In a hazy dreamscape, beneath a sky choked with dust and despair, a little girl stood trembling on a deserted road. Her eyes, swollen from crying, fixated on the wreckage of a car twisted metal and shattered glass lay scattered like the broken pieces of her fragile world.
Her sobs were silent at first, but grief built rapidly, crashing like waves in a storm. She wailed in helplessness. Her tiny fists clenched the hem of her skirt as the wind carried ash and whispers.
Then, from behind, a man came running—a face creased with anxiety and a storm in his eyes. Without a word, he dropped to his knees and embraced her tightly, shielding her from the weight of the world. His breath was short, and his voice trembled as he spoke, "Sorry I'm late... really late... but no need to worry."
He tried to smile through the pain, but it was the kind of smile that knew guilt. The girl's eyes were drawn to the pole he carried long and solid, shaped like a spear, weathered from battle, yet steady in his grip. It glowed faintly, as if carrying the promise of protection.
But before she could ask who those people were, her gaze shifted beyond the man. A group of strangers stood silently draped in black robes, their presence hollow, their faces obscured. They didn't move, didn't speak. Their silence was more terrifying than a scream. The girl turned back to the man, clinging to his sleeve, but the wind picked up. The dust stung her eyes. She blinked, trying to wipe it away and the scene dissolved like sand slipping through fingers.
Now she stood somewhere else.
The place that once represented a future, a dream a university lay in ruins. Smoke danced from scorched walls. Blood stained the ground. Buildings collapsed upon themselves like memories crushed under sorrow. The noise was gone; there was only a cold, echoing silence.
Her knees gave way. She dropped, trembling, unable to comprehend how everything had been taken so suddenly. Then came the warmth of a hand again resting gently on her head. Older, worn, yet tender. Like a father comforting a child who couldn't fix what had broken.
"Why... why... why, Uncle Eswar... why can't I change it..." Her voice cracked in despair. The tears were heavier now, no longer from fear, but from guilt—guilt of survival, of helplessness, of being too small to make a difference.
And then, the hand faded. The warmth vanished. In its place, the last echo of a whisper floated in the air soft, resolute, and fading. "I'm sorry, Anaya. It's time for me to leave. But no matter what, I will always look after you… in the shadows."
The world of the dream began to collapse. Her eyes, filled with tears, sought the hand again. But there was only silence.
A sudden voice cut through the fog of the fading dream.
"Wake up, Anaya."
It was Pooja calm but assertive. Anaya blinked her damp eyelashes open, the remnants of sleep and sorrow clinging to her face. Her eyes adjusted to the bright dorm light. Pooja and Sneha were already up and dressed, their hair brushed, faces fresh, clothes crisp and ready for the finals.
Without missing a beat, Anaya smirked and stretched lazily. "Wow, you both look beautiful. So, Sneha, today's the day you finally want to win over that weird guitarist Teja?"
Sneha rolled her eyes but played along. "Please, like you and Ayaan with your unbreakable bond, and Riya and Dev with their unavoidable tension.we're the only ones left single and sane. So yeah, Teja doesn't look that bad from here."
Before anyone could laugh, a pillow flew across the room, smacking Sneha in the face.
"Don't talk about Ayaan and Dev in front of me!" Riya shouted, sitting up with a scowl and wild hair.
Anaya couldn't help it her smile widened as she reached over and gently started petting Riya on the head, like one would calm an angry kitten.
"Stop petting me like an animal!" Riya barked, her voice muffled by a second pillow clutched to her face.
From the side, Pooja leaned in and whispered to Sneha, her tone low and laced with worry. "She's doing it again… It's been three weeks since she last saw her father. She was completely crushed after that visit. She hasn't told us what happened… and normally, Anaya would tease her back, but now she's being careful. Too careful."
Sneha gave a soft nod. The mood shifted slightly. Beneath the laughter and teasing, a quiet unease lingered.
An hour passed.
The dorm buzzed with the motions of preparation hair tied, instruments checked, bags packed. But as Anaya gazed into the mirror, the reflection staring back wasn't just a finalist in a competition. It was someone haunted by memories she couldn't erase and dreams she hoped to never see again.
Beside her, Riya tightened the strap on her boots, her fingers fidgeting, her eyes clouded not with fear, but with something heavier: distrust. Something inside her told her this day wouldn't be normal.
With the weight of regret from a tragedy that couldn't be undone and the desperate hope to rewrite the path ahead Anaya and Riya stepped toward their part in the operation. No longer just singers on stage.
They were now pieces of a game being played in silence.
---
In the quiet of his room, Ayaan stood in front of the mirror, buttoning up his black shirt. His reflection was still, but his mind churned with echoes of a voice that had dug into his bones. A cruel, venom-laced whisper resounded within.
"Don't let the Hollow Pact kill you… because I will personally kill you."
His brows furrowed. That figure shadowed and faceless, the one from his nightmares was it real? His fingers trembled for a moment as he tried to brush off the fear clawing at his chest. "Is it just trauma? Or... something else?"
