It’s monsoon season in Delhi, and the air is thick with humidity and tension. I stand at the edge of the courtroom, watching as Sanjay is led away in handcuffs—framed for a crime he didn’t commit. My fists clench. I swore I’d never become Shera again. But the look in my son’s eyes—fear, betrayal, hope—rips through me like a blade.

I remember the last time I wore that mask. Blood on my knuckles, fire in my veins. I took down monsters then. And now, another beast has risen: Charles Shobhraj, smiling from the back row, flanked by his goons.

My wife touches my arm. 'Don’t,' she whispers. 'You’re not that man anymore.'

But I am. I always will be.

That night, I open the hidden compartment beneath the floorboards. Dust coats the leather jacket, the brass knuckles, the revolver. I put them on.

Shera is back.

And Shobhraj will bleed.