AUTHOR'S POV
Somewhere in Afghanistan
03:29 am
"Sir, this is Ronit, voice taut with urgency as I report in. The enemy's breached the godown, his crew swarming inside like shadows ready to strike.
They've got the captives lined up-guns cocked, seconds ticking down to a bloodbath. I'm holding position, awaiting your next move. Give the order, sir-time's bleeding out fast. Over."
"I'm moving out with Abhimanyu and Shikhar, shadows at my back, every step heavy with stakes.
You stay sharp-eyes locked on them, unblinking. If even a whisper of something off hits the air-irregular moves, a twitch out of place-you hit the alert hard and fast. We're counting on you. Order given-OUT!."
Mihir, Abhimanyu and Shikhar crouched low in the dense, prickly bushes, their bodies taut with a cocktail of adrenaline and dread that pulsed through their veins like wildfire.
Every nerve in their body screamed with hyper- awareness as they waited, eyes darting through the shadowy foliage for the slightest hint of movement,any flicker of activity that could betray the enemy's position.
The air was thick with tension,a suffocating blanket of silence only by the faint rustle of their combat boots blushing against the undergrowth.
The soft, almost imperceptible beneath their feet sent their breaths catching in their throats, ragged and uneven, as if the sound alone might shatter the fragile stillness and unleash chaos.
Fear of death never griped them- no, that wasn't a specter haunting their minds. These men were forged in the crucible of resolve, their spirits steeled against the thought of their morality.
What gnawed at their souls, what twisted in their guts into knots of raw, gnawing anxiety was the terror of failure.
Missing their target was never an option; it was a nightmare that loomed larger than any bullet. Inside the ramshackle structure just beyond their hiding spot, a ruthless terrorist group held four innocent lives at their iron grip- hostages whose faces they couldn't see but whose fates weighed on their shoulder like a mountain of despair.
Two were Indians, their countrymen, bound by and unspoken kinship that fueled their determination with a fierce,protective fire. The other two were Afghanis, strangers from a distant land ,yet no less human,no less deserving of salvation.
The thought of those captives- helpless, terrified perhaps staring at their own doom- ignited a molten fury in their chests,
a burning need to act, to save, to prevail.
Their mission was singular, sacred: to shield these innocents from harm , to rip them from the jaws of their brutality and deliver them back to their homes, unscathed. No casualties. No compromises.
That vow pulsed in their blood,a heartbeat of purpose that kept them rooted despite the sweat beading on their brows and the tremor in their clenched fists.
Now, positioned just outside the gate, they waited, muscles coiled like springs, ready to explode into action at the first sign of their enemy's outrage. But the night mocked them with it's eerie calm.
No shouts, no gunfire, no cries for mercy- just the low incessant hum of crickets, a maddening chorus that seemed to taunt their impatience.
The sound grated against their frayed nerves, amplifying the suffocating stillness until it felt like the world itself was holding it's breath, teetering them on the edge of eruption that could drown them all in blood and chaos.
MIHIR’S POV
With trembling fingers, I nudged the gate ajar, the rusted hinges groaning like a dying beast, a sound that clawed at the edges of my sanity. As the gap widened, my gaze snagged on a row of splintered chairs, and there they were-
the hostages. Two men, two women, their silhouettes etched in the dim, flickering light like ghosts tethered to a nightmare.
My breath seized in my chest as recognition stabbed through me like a jagged blade. One of them was my professor, my coach-the man who'd sculpted my soul, guided me through the crucible of my youth with unwavering wisdom. Now, he sat there, broken, blood oozing from a gash on his forehead, a crimson river painting his face in streaks of anguish.
My heart convulsed, a searing ache radiating through me as if it were my own blood spilling. Beside him, one of the women trembled violently, her frail body wracked by the merciless cold, her shallow breaths puffing out in faint, desperate clouds. The sight ignited a primal fury in me, a molten rage that clashed with the icy dread pooling in my gut.
I snapped a sharp command to Shikhar, my voice a low growl barely masking the storm within. Together, we shoved the gate wide, the shriek of metal echoing like a banshee's wail.
Then my eyes locked onto him-
the target.
He stood there, a predator in human skin, and as his gaze met mine,
I saw nothing. No fear, no rage, just a void-an abyss where a soul should've been. He couldn't have been more than twenty, his youthful face a cruel mockery of the monster he'd become.
The leader of this terrorist pack, his presence radiated a chilling menace that made the air itself feel heavy, oppressive. Then his lips twisted-not into a smile, but a smirk, a venomous curl dripping with sadistic glee. It was the look of a man who believed he'd already won, who savored the thought of my blood staining the floor. He knew he'd kill me-or so he thought.
If only he knew the fire he'd just stoked, the beast he'd awakened
His voice slithered through the silence as he barked an order to his men, their weapons clattering to the ground with a hollow, final thud.
His eyes never left mine, boring into me with a cold, unblinking challenge.
"Come here, you bloody commando,"
he hissed, each word deliberate, dripping with malice like poison from a viper's fangs,
"Fight me in combat. Free yourself. Free these hostages. I dare you."
