Kolkata never sleeps. It grinds.
The sound of the tram's bell echoed across Sovabazar like a tired prayer—shrill, ignored. Street dogs barked at nothing. Tea stalls steamed like tiny volcanoes. The air was thick with gossip, incense, and things people didn't want to remember.
Beneath the Howrah Bridge, in the bleeding hours of morning, a man bled.
He stumbled past the ferry station, clothes soaked with his own blood. His police badge long gone. His pistol, lost somewhere in the dark chaos of Garden Reach. He gritted his teeth and limped forward like a man carrying his own funeral.
His name had once meant something.
Shivendu Pratap Das. A name printed on medals and case files. A name whispered in the alleys by drug runners and arms dealers, not in fear—but in negotiation. He used to be one of them. Not just a cop. A dealmaker. A fixer. A ghost with handcuffs. The system's shadow twin.
But tonight, the system had eaten him whole.
Double-crossed by his own. Abandoned during a raid that was never meant to succeed. He was just bait, a disposable piece in someone else's game. The last thing he saw was the cold eyes of an officer he once called brother pulling the trigger.
Now, blood pooled in his boots. His heart pumped betrayal with every beat.
Yet, his feet carried him forward—towards Kalighat Temple.
The city's mother. The black-skinned goddess who did not bless, but devoured.
He collapsed at the temple's entrance, right as the night of Amavasya reached its peak. The priests had gone home. The crows had stopped circling. The air grew still as if the city itself held its breath.
His hand reached out, fingers digging into the red sindoor smeared across the stone altar. His blood mixed with it.
And then…
Everything cracked.
The flame in the oil lamp hissed unnaturally. The trishul rattled against the wall. Somewhere in the shadows, a bell rang without touch.
And then she appeared.
Not in flesh. Not in light. But in presence.
Maa Kali.
Eyes like eclipses. Hair like smoke. Tongue redder than the blood in Shivendu's mouth.
She didn't smile.
She roared.
> "You let my children suffer. You watched the city rot.
You forgot your Dharma. You failed your ancestors.
Now you'll fix it."
Her hand moved—faster than thought, heavier than judgment—and pressed against his chest.
He screamed.
Not from pain—but from something deeper. Memory. Regret. Rage. It all rose from the pit of his soul and bloomed into something divine and terrifying.
A black trident burned itself onto his chest, pulsing, alive. A curse. A command.
When he woke up, the blood was gone. The bullet wounds had closed. But he felt everything.
The city's cries. The air's corruption. The weight of every sin he once ignored.
He wasn't just Shivendu anymore.
He was her vengeance. Her weapon. Her son.
KaliPutra.
The streets would never be the same.