The night had a weight to it.

  Not silence—Kashmir was never silent—but a pressure, like the air itself was waiting for something to go wrong.

  The convoy crawled along the broken road outside Bandipora, headlights blacked out, engines running low and steady. Pines loomed on either side, tall and watching, their shadows stretching across the road like long fingers. Somewhere far off, a dog barked. Then stopped.

  I sat forward in my seat, helmet pressing into my skull, rifle resting across my thighs. Every bump in the road travelled straight into my bones. I welcomed it. Pain kept the mind sharp.

  This was it.

  Weeks of intelligence. Sleepless nights. Maps memorized until they burned behind my eyes. Malik hadn’t moved locations in days—too confident, too protected, too convinced that fear alone would keep us away.

  He was wrong.

  I checked my men through the rearview reflection—faces darkened, eyes steady, breathing controlled. No one spoke. They didn’t need to. Every one of them knew what waited at the end of this road.

  I tapped my earpiece once.

  “Time check,” I murmured.

  “Three mikes,” came the reply.

  Three minutes.

  Three minutes before we crossed a line that only went one way.

  My mind tried to wander—to faces it had no business bringing here. I pushed them down hard. There was no room for memory tonight. Only execution.

  On the opposite flank, Vijay’s team moved in parallel, unseen but close enough to matter. Knowing he was there anchored me. Same training. Same instincts. Same willingness to walk into hell if it meant the job got done.

  I rolled my shoulders once, loosening tension.

  This wasn’t about anger.

  It wasn’t about revenge.

  It was about ending something that should have ended long ago.

  The driver eased off the throttle.

  The vehicle slowed.

  Every muscle in my body tightened.

  Then—

  The engine died.

  For half a second, the world felt suspended—like Bandipora itself was holding its breath.

  I checked my watch.

  0329 hours.

  Thirty seconds to cross a line none of us could uncross.

  Ahead of us, the building crouched in the dark—three floors of concrete and rot, windows blacked out, wires hanging loose like veins torn from a body. No lights. No sound. Smoke from earlier diversions hung low, crawling across the ground and wrapping around our boots.

  I raised my fist.

  Team B locked in behind me. Five men. Quiet. Ready.

  On the opposite side of the structure, Vijay and Team A were stacked, waiting on the same clock.

  I touched my comm.

  “All teams—stand by.”

  My heart thudded once. Hard.

  “Execute.”

  The breach charge went off with a dull crack, not loud—just violent enough. The door folded inward and we poured through the opening before the dust could settle.

  Darkness swallowed us whole.

  Smoke bloomed instantly, thick and blinding. Thermals flickered on—heat signatures lit up like floating skeletons.

  “Contact—left room,” one of my men whispered.

  A muzzle flash flared. Two suppressed bursts answered it. A body dropped behind a doorway.

  “Clear"

  We moved.

  Slow. Methodical. No wasted motion.

  Every step was calculated—corners sliced, angles covered, rifles never dipping. This wasn’t chaos yet. This was discipline.

  Gunfire echoed from the opposite wing—Vijay was already engaged. The sound grounded me, reminded me we were running on the same clock.

  We cleared the first floor room by room. A militant rushed us from a kitchen—he barely got his weapon up before a burst stitched across his chest. Another tried to flee down a corridor.

  “Running!”

  “Drop him.”

  He dropped.

  Blood steamed on the floor under thermal.

  Second floor.

  The air grew hotter. Thicker. Someone screamed in the distance—cut short by gunfire.

  My patience snapped.

  Where the fuck are you, Malik?

  The longer he stayed hidden, the louder my thoughts became. Disha’s face crept into places it didn’t belong. Blood on stone. Her name echoing somewhere I couldn’t reach.

  “Stairs ahead,” someone said.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  A grenade rolled down from above.

  “Back!”

  It detonated short—concussive, violent. Dust rained from the ceiling. My ears rang but my feet kept moving.

  We pushed up.

  Third floor.

  A flickering bulb buzzed at the end of the hallway—one room still powered by a generator.

  I kicked the door.

  Iftab Malik turned.