His smirk widened, a grotesque mask of confidence, as he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a bone-chilling whisper.
"Today, your fellow commandos will drag your corpse out of here. Or if luck turns its back on you-and oh, it will-they won't even find your body to bury."
The words hung in the air, a death knell laced with mockery, and my blood turned to ice even as it boiled with a rage so fierce it threatened to consume me whole. This wasn't just a fight-it was a descent into hell, and I'd claw my way out or die trying.
I smirked my voice low, a havoc inside me, each and every cell screaming
Mothe3fucker!
The air crackled with tension, thick and suffocating, as I stared down the bastard across from me.
God, I love this idiot,
I thought, a twisted thrill burning in my chest. If only he knew-if only he had a damn clue. My smirk stretched wide beneath the mask, a feral grin I wished he could see, wished he could feel the heat of. I snarled under my breath, my voice a low hiss as I barked into the comms, "Shikhar, stay sharp-his dogs twitch, you drop them."
My eyes locked onto his, two black pits boring into me, daring me to flinch. I didn't. The weight of my rifle hung heavy for a split second before I let it fall-
clattering to the ground like a gauntlet thrown.
Two steps. That's all it took. Two predatory strides, and I was in his face, close enough to smell the sweat, the fear he wouldn't admit. My heart thundered, a prayer screaming in my skull-
God, save him.
But the truth clawed its way up my throat, bitter and inevitable:
even God knew I'd never spare a soul. Not him. Not anyone.
The air crackled with tension as I stormed into the room, my boots slamming against the concrete floor.
Face-to-face with him,his snarling grin, his men flanking him like vultures, the hostages trembling in the shadows, and my crew, eyes blazing, ready for blood. Every gaze burned into us, the silence a coiled snake ready to strike. Then-
CRACK!
His fist smashed into my jaw, a burst of pain exploding in my skull. Fuck! I staggered, tasting copper, but a dark laugh clawed its way out of me. Worse than my juniors?
Pathetic.
I smirked, a predator's glint in my eye, and in a heartbeat, I moved-lightning-fast, unstoppable. My hands seized his head, and with a savage twist-
SNAP!
-his neck gave way. His body crumpled, hitting the floor with a dull, satisfying thud that echoed like a war drum in my ears. Weak. Too damn weak. His men froze, their faces draining of color, eyes wide with raw, primal terror.
I drank it in, relishing the power surging through me.
Abhimanyu and Shikhar exploded into motion behind me, a blur of fury and precision. One move-one-and his goons were down, paralyzed heaps writhing on the ground, their pitiful cries piercing the air.
I towered over them, voice low and venomous,
"Never mess with us-"
My words hung, heavy with menace, when-
BOOM!
-a gunshot ripped through the room. Blood sprayed as Abhimanyu's bullet found its mark. I whipped around, glaring at him.
"At least let me finish my damn line,"
I growled. He flashed a grin, unapologetic, the Bastard!
I turned to the hostages, their wide, tear-streaked eyes pleading silently.
Two women huddled together-shaking, fragile. I cut their bonds, hands steady despite the adrenaline roaring in my veins. "Thank you," they gasped, voices breaking, and I nodded curtly.
Abhimanyu and Shikhar moved to the men, slashing ropes with the same ruthless efficiency.
Amid the chaos, my professor-gray-haired, unflinching-caught my eye. Even now, with death staining the air, he smiled, a quiet pride glowing in his face. "I'm proud of you, son," he said, his voice steady as stone.
My chest tightened, but I didn't flinch. Not here. Not now.
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The helicopter's blades thumped rhythmically as we cut through the night sky, the rescued souls onboard gazing out with fragile hope.
We'd delivered the Afghani women back to their homes, their tearful gratitude ringing in my ears.
"You're safe now,"
I'd told them, my voice firm yet quiet, a vow etched in steel. Their trembling hands clasped ours, words of thanks spilling out like prayers, and I nodded, the weight of their relief settling into my bones.
Then, India welcomed us back-our soil, our victory.
The celebration erupted the moment we landed. Music pulsed through the air, wild and alive, as my boys let loose.
Laughter and cheers mingled with the clink of glasses, the night ablaze with their triumph. I stood apart, leaning against a wall, a shadow among the revelry.
A small, rare smile tugged at my lips as I watched them-Abhimanyu spinning some ridiculous dance move, Shikhar grinning like a fool, everyone caught in the high of the win.
Drinks flowed freely, amber liquid glinting under the lights, and the air smelled of sweat, booze, and freedom.
Shikhar broke away from the chaos, striding over to me, his eyes bright with the night's energy.
"You won't have a drink?"
he asked, tilting his head, a half-empty glass dangling from his hand. I met his gaze, steady and unyielding.
NO
I said, the word flat, final. He raised a brow, waiting for more, but I didn't budge. It wasn't about the body-the burn of alcohol or its haze. No,it was deeper, a scar buried in my chest, a wound I'd never let the world touch. A reason I'd carry to my grave, unhealed, unshaken. My smile faded, and I turned my eyes back to the celebration, letting the noise drown out the silence inside me.
