Old Secrets Never Die
The dimly lit archives of the Indian Intelligence Bureau smelled of aged paper, secrecy, and dust-laden conspiracies. Vikram scrolled through decades-old files, his pulse racing. The words on the yellowed paper in front of him made no sense—but they also made too much sense.
"Operation Lazarus: National Threat Level – Omega. Subject: S.C. Bose. Status: Classified."
His fingers trembled as he flipped the next page. A photograph slipped out. It was an old black-and-white image… of Subhas Chandra Bose. But it wasn't the familiar one from history books. This one was dated 1983.
Vikram's breath caught in his throat. 1983?
Subhas Chandra Bose should have been dead in1945.
But the caption below the photograph read:
"Taken in Murmansk, Soviet Union. Location: Secure."
His mind reeled. How was this possible? Had the leader of the Indian freedom movement never died in the alleged 1945 plane crash? If so, why was this truth buried deeper than nuclear secrets?
Then he saw the next page, stamped in bold red ink:
"EYES ONLY: If this leaks, the nation as we know it… will collapse."
His instincts screamed danger. But it was already too late.
A shadow moved behind him.
A click.
A gun cocked.
And before Vikram could react, the entire room went dark.
___________________________________________________________________
The Silent Assassin
The silence was suffocating. Vikram's heartbeat hammered in his ears. Someone was here. Someone who knew he had read too much.
Suddenly—a hand clamped over his mouth.
Vikram's military training kicked in. He whipped around, throwing his elbow into the attacker's ribs. The figure staggered, but recovered instantly. The fight was brutal—silent, calculated, deadly.
The intruder was trained.
A blade slashed through the air, missing Vikram's throat by an inch. He spun, grabbed a metal file from the table, and slammed it into the attacker's wrist. The knife clattered to the floor.
"Who sent you?" Vikram growled.
No answer. Just a cold, merciless gaze.
Then—the fire alarm blared.
The assassin reacted first—grabbing a pen from Vikram's pocket and stabbing it into his shoulder. White-hot pain exploded.
By the time Vikram recovered, the figure had vanished into the shadows.
But something was wrong. The alarm wasn't just noise—it was an alert.
Somebody had triggered a lockdown.
The Escape
Red warning lights flashed across the entire intelligence bureau building. Guards ran in all directions, guns drawn. Vikram had minutes before he was caught—and labeled a traitor for knowing the truth.
He shoved the classified files inside his jacket and darted toward the service exit.
"I need a way out. Now." He tapped his earpiece.
Aryan's voice crackled through. "Vikram, what the hell did you do? Your ID is flagged as an internal threat. I can't get you out!"
"Just buy me time!"
Vikram sprinted down the corridor, ducking past security cameras. Two armed guards turned the corner.
No choice.
He grabbed a fire extinguisher from the wall and hurled it at the first guard, knocking him out cold. The second raised his weapon—Vikram was faster. He swept the guard's legs out from under him, grabbed his gun, and slammed the butt against him.
Two down. Butthe whole damn building was hunting him.
The exit was twenty meters away when—
A bullet whizzed past his ear.
Snipers.
Vikram dove into a janitor's closet just in time. He had seconds before they pinpointed his location. His only chance was to use the oldventilationshafts.
He climbed inside, crawling through the metal tunnel like a trapped rat. Every muscle in his body tensed.
Then, in the distance—he heard voices.
And one chilling sentence stopped him cold:
"Initiate Project Red Sun. Bose's legacy must remain buried."
Vikram's blood ran ice cold.
What the hell was Project Red Sun?
And how was it connected to Subhas Chandra Bose's disappearance?
The Hidden Cipher
Vikram emerged in a secluded alleyway, his pulse pounding. He pressed his earpiece.
"Aryan. I need an immediate escape."
"No. You need to disappear," Aryan's voice was dead serious. "You just became India's most wanted man."
Vikram checked his phone. News notifications flooded the screen.
"BREAKING: Indian Intelligence Officer Vikram Roy Accused of Treason."
His stomach twisted. The government had already framed him.
But why?
He looked at the file in his hands. The final page contained a handwritten code—a cipher (a secret writing), scribbled in old Bengali script.
There was only one person who could decode it.
And she was someone he had vowed never to see again.
---
Meanwhile… in Moscow
A man in his eighties, dressed in an old Soviet military coat, stood by the Kremlin's window. His eyes, deep and calculating, gazed at the winter skyline.
A younger man approached. "Sir, he has the file."
The old man didn't turn. He merely nodded.
"Then we follow protocol."
The younger officer hesitated. "But… if he reveals the truth, the entire nation—"
The old man's voice was calm, emotionless, final.
"Then India will burn."
And with that, he walked away—leaving only the whisper of history's darkest secret lingering in the air.