  For a fraction of a second, the world froze.

  His hand went for his gun.

  Too fucking slow.

  I slammed into him, twisted his wrist until I felt bone grind. His weapon skidded across the floor. I drove him down hard, knee to his chest, rifle raised.

  He stared up at me—smiling.

  My finger slid onto the trigger.

  This was it.

  Everything narrowed—no building, no team, no war—just him and me.

  Rithinagar burned behind my eyes. Smoke. Screams. Disha’s body on stone that didn’t deserve her.

  My hands trembled.

  Just press it.

  A lovely, young and innocent woman dies for nothing—and this monster gets to breathe?

  How is that fair?

  My finger tightened.

  It wouldn’t move.

  I could feel my heart screaming at me to pull the trigger, to end it right here, to balance the scales with a single squeeze.

  But something else spoke louder.

  I just couldn't give into my rage.

  I wasn’t just a man kneeling over another man.

  I was everything I had ever chosen to be.

  Every oath.

  Every responsibility

  Every uniform.

  Every body I carried out and never forgot.

  Everyone trusted me for this mission, to complete the objective,

  to fulfill my duty,

  to give our Special Forces the thing which they need the most for the sake of our nation.

  Disha is gone. But I still have a chance to stop this from happening to any other innocent soul like her.

  He laughed quietly.

  “Go on,” he said. “Be the hero.”

  Then the poison spilled.

  “You kafirs think this land is yours?” he snarled. “You think you can storm our homes and act like gods? This is our place. Our blood. Our fucking history.”

  I pressed the barrel harder into his skull.

  He didn’t blink.

  “Oqab Abdullah is a liar,” Malik spat. “A fake Muslim. A dog for your government. What we do isn’t crime—it’s jihad. And we will kill every last one of you cow-worshipping fucks.”

  For one terrifying second, I wanted to erase him from existence.

  Then I remembered why I couldn’t.

  Because if I gave in—if I let rage decide—then more Dishas would die. More Rithinagars would burn.

  The rifle lowered.

  My breath came out broken.

  “Hands behind your back,” I said.

  Disbelief flickered across his face.

  My team cleared the remaining rooms while I dragged him forward, moving inch by inch through the chaos. Gunfire thundered around us. Screams echoed from outside.

  We started extraction.

  Malik twisted toward me, still talking, still venomous.

  “You’re weak,” he hissed. “You don’t deserve this uniform.”

  I smashed the butt of my rifle into his face.

  “You’re lucky,” I said quietly, “that I’m not putting a bullet in your nutsack and letting you bleed out right here.”

  I taped his mouth shut.

  Hard.

  We moved toward the exit.

  Then the radio crackled.

  Static.

  Then Vijay’s voice—strained, breathless.

  “Pandey… Team A compromised. I’m separated. Injured. Out of ammo.”

  My chest tightened.

  Outside, the perimeter was collapsing. Shouts. Stones hitting shields. Reinforcements pouring in. Local police were losing control.

  Extracting Malik now was the smart call.

  The correct call.

  The mission-first call.

  I looked at Malik.

  Then I heard Vijay again—pain bleeding through every word.

  I had already lost too many people that I loved.

  “Cuff him,” I ordered. “Blindfold. Vehicle. Now.”

  My men hesitated.

  “MOVE, DAMMIT!”

  I turned back toward the gunfire.

  The building swallowed me again.

  I found Vijay pinned behind a concrete pillar—blood soaking his legs, rifle useless, comms dead.

  “Took you long enough,” he muttered.

  “Shut the fuck up,” I said, grabbing him. “You’re not dying today.”

  A militant rushed us from the left.

  I fired. He dropped.

  Another popped up near the stairwell.

  Burst. Neutralized.

  Then we moved—slow, deliberate.

  Suddenly a militant stepped out ahead of us.

  I fired.

  Click.

  Empty.

  The man raised his rifle.

  I shoved Vijay aside, dropped to the floor, pulled my pistol mid-fall.

  Three shots.

  He went down.

  I tried to stand—

  Pain exploded in my chest.

  I looked down.

  Blood.