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The sun hung low over Delhi's bustling streets as I roamed with my boys, soaking in the chaotic charm of the city.
It had been a while since I'd last visited, and something about the dusty air and distant honks felt like a balm I'd been craving. Peace-rare and fleeting-settled over me as we wandered, sightseeing without a plan.
Then, out of nowhere, Shikhar slung his arm across my shoulder, like I was his damn sidekick. Sure, we're buddies, but that casual touch grated on me. I've always hated it-someone's hands on me, uninvited.
My skin prickled, and with a quick shrug, I shook him off. My eyebrow arched as I shot him a look-What the hell, man?
He didn't miss a beat. Snapping his fingers, he grinned and said,
"When are you getting married, dude?You're in your 30s. Should've tied the knot by now."
Standing off to the side, I let out a dry scoff at Shikhar's words. I didn't even glance up as I muttered,
"Shadi se jitna durr rhu utna badhiya hai. Ye dil sirf patthar hai. Koi is patthar se pyaar nahi karega, aur na hi mai kisi se kar paunga."
My voice was flat, like I had rehearsed it a thousand times-marriage as far from me as possible, my heart just a cold, unfeeling stone.
Shikhar, being the smug bastard he is, smirked and fired back,
"Bhai, patthar bhi pighalta hai, yaad rakhna."
Then he laughed, loud and obnoxious, like he'd cracked the joke of the century. I glared at him, the sound grating against my nerves
Marriage? Not for me. Never. That much I knew, as certain as the sun dipping below Delhi's skyline.
AUTHOR'S POV
The streets buzzed with life as Mihir roamed with his boys, laughter and easy banter cutting through the warm Delhi air.
For once, his mood was light, untethered-until his phone vibrated in his pocket. He glanced at the screen, and his jaw tightened.
A call from his father.
The fleeting calm evaporated, replaced by a simmering anger that coiled in his chest like a snake. He sighed, a sharp, reluctant sound, and swiped to answer.
"Where the fuck are you?"
Adarsh Verma's voice exploded through the line, thick with rage, each word a hammer strike. It didn't feel like a father talking to his son,
it felt like a warden barking at a prisoner.
To Adarsh, Mihir wasn't flesh and blood; he was a duty, a checkbox on some ancestral ledger.Mihir's grip on the phone tightened, his voice dropping low and heavy.
"With my friends. What do you need?"
Adarsh's tone sharpened, venom dripping from every syllable.
"Baap se aise baat karte hai, chutiye?"
The insult wasn't new-it was a worn-out weapon in their endless war. Mihir's pulse thudded in his ears, but he'd heard it all before.
His father's temper was a storm he'd weathered since he could walk.Coldly, Mihir shot back,
"Kyun call kiya hai?"
No warmth, no give-just a wall of ice.
Then came the command, Adarsh's voice booming like a dictator's decree, daring defiance.
"Tere liye ek rishta dekha hai. Ladki surgeon hai aur achi hai. Usse mil le, ghar basa le. Aur haan, ab ye commando ki naukri chhod de. Kisi kaam ki nahi. Mera business join kar-aage tujhe hi sambhalna hai. Ye teri naukri bekaar hai. Iske chakkar mein zindagi kharab mat kar. Mai usse dinner pe bula rha hu aaj. And make sure you accept this proposal. Mujhse bura koi nahi hoga phir."
The line went dead before Mihir could even draw breath to respond. A one-sided verdict, as always.
Mihir stood frozen, the phone still pressed to his ear, his eyes blazing with fury. His father had ambushed him-fixed a marriage proposal without a word, without a shred of respect for his life.
He wanted to scream, to hurl the phone into the street and watch it shatter, but he swallowed it down.
Calmness was his armor, forged over years of this bullshit, though it frayed thin under Adarsh's assaults. His fingers twitched, itching to break something, anything.What burned hottest, though, was the disdain for his job. Commando.
To others, it sounded glamorous-heroic, even. But they didn't know the weight of it, the blood and sweat, the responsibility that anchored him.
It was more than a career-it was his soul, his outlet. The satisfaction of snapping an enemy's neck, of channeling his rage into protecting his motherland, was something Adarsh would never grasp. To him, it was
"bekaar"(useless trash).
Never once had he supported Mihir's dreams, only barked orders to chain him to the family business.
Mihir Verma wasn't just anyone. He was a man of steel, a commando who could face death and walk away grinning. Yet here he was, cornered by his own father's tyranny. Marriage?
He didn't want it-didn't need it. But meeting this girl, this surgeon, was a lesser evil than another shouting match with Adarsh. He'd play along, for now
He turned to his boys, their carefree chatter a stark contrast to the storm in his chest.
"I'll catch you guys tomorrow,"
he said, voice clipped. Without waiting for their questions, he strode off, boots hitting the pavement hard, heading to the his house~house which never became a home for Mihir.
Meeting this stranger-a woman he'd never seen, never imagined, but who now loomed like a shadow over his carefully guarded world.
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Thank you ,
Jerry
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