The rain hit like it had a vendetta. Every drop smacked into the earth with the fury of something ancient. The dust beneath my boots turned to sludge, thick and clinging, like the past I could never quite wash off. Thunder rolled over the sky, heavy and unrelenting. Satellite feeds were useless now, drowned in storm static. That was how I wanted it. No eyes. No oversight. Just me and the darkness.
The bunker lay hidden, carved into the earth like a secret. It didn’t exist on maps, no aerial trace, no mention in mission logs or diplomatic cables. But I didn’t need maps. I had memory, pain, and the last breath of a man I once called brother.
I was already inside.
I had dropped from a carbon-weave glider, two clicks out from the perimeter. No sound, no trail. Thirty seconds ago, I breached the outer wall. The first guard barely had time to blink before my boot struck his jaw. I felt it give, a grotesque pop under impact. His body folded in on itself and dropped, limp and silent.
Another guard appeared, eyes wide with alarm. His rifle began to rise. My karambit flew from my hand, slicing the air with a hiss. It buried itself in his eye socket with a soft, wet crunch. He collapsed, still clutching the weapon he never got to fire.
Then came two more. They charged from the hallway, trying to flank. I didn’t hesitate. The first lunged, baton drawn. I moved to the side, drove my elbow into his throat. I felt cartilage collapse, the sharp intake of air that would never come again. The second swung wide, desperate. I caught the arc of his baton mid-swing, yanked him off balance, and slammed his head into the concrete wall. The sound was wet and final. The wall cracked, and so did his skull.
Blood spattered across my vest. My breathing didn’t change.
This wasn’t war.
This was personal.
This was justice.
This was for Aarav.
Three weeks earlier, I had buried my closest friend. The same man who once carried a sobbing child through sniper fire in Aleppo without a flinch. The official report said he died of cardiac arrest in custody. The news paraded it as a warning, a lesson in justice. They framed him as a trafficker.
But I saw the footage. A black-market leak that should have never made it out.
Aarav had been tortured.
Nails ripped out one by one. Eyes gouged. Bones snapped, methodically, piece by piece. This wasn’t interrogation. It was execution. And someone high up wanted to erase him, not just from the world, but from memory.
For nine years, I had lived by one vow.
No killing without absolute truth. No brutality unless it preserved life.
Tonight, that vow was broken.
I moved deeper into the facility. The air turned heavier the further I went, tainted by the scent of oil, metal, and death. I entered what had to be the control chamber. Four men stood around a central console, in the middle of a transmission. Their uniforms told me everything—corporate insignias alongside military stripes. Private warlords in state clothing.
One of them saw me and whispered, “Kaul.”
It wasn’t fear in his voice. It was recognition.
I descended on them.
The first didn’t even get a scream out. I shattered his femur with a well-placed knee and used his own fall to guide him into a brutal spin, slamming his spine into the corner of the control panel. The crack that followed wasn’t mechanical. It was vertebral. His body crumpled like dry paper.
The second tried a knife. I kicked it from his hand, caught it mid-spin, and drove it into his collarbone with surgical precision. He screamed as the blade pinned him to the metal desk. Blood fountained from the wound.
The last two bolted. Bad choice.
I tore a steel cable from the wall and wrapped it around the first one’s neck. A single pull was enough. His death rattle was short and choking.
The final man froze. His eyes darted around, looking for a miracle that wasn’t coming.
I grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the terminal. His teeth clacked from the impact.
“Where is Valeska?” I demanded.
He swallowed hard. “Munich. Under the alias Dante Marek. NATO zones. Off-books ops.”
I didn’t blink. I just stared, long enough to see if his fear was genuine.
“Why did you work for him?” I asked.
Tears started to well in his eyes. “They said they’d kill my daughter. She’s in Khost. I didn’t have a choice.”
I believed him. Or I wanted to.
I zip-tied his wrists and injected a tracker into his neck. He twitched, but I held him firm.
“Don’t run,” I said. “If your story checks out, I’ll find her. She’ll be safe.”
I meant every word.
Location: Indian Northern Tactical Command (INTAC), Base Camp - Debrief Room
Back at base, the air inside the debrief chamber was heavy with tension. The kind you don’t cut with words, only with truths.
Five of us sat in that room. Veer, the quiet demolitionist who spoke more with wires than words. Nyra, our ghost in the digital fog. Zorawar, all frost and fury from the Himalayan units. Iqra, our inside blade. And Arjun, the man who could disassemble an enemy blindfolded and reassemble him with regret.
I stood in front of them and played the footage.
Aarav on the screen, tied down. Bruised. His teeth gone. His spirit, somehow still burning through the pain.
Then came the screams. And finally, the silence.
“They didn’t just kill him,” I said, my voice raw. “They erased him. They rewrote his name in lies and buried the truth with him.”
I threw the torn NATO patch onto the table. The insignia used to mean something. Now it looked like camouflage for cowards.