  Right side. But luckily just a flesh wound.

  I gritted my teeth, dragged Vijay up, and we ran.

  Outside was hell.

  Sirens. Gunfire. People screaming. Reinforcements pouring in.

  We dove into the vehicle.

  I reloaded, shoved the rifle into Vijay’s hands. “Cover left.”

  “MOVE!” I yelled at the driver.

  A car surged toward us—gunfire erupted. Vijay returned fire, holding them back.

  I shoved my radio into his hand. “Barricades. No unauthorized vehicles. Now.”

  He looked at me—then saw the blood.

  He took over.

  The vehicle surged forward.

  The world blurred.

  By the time we stopped—

  I couldn’t feel my limbs.

  I had lost my senses.

  And I had lost the track of time.

  Suddenly, when I opened my eyes, I was already in the hospital.

  Everything was moving too fast.

  I was being rushed down a corridor, nurses and doctors surrounding me, my body lifted on a stretcher that rattled beneath me. White lights streaked past overhead, blurring into one another. Voices overlapped—urgent, sharp, distant.

  The doctors tore open my vest and looked at the wound.

  Their expressions changed.

  This wasn’t a flesh wound.

  The bullet had gone through my lungs.

  I was choking—drowning in my own blood. I could feel it filling my chest, heavy and warm, stealing the air from me little by little. Every breath burned. Every gasp failed.

  When they placed me on the operation table, I could practically see my life slipping away from my body.

  Then my eyes drifted to the glass window outside the operation theatre, I saw her.

  My mother.

  She was standing there, crying, her hands trembling as she looked at me in this state. And in that moment, everything broke inside me.

  It was all happening again to her.

  She was being forced to watch another man from her family—the last man of her family—die right in front of her eyes.

  And in that moment, disappointment crushed me harder than the bullet ever could.

  I had made a promise to my brother. I promised him that I would take care of our mother for the rest of her life.

  I had sworn it.

  And I failed.

  I failed to keep the last promise I ever made to him.

  As the doctors worked on me, as they tried to save something that was already slipping away, all I could do was hope.

  I hoped the mission was a success.

  I hoped saving Malik was worth it.

  I hoped the people of Kashmir could finally live in peace.

  I hoped I hadn’t disappointed the men who placed their faith in me—SP Khan, Major Ali, Vijay.

  Hoping was all I had left.

  As they tried to force oxygen into my lungs, I looked into my mother’s eyes. And in that moment, I felt her love more deeply than I ever had in my entire life.

  All my life, I believed my existence was meaningless.

  That my life wasn’t worth living.

  But right then—lying on that table—I wanted to live more than I ever had before.

  As my vision began to fade, all I wanted was to look at her face for a little longer. Just a few more seconds. Just enough to remember it forever.

  I had fought my entire life.

  And I wanted to fight in that moment too.

  But I couldn’t.

  No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop my eyes from closing.

  When pitch-black darkness swallowed my vision, I saw it again.

  A dream.

  For only the second time in my entire life.

  I was standing nowhere and everywhere at once. The air felt heavy, unreal—like the world was holding its breath. There was no sound, no ground beneath my feet, yet I could feel myself standing.

  Then I saw her.

  Disha.

  She was facing away from me, kneeling beside a body stretched out on cold stone. I knew—without needing to look—that the body was mine. Blood pooled beneath it, spreading slowly, endlessly, like it would never stop.

  She was crying, but I couldn’t hear her voice.

  For the last time, I wanted to see her beautiful face.

  I tried to move. I tried to speak her name. Nothing came out.

  When she finally turned around, the world fractured.

  Light burst forward—white, blinding, merciless. It erased her face before I could see it, burning into my eyes until everything else disappeared.

  I panicked.

  I was afraid—because I didn’t know where I was going, or what waited for me on the other side.

  But more than fear, there was sadness.

  A deep, crushing sadness.

  Because no mother in this entire world deserves to watch two of her sons die in front of her.

  Most people believe that when we die, we meet God.

  And if that is true, then I have just one question for him.

  “Why is life so fucking unfair?”

  THE END