The war between Ajinur and Bhashar had chewed up the land and spat out its bones. Vijay, once a soldier of Bhashar, now a shadow in no man’s land, trudged through the rubble-strewn streets, a cigarette dangling from his lips. Six years ago, he’d fled a suicide mission that claimed his squad—his friends, his commander, all dead because he froze, too cowardly to fight. Now, at 24, he survived by scavenging the dead, picking through their pockets for scraps of food or anything tradable. His black hair was matted, his brown skin gaunt, and his 5’8” frame had withered to 55 kilos. Hunger gnawed at him, but so did guilt. Once, he’d pressed a pistol to his temple, only to lower it, choosing to endure the war’s hell instead. “All heroes are dead,” he muttered, his mantra for survival. “They died protecting me.”
Today, the air trembled with the rumble of tanks and the distant crack of shells. Vijay’s heart raced as he darted toward an alley, but his foot caught in a tangle of debris. He yanked, cursed, and fell, his leg pinned. The sounds grew closer—boots, voices, the clank of rifles. He burrowed into the rubble, praying the troops would pass. Hidden, he overheard soldiers griping about their commander, a woman named Gunjan. “She’s reckless,” one spat. “Leading us to slaughter.” Vijay didn’t care. He just wanted to be free.
When the voices faded, he clawed at the debris, freeing his leg with a grunt. A gunshot cracked nearby, and he dove behind a crumbling wall, heart pounding. He knew the Southern Outpost was his only path to safety—a neutral zone, but heavily guarded. He had to move. Creeping through the shadows, Vijay slipped into the outpost, his stolen general’s uniform itching against his skin. The camp was grim: prisoners of war lined up, tortured for information, their screams slicing the air. Vijay’s stomach churned, but he focused on survival, sneaking past guards until he reached a tent.
Inside, Gunjan’s voice was sharp, strategizing with an informant. “Three days to take the checkpoint,” she said. “Fifty of us against 300. We’re desperate, but we’ll push through.” Vijay’s breath caught. The odds were suicide. He slipped out, but his path crossed a group of soldiers. Two guards, caught mid-embrace, froze at the sight of him. The woman, startled, raised her rifle, but seeing his general’s uniform, they saluted, stammering apologies. Vijay, playing the part, scolded them for their indiscretion and waved them off. They scurried away, and he followed, blending into the camp’s chaos.
At the edge of the outpost, Vijay paused near a group of soldiers drinking and laughing. Among them were the couple—Jose and Maya, he learned from their chatter. Four boys and three girls, the men flirting crudely. One, Robin, a smug blonde with blue eyes, made a lewd remark about Maya. She stood to leave, but Robin grabbed her, laughing as his friends egged him on. Maya slapped him hard and kicked him, silencing the group. Furious, Robin drew his pistol, but Jose lunged, only to be restrained by Robin’s cronies. Two girls pinned Maya as she fought, her black hair whipping wildly.
Vijay watched from the shadows, torn. This was his chance to slip away. He turned toward the exit, but screams stopped him cold—Maya’s and Jose’s, raw and desperate. He lit another cigarette, his hands shaking. Robin dragged the couple to a secluded corner, his friends jeering. “Look at him,” Robin taunted, forcing Maya to face Jose, who struggled helplessly. “A virgin’s eyes, so pathetic.”
Vijay’s grip tightened on his stolen rifle. He stepped forward, voice cutting through the night. “What’s going on?” Everyone froze. Robin, smirking, boasted, “I’m the son of Pink Man. I do what I want.” Vijay didn’t hesitate. He shot one of the girls holding Maya, her body crumpling. “I won’t ask twice,” he said, voice cold. Robin shoved Maya toward him and grabbed his rifle, firing. The bullet grazed Vijay’s head, blood trickling down his temple. Vijay fired back, hitting Robin’s hand. The boy screamed, collapsing. Vijay stepped on Robin’s groin, crushing it as the others stared in shock. He draped his coat over Maya, shielding her, and ordered the group to take Robin to the medical tent.
Turning to Jose and Maya, Vijay urged them to flee. “Robin will come for blood when he recovers.” As he walked away, his cigarette pack slipped from his pocket. Jose picked it up, his eyes narrowing at the label: Made in Bhashar. “Sir,” Jose called, voice hard. “This pack—it’s from the enemy. You’re a spy.” He drew his pistol, ordering Maya to alert Gunjan.
Vijay sighed, his black eyes meeting Jose’s. “Even after I saved you, you’d turn me in?” Jose’s jaw tightened. “I’m a patriot.” Maya returned with Gunjan and her troops. Vijay was seized, beaten, and dragged to a holding cell. His gaze never left Jose, who stood firm, clutching the cigarette pack.
As Jose accused Vijay, pointing to the cigarette pack, Vijay’s hand twitched toward his hidden pistol. Before he could react, a shot rang out. Blood bloomed across his chest. Jose lowered his smoking gun, face grim. “Patriot,” he whispered, as Vijay collapsed, his cigarette rolling into the dirt. Gunjan arrived, glancing at the body. “Good work,” she said, kicking the pack away. “One less traitor.”
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