“This task force was built for missions off the record. No borders. No politics. That includes enemies hiding under friendly flags.”
I pointed at the patch.
“We leave in twelve hours.”
Nyra looked up, eyes narrowed. “And if this is bait?”
“Then we spring the trap,” I replied. “And burn everyone inside it.”
Location: Munich Underground, 11:37 PM
Munich didn’t sleep. It simmered.
Clouds swirled like secrets over the skyline. Cold wind scraped along the alleys and gutters, dragging with it the stench of old blood and newer money. The Unterstadt wasn’t on any tourist map. It was the shadow of the city’s soul, a warren of tunnels, clubs, black markets, and memory. If someone wanted to vanish, this was where they came. If someone wanted to be found by me, they were already out of time.
We split up hours before.
Veer took the sewers, slipping past alarms like a rat with a doctorate in destruction. He was setting charges under the estate, all timed. Iqra moved like mist across rooftops, reporting angles and threats. Nyra worked the lobbies of three connected hotels, forging her way into secure elevators and locked executive access points. Zorawar and Arjun went high, rifles trained from a museum tower with a perfect vantage.
I walked alone.
Two guards stood at the rear of the target club. Suits, buzzcuts, earpieces. Polished and plastic.
“Hey, you need to sto—” one said, raising a hand.
I kept walking.
I stepped into his space and swept his legs from under him. His spine smacked against the cobblestone with a dull thud. The second guard barely reached for his weapon. I slammed his wrist against the wall. I felt bone snap. He dropped the pistol. I caught it mid-fall, cracked the magazine over my knee, and tossed it aside.
“No bullets needed,” I said under my breath.
Inside, the club pulsed with artificial life. Bass vibrated the walls. Lights strobed in gold and red. Men in suits laughed too loud, women in gowns looked through people like glass. No one saw me. They saw the idea of someone, maybe a bodyguard, maybe a threat, and then dismissed it. That was their first mistake.
I scanned the floor.
Then I saw her. Red hair. Thin mic curling around her cheek. Eyes scanning the room while pretending not to. Handler. She was the key.
I moved fast.
I grabbed a glass from a table and flung it into the lights. The crash bought me seconds. Screams rose. Security scrambled. I dropped three of them before they reached their guns. One I disarmed with a wrist twist. Another I flipped over the bar. The third tried to tackle me. I side-stepped, drove a knee into his side, then used his body as a shield as shots rang out.
I fired once. Straight up.
The club’s sprinkler system erupted.
Water poured from the ceiling, turning the golden light into a ghostly shimmer.
I pushed forward. The hallway to the vault was narrow, and four guards blocked it. Tight space. No cover. Just pain.
I didn’t wait.
I charged.
My shoulder cracked into the first guard’s sternum. He folded. I elbowed the second in the temple, then spun low, sweeping the legs out from under the third. He hit the ground, groaning, before my fist crushed his nose. The last one lunged with a blade. He caught me along the ribs. Pain bloomed hot and sharp.
But I didn’t slow.
I caught his wrist, bent it backward until he screamed, and used his own momentum to hurl him through the vault’s bulletproof glass. It didn’t shatter, but it fractured. The symbolism wasn’t lost on me.
The last guard stepped aside.
Smart.
I walked through the broken door.
Inside the Vault
He was there.
Dante Marek. But I knew the truth.
Viktor Valeska.
Ex-CIA. Now freelance monster. The man who orchestrated Aarav’s death. The one who sold secrets and children with equal precision.
He stood calmly, wine in hand, dressed in a suit made to intimidate. It failed.
“You’re late,” he said, taking a sip.
I stepped in, each footfall heavy with soaked blood, some mine, most not.
“You framed him.”
Valeska smirked. “He was too righteous. Hope makes men dangerous. Makes them believe they can change the world.”
“You tortured him for two days.”
He nodded. “And I watched every minute.”
I held the detonator in my left hand, thumb hovering.
“I’m not here to kill you,” I said.
He arched a brow. “No?”
I pressed the device.
The floor rumbled. Explosions echoed like angry prayers. Veer’s charges lit up the underground. Data vaults, escape routes, blackmail storage. Gone. We had just severed the arteries of Valeska’s empire.
“I wanted you to see it fall,” I said. “Every name. Every bribe. Leaked. Five nations now know what you are.”
His composure cracked. Just a little. But I saw it.
He reached for a pistol behind a chair. Slow. Predictable.
I crossed the room in two steps. Grabbed his wrist. Crushed it. Then drove his skull into the marble wall. Once. Twice. A third time.
He slumped.
Bleeding. Breathing.
“Why?” I whispered.
He coughed blood and smiled weakly.
“Because people like him made monsters like me look in the mirror.”
I looked down at him, small now, just another broken liar on a floor full of ashes.
“You are what you chose to be.”
And I walked away.
I left him alive. Barely.
