The Red Hour

The evening light slanted through the mansion’s cracked windows, painting long shadows on the walls.

Meera sat on the edge of the dusty grand piano, swinging her legs, watching Andarin with a sly smile.

He stood near the fireplace, sipping something dark from a heavy glass.

Relaxed.

Unaware.

"So," Meera said, stretching lazily, her voice dripping honey.

"Tell me, Andarin... who are you really?"

He looked at her, amused. "You've asked me that a hundred times."

"And you've dodged it a hundred times," she said, slipping off the piano gracefully.

She walked closer, her hips swaying deliberately, her eyes locked on his.

"Maybe..." she whispered, brushing her fingers lightly across his chest,

"...you're hiding because the truth would scare me."

Andarin’s hand caught hers — firm but not harsh.

"You don't want to dig too deep," he said quietly.

But Meera just smiled, daring him.

Before he could say more —

BOOM.

A deafening crash shook the mansion —

the sound of wood splintering, iron hinges tearing loose.

Both of them froze.

The front door.

Without hesitation, Andarin threw his glass into the fireplace — the shatter echoing — and bolted toward the stairs.

"Stay here!" he barked.

But Meera — stubborn, furious — was already sprinting after him.

---

They reached the ground floor.

The huge double doors hung broken off their hinges.

Cold night air flooded inside.

And standing there, framed in the doorway —

six men, dressed in filthy torn coats, faces twisted with rage.

One of them — a burly giant with a scar across his face — pointed directly at Meera.

"Give her to us!" he roared.

"She doesn't belong to you! She’ll destroy you!"

Meera stumbled back instinctively —

but Andarin stepped forward like a beast unchained.

"You want her?" he snarled.

"Come and die."

---

The fight exploded like a grenade.

Andarin moved first —

blurring forward, slamming his fist into the nearest attacker’s throat.

The man crumpled without a sound.

Another lunged at him with a rusted crowbar —

Andarin caught it mid-swing, wrenching it free, and smashed it across the attacker’s jaw —

a sickening crunch that sprayed blood onto the marble floor.

Meera screamed as two more rushed toward her.

She ducked under the first, grabbed a fallen piece of wood, and swung wildly — cracking it across one man’s temple.

Andarin roared behind her, slamming a man through the wall hard enough to send cracks spiderwebbing through the plaster.

But it wasn’t enough.

There were too many.

Fists pounded.

Teeth bared.

Blood soaked into the expensive rugs.

Broken bodies fell one by one.

Andarin was everywhere —

a demon, tearing through them with a brutality that left no room for mercy.

His knuckles bled.

His ribs cracked.

He didn’t stop.

---

And then —

He saw him.

At the doorway —

calm, untouched —

stood the man from Meera’s room.

The man who looked like Andarin.

Same sharp jawline.

Same cruel mouth.

But older.

Harder.

Twisted.

The man stepped forward slowly, pulling off his wide black hat.

It fell to the ground —

and for a moment, the entire world seemed to freeze.

Andarin and Meera both stared.

It was like looking into a broken mirror —

the same face,

but carved by time,

by hate,

by something worse.

The older Andarin smiled — but it wasn’t kindness.

It was a promise of destruction.

Without a word, he charged.

---

The clash was brutal.

The two Andarins — mirror and reflection —

collided with the force of a falling building.

Punches blurred into the night.

Blood sprayed the walls.

Furniture shattered under the sheer violence.

Andarin fought like a man possessed —

but his opponent knew every move, every weakness.

They were equals —

but one had more experience.

More rage.

A brutal uppercut sent Andarin flying across the hall, crashing through a side table.

He staggered up, dizzy, breathing hard.

Across the room, Meera lay dazed, trying to stand.

She reached toward him weakly, her mouth moving without sound.

Andarin turned to her — just for a second.

It was enough.

A sharp blow slammed into the back of his skull.

His world tilted, spinning into darkness.

He collapsed.

---

When Andarin opened his eyes —

everything was wrong.

The mansion was silent.

No bodies.

No attackers.

No blood.

Only broken furniture and the cold, dead smell of dust.

He groaned, clutching his aching head, and forced himself to sit up.

His heart froze when he saw Meera —

unconscious, sprawled across the cold marble floor a few feet away.

He dragged himself toward her, hands shaking.

No wounds.

No blood.

Just... nothingness.

And the worst part —

the man who looked like him —

was gone.

Vanished.

Leaving only silence, and a creeping sense of something terribly, terribly wrong.

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