the global broadcast had abruptly cut to black. In his apartment in Jaipur, Arjun, the man behind the mask, slowly, almost painstakingly, lifted his hands from the holographic console. The room, usually bathed in the soft glow of data streams, was now dark, save for the faint hum of his custom-built servers.
He leaned back in his chair, his body trembling, not from cold, but from an internal tremor that threatened to tear him apart. A cold sweat plastered his hair to his forehead. His throat was raw, despite the voice modulation. The adrenaline, which had surged through him during the launch sequence and the horrifying, undeniable spectacle of the mushroom cloud, now drained away, leaving him utterly, profoundly exhausted.
His eyes, red-rimmed and bloodshot from sleepless nights, stared blankly at the dark screen. He had done it. He had taken a human life, or rather, hundreds, thousands, of human lives. He had commanded a nuclear weapon. He, Arjun, a boy who once struggled with physics equations, had just orchestrated a global, devastating act of war and mass murder.
A wave of nausea washed over him, bile rising in his throat. He wasn't a saint. He was a killer. He had seen the terror in Captain Hayes's eyes, the panic in NORAD. He had felt the world's collective scream as the missile launched.
"To save many, I can sacrifice some," he whispered, the modulated voice gone, replaced by his own raw, choked utterance. He remembered the faces from the dark web, the victims of those terrorists, the absolute, undeniable evil they represented. He remembered the visions of greater destruction. The choice, in his mind, had been clear, a horrific necessity. A festering wound had to be excised before the entire body succumbed.
Yet, the immense, unbearable weight of that choice pressed down on him. He was alone in this. Alone with the power, alone with the knowledge, alone with the responsibility of what he had just done, and what he was about to do. He was not a hero. He was just a human being, pushed to the edge, making impossible, monstrous decisions to protect the only things that mattered to him.
He looked down at his trembling hands, then balled them into fists. There was no going back. The world had seen. They now believed. Fear would drive them. The taste of ash and triumph mingled in his mouth.
He closed his eyes, picturing Priya's face, his mother's smile, the familiar comfort of his friends' laughter. He pictured the future he had seen in his visions – the drowned cities, the barren lands, the empty spaces. This, this horror, was the only way to prevent that.
He pushed himself up, his muscles protesting. His physical exhaustion was immense, but his resolve, forged in the crucible of his terrible foresight, was unbreakable. He had bought them time. He had forced their hand.
Eight days. The volcano. He had to prepare. The island, his sanctuary, his forge, his hope. It had to be ready. The world's destruction, and its terrifying evolution, had indeed just begun. And he, Arjun, the unwilling Seer, was at its agonizing, bloody helm.