Outside — Extraction Point
The chop of the helicopter blades cut through the smoke and alarms. The building behind me was aflame, not in fire but in truth. Burning lies don’t make much sound, but they light up the sky all the same.
Zorawar met me first, pulling me into the cabin. My side was bleeding bad. I didn’t care.
“He’s alive?” Nyra asked over the roar.
“Barely,” I said. “But enough to face trial. Across every court that still values justice.”
She looked at me, unreadable.
“You didn’t kill him.”
I stared out at the fire below.
“I broke the rule to find the truth. But I won’t become what killed Aarav.”
Veer leaned back, grinning. “You burned half a city.”
“I burned a lie.”
Location: New Delhi — INTAC Tribunal, 8 Days Later
The tribunal room felt colder than the mountains I once hiked with a broken leg and a fever. Stainless steel panels lined the walls. The ceiling buzzed faintly with artificial light. I stood at the center of it all, alone at first. Five high-backed chairs faced me. Behind those, the men and women who never bleed. Intelligence heads. Commanders. Foreign liaisons with tight lips and looser morals.
“You used brutality. Acted off-script. Leaked NATO-classified files. Violated engagement protocol,” said the chairman, voice clipped and polished.
I didn’t flinch.
“You authorized us for off-books missions. You just never thought the rot would be internal.”
I reached into my jacket. A few of them tensed. I pulled out a drive and set it gently on the table. It clicked against the metal like a trigger waiting to be pulled.
“That drive contains transaction trails. NGO funds from Aarav’s charity, laundered through shell firms and rerouted into Valeska’s private security fronts. Dates, amounts, even voice logs.”
I saw a twitch behind one officer’s eye.
A small voice near the corner asked, “And the children?”
“Rescued,” I said. “Thirty-two. One of them was the daughter of the man I spared in Peshawar.”
Silence. Deep and reluctant.
Another voice, measured but not kind, said, “The board will consider your suspension.”
I stepped closer.
“I didn’t come for your verdict.”
My voice dropped low, sharp enough to cut.
“I came with the truth. You don’t get to punish me for delivering what you were too afraid to seek.”
I dropped my INTAC badge on the table. It slid forward, spinning once before resting face up.
“If keeping that means forgetting Aarav, I don’t want it.”
I turned.
Nyra stood.
“If he goes, I go.”
Arjun followed. “He didn’t start this. He ended it.”
Zorawar cracked his neck. “You think I spent three days in a sewer for politics?”
Iqra stepped beside me. “We follow him. Not a badge.”
Veer smirked and shrugged. “Besides, I rigged half your surveillance room with EMP tags. Not really the time to test us.”
The tribunal sat there. Some angry. Some silent. One or two ashamed. None brave enough to stop us.
I walked out. I didn’t wait for permission.
One Week Later — Himalayan Highlands, Kashmir
Snow fell like whispered prayers. The wind sang low through pine trees, thick with mist. I knelt beside a grave, simple and unadorned. A slab of wood, weathered but upright. Prayer flags fluttered above it, colors faded from sun and silence.
Aarav’s resting place.
I placed an old photo on the stone. Us, years ago. After a botched jungle rescue in Myanmar. Covered in dirt and blood, but smiling like fools. Victory sometimes looked like survival. That day, it looked like brotherhood.
Footsteps crunched behind me.
Iqra. She didn’t speak at first.
“No word from Delhi,” she said eventually. “But the footage of the kids is spreading. News outlets, activists. People are chanting Aarav’s name.”
I kept my eyes on the stone.
“He’d hate the noise. He liked quiet work. No medals. Just clean hands and full hearts.”
“He’d be proud,” she said. “Not of the fight. But of the reasons.”
I let out a slow breath.
“The rule was simple. No brutality unless the truth demands it. But truth wears masks now. Harder to find. Easier to fear.”
She rested a hand on my shoulder.
“You still live by the rule. Even when it costs.”
I stood, knees stiff. Wind bit through my jacket, but I barely felt it.
“I don’t know if I belong in uniforms anymore.”
She met my eyes.
“You don’t. You belong beyond them.”
Final Scene — Somewhere in Africa
A warlord’s convoy tore through the desert like a wounded animal. Dust curled behind their tires. Black SUVs, armored and ugly, carrying rifles, satellite jammers, and a boy in the trunk who hadn’t spoken in two days.
One by one, the vehicles exploded.
Perfectly timed. Tires shredded. Fuel tanks burst. The last vehicle flipped end over end and landed in the sand like a dead insect.
Smoke billowed.
The warlord crawled from the wreckage, bleeding and blind with rage. He coughed, spat blood, and reached for a gun.
Then he saw me.
Boots pressed into the sand. Tactical vest. No insignia. No country. Just purpose. My karambit hung loose in my grip, catching the firelight.
“They said you were finished,” he rasped.
I stepped forward, voice quiet but unshakable.
“You are not facing a man.”
I locked eyes with him.
“You’re facing the consequence.”
Darkness swallowed the frame.
Cut to black.
React
