Velan, wounded for the first time, flies away, crashing into the Bay of Bengal.

The Marina Beach sky was a canvas of saffron, white, and green drones. Fifty million people watched their screens as Defence Minister Rajanayagam unveiled the statue. Not of a politician, not of a god—but of a man in a cape.

Before he squeezed, a different sound cut through the chaos. Not a superhero theme. A nadaswaram (traditional Tamil wind instrument). From the speakers.

"Latest news, Anjali," he whispered into the live mic. "Nee ippo dhan saavadhi." (You die now.)

Velan’s eyes turned red. For the first time in India, his laser vision flickered—not with control, but with rage.

He grabbed the mic. His Tamil was raw, street-style, laced with Coimbatore slang. "Enna da solringa? Naan oru kozhandhaiya kapathala nu?" (What are you saying? That I didn’t save a child?) The crowd of journalists trembled. "Naan dhaan indha ooru ku kadavul. Kadavul ku mathippu kuduka vendiyadhu. Kaaranam keka koodadhu." (I am the god of this city. You must respect a god. You don't ask him for reasons.) He smiled—that terrifying, milk-stained smile from the show—but with the mustache of a Tamil villain. "Latest update: Unga love-la, unga hate-la, enaku onnum kedayadhu. Aana unga bayam… adhu dhaan en boost." (Your love, your hate—I don't care. But your fear? That’s my boost.)

He lifted her by her neck. One hand. Ten feet above the ground.