A sharp knock snapped him back to reality.
"Brother! Dev is waiting for you!" Rohan's enthusiastic voice boomed through the door.
Ayaan groaned, annoyed. "I know! Don't irritate me, Rohan!"
Rohan, with all the spirit of a younger sibling, knocked again, louder and more dramatic this time.
Ayaan barked back, "I'm coming!"
Outside the room, in the living area, Dev sat comfortably beside Tanvi. They were mid-conversation when the sound of footsteps drew closer.
Tanvi raised an eyebrow, her tone mischievous. "So, your mother wants to arrange something for her future daughter-in-law's best friend?"
Dev's jaw dropped. "Yeah, but I don't even have feelings for Riya yet.wait, wait, Tanvi aunty, what do you mean future daughter-in-law? You really think Ayaan and Anaya are...?"
Before Tanvi could respond, a coughing sound interrupted the room. Ayaan, now fully dressed and holding his composure, cut through their talk.
"Mom, I need to leave. See you later."
Tanvi gave a short nod, still smiling. "Okay, be careful."
But the smile faded as the door closed behind them. A strange tightness gripped her chest. Her hand instinctively reached toward her heart.
"Why… this feeling again?" she whispered to herself. "This is just like the day my elder son left. And Just like the day… my husband never returned."
Meanwhile, on the road, the wind rushed past Ayaan and Dev as they sped on a bike through morning light.
Dev leaned forward slightly, his tone filled with anticipation. "Finally, the day of Anaya's singing competition and—"
Ayaan cut in, his voice low, concerned. "And the start of Operation SBS."
A few blocks away, a boy with an acoustic guitar case slung across his back leaned against a wall. His eyes tracked the bike as it passed. A smile crept across his face.
"So it finally begins…" he murmured. "My chilling days as Teja are over. It's time to show up as Surya."
At last, Ayaan and Dev pulled up at the same airplane hangar-like workshop where Rathore had once gathered the inner circle. This time, the setup was more intense, layered with tactical equipment, maps, and coded channels. The air was heavy with purpose.
Inside, they saw Rathore already in conversation with Padma. Several new faces lined the space operators, planners, analysts. But what caught Ayaan's eye immediately was Bhairava standing firm, commanding presence as he directed a smaller unit near the back.
Without a word, Ayaan and Dev slipped away into the armory section.
Dev reached for his signature gauntlets—sleek, reinforced, glowing with light from the embedded circuits.
"You ready, mentally?" he asked, strapping them on.
Ayaan walked to a sealed case, input a code, and revealed a customized sniper rifle matte black with silver lining. He lifted it with practiced ease.
"Yeah…" he said, eyes cold but resolute. "I'm ready."
---
A sudden shift in atmosphere drew everyone's attention toward the entrance. The distant roar of engines broke the tension inside the workshop. A military truck rolled in first, followed closely by a rugged army jeep—its flags bearing the insignia of the National Intelligence Combat Unit.
Ayaan narrowed his eyes as the doors of the jeep opened. A tall figure stepped out, clad in a custom combat uniform with a high-ranking badge glinting under the morning light.
"That must be the new vice president…" Ayaan muttered to himself.
Before the murmurs in the room could rise any further, Rathore took the mic and called out in his commanding tone, "Everyone, take your seats. I repeat, take your seats. Mr. Ranvijay—Commander-in-Chief of Operation SBS—please come to the podium."
A wave of curiosity passed through the room as the man approached the front. His posture was firm yet graceful, movements precise yet unforced. As he reached the mic, a calm energy settled across the space.
Ayaan couldn't take his eyes off him.
There was something about the man—his silent authority, his composed aura—that struck a chord within. A strange familiarity tickled the back of Ayaan's mind.
"Why does he feel so familiar? Have I… met him before?" The thought wouldn't leave him.
Meanwhile, Ranvijay scanned the crowd. His gaze briefly rested on Ayaan, and in that fleeting moment, the commander's expression softened a subtle smile of relief tugging at the corners of his lips.
"No formalities," Ranvijay began, his voice smooth but firm. "Let's get straight to the point."
Everyone leaned forward, the room falling into silent anticipation.
"As you are all aware, through confirmed intel received from one of President Aditya Rajan's most trusted contacts, a sub-organization known as 'The Hollow Pact' is preparing a terrorist bombing at the finals of the national singing competition. Their target? Chaos, fear, and political leverage."
Gasps and murmurs stirred across the hall.
Ranvijay continued, unwavering. "To prevent this disaster, Operation SBS was formed. But understand this the Hollow Pact thrives in the shadows. Which means our response must be even quieter. No panic. No leaks. No exposure. The entire mission must remain off the radar… even from our allies in uniform."
He paused for a second, then said with a hint of steel in his tone, "That's why we're all here. No matter your past affiliations, today we're one unit, working in silence to protect the light."
Ayaan, for the first time in days, felt a strange calmness ripple through him. The doubt that had been gnawing at him... was slowly replaced by something new.
"This person … I don't know why, but I feel like I can trust him."