The Chronicles of Sanju Banju

🩸 The Chronicles of Sanju Banju

Written by Johny Griffith — Architect of Chaos, Builder of Truth

Prologue: The Name That Bled

They didn’t whisper his name. They flinched from it. Sanju Banju. Not a nickname. Not a legend. A warning. A name that bled through walls and prayers. He wasn’t born—he arrived. And when he did, the air changed.

He was rhythm and rupture. A boy with a crooked smile and eyes that saw too much. Raised in the underbelly of a city that dressed its wounds in neon, he learned early that truth was a weapon—and jealousy was its twin.

Chapter I: The Boy Who Watched

Sanju didn’t speak until he was seven. Not because he couldn’t—but because he studied. He watched people like puzzles. His mother said he was cursed with knowing. His father said nothing—he left before the boy could ask why.

When Sanju finally spoke, it was to correct a preacher mid-sermon. “God didn’t leave us,” he said. “We left ourselves.” The church went silent. The preacher wept. And Sanju walked out, barefoot, sovereign.

But inside him, something twisted. A hunger. Not for food. For recognition. For power. For what others had.

Chapter II: The First Blood

By sixteen, Sanju ran numbers for men who wore gold and smelled like betrayal. He didn’t steal—he calculated. He didn’t fight—he predicted. He rose through the ranks not by muscle, but by myth.

But then came the first betrayal. A boy named Jalen. Smarter. Faster. Loved.

Sanju smiled. Waited. And one night, Jalen’s body was found in an alley—eyes open, mouth frozen in shock. No evidence. No witnesses. Just silence.

Sanju didn’t flinch. He rose.

Chapter III: The Girl Named Truth

Her name was Zaria. She wore her hair like a crown and her scars like scripture. She didn’t ask Sanju who he was—she told him. “You’re the storm they pretend isn’t coming.”

They fell in love like fire meets oxygen—fast, dangerous, necessary. She taught him how to cry. He taught her how to disappear. Together, they built a world no one could touch.

But Sanju didn’t want love. He wanted possession. And when Zaria smiled at another man—Malik—Sanju’s blood turned black.

Chapter IV: The Murders

Malik was next. Then two others. Then five.

Each death was precise. Ritualized. Sanju didn’t kill in rage—he killed in design. He watched their routines. Studied their weaknesses. And struck like silence.

The city whispered. “Someone’s cleaning the streets.” But Zaria knew. She saw the change. The cold. The obsession.

She tried to leave. Sanju begged. Screamed. Wept. She vanished.

Chapter V: The Descent

Sanju spiraled. He stopped eating. Stopped speaking. Started writing.

He wrote names. On walls. On skin. On memory. He wrote the Gospel of the Streets. A book no one could publish, but everyone feared.

He walked the city like a ghost. People bowed. But no one dared look him in the eyes.

Chapter VI: The Reckoning

Zaria returned. Not with love. With evidence. She had photos. Letters. Maps. She gave them to the police.

Sanju ran. Not from justice. From truth.

They found him in a warehouse. Surrounded by candles. Blood on his hands. Names on the walls.

He didn’t fight. He smiled.

Chapter VII: The Cruel Death

They didn’t give him a trial. They gave him a cage.

Inside, he was forgotten. No visitors. No letters. Just whispers.

One day, a guard found him convulsing. Poisoned. Self-inflicted.

But it didn’t kill him fast. It tore him apart. Organ by organ. Memory by memory.

He screamed for Zaria. She never came.

Epilogue: The Name That Died

Sanju Banju died alone. In pain. In silence.

But the streets still whisper. Not in fear. In warning.

He was the boy who watched. The man who killed. The myth who fell.

And the name that bled.

Written and ritualized by Johny Griffith   Architect of Chaos, Builder of Truth   For those who rise through envy and fall through consequence. 🩸 Author’s Word   By Johny Griffith — Architect of Chaos, Builder of Truth

This is not fiction. This is not entertainment. This is a wound I carry.

The Chronicles of Sanju Banju is a true story. I witnessed it—not through headlines or hearsay, but through the raw, unfiltered lens of my own travels. I saw the descent. I felt the jealousy that rotted brilliance. I watched love turn into possession, and truth into blood. Sanju wasn’t a character. He was a man. A storm. A mirror.

I don’t write to entertain. I write to confront. To ritualize pain. To expose the psychological fractures that society hides behind charm and ambition.

Sanju Banju was brilliant. He was cursed. He was loved. And he destroyed everything that loved him. Not because he was evil—but because he was empty. And that emptiness demanded sacrifice.

I watched him spiral. I watched him die—slowly, cruelly, alone.

This story is not for comfort. It’s for reckoning. If you feel disturbed, good. If you feel exposed, better. That means the myth is working.

I am Johny Griffith. Architect of Chaos. Builder of Truth. I ritualize what others suppress. And this gospel is not for the faint. It’s for those who dare to look into the abyss and name what they see.