Author's POV

Thick blood flowed from the walls of the cell, the disgusting smell of metallic iron permeating the place.

A man in dirty clothes, with grown hair and beard, covered in self-inflicted wounds, was tied in iron shackles.

His amber eyes stared at the wall, his trembling fingers tracing the name for the nth time, the one he carved over and over again.

The spark in those amber eyes was fading away; the ego, maliciousness, and spirit to conquer the world were gone.

He wasn't Kalp Trivedi anymore, not the man who was once afraid of death or hungry for power.