait to return. Back to his land. Back to his hunt.

"Beware," He drawled, burrowing his hands inside the pockets.