'The Horseman had come to your apartment?'

Adri nodded.

'What did it want?'

'My goddamn soul.'

Tantrics. Necromancers. Exorcists. Talkers to the dead. Summoners of Demons.

An ancient art. A select few. The only ones in the land allowed by law to inscribe upon themselves the magical tattoos of the profession.

The city of Old Kolkata. Dark. Devastated. War-ravaged. Unforgiving.

Adri Sen, a banished Tantric, wakes up one morning to find the Horseman, Death, sitting at the edge of his bed.

The Apocalypse cometh. Wraiths whisper. Ancients bleed. Demons stalk. Fallen Angels rise. Assassins attack. Storytellers spin.

In every legend, a small grain of truth.

Run for your soul, Adri. Run.