The beeping of the monitor was steady—alive.
Ankita opened her eyes for the first time in years, breath shallow but returning. The nurse pressed the emergency button, and within seconds, the room stirred with tension. The attending physician whispered something into the intercom as Ankita's lips trembled, attempting to form a name: "Bhumi…"
Elsewhere, amidst the rising dawn, the woman known to the world only as Mrityu—Death—stood still. Her real name, Chhayika Mishra, was a secret few knew and fewer dared to utter. The call from the hospital had reached her thirty minutes ago, while she was sitting on the rooftop of a nondescript safehouse in Patna, watching the sun break the sky like a prophecy.
The silence that followed the call wasn't relief—it was a quiet storm, one she couldn't show on her face. Ankita had woken up. Bhumi's mother. And with that, the clock had begun to tick.
She wasn't afraid of death, of bullets, of betrayal—but she was terrified of something far more human. Letting go.
Her satellite phone buzzed again.
Encrypted Message: SARVANASH ACTIVATED. Report to Site Delta-9. Mission Brief On Arrival. —G
She didn't need to check the sender. G. Only one man signed his letters like that—Giriraj Singh Pradhan. Her long-time ally, her silent war companion, her shadow and sometimes, her chain.
The mission was codenamed Sarvanash. Hindi for "total destruction." But it wasn't just about ending something—it was about cleaning a mess no one else dared to touch.
Somewhere near the Indo-Nepal border
Within 18 hours, Chhayika arrived on site. Disguised as a local NGO worker, she passed through layers of insurgent-controlled territory to reach the forgotten village of Jogitola.
Officially, the mission was simple:
Infiltrate the militant network operating along the border.
Extract Kabir Mehta, a RAW deep-cover agent who had gone silent two weeks ago.
Identify and eliminate a rogue arms dealer known only by the name "Matsya", who was selling military-grade weapons to extremist factions across South Asia.
Unofficially—it was a ghost hunt.
The camp was buried beneath layers of forged identities, false trails, and whispers of betrayal. Local children played with deactivated grenades. Women spoke in riddles, hiding more than they said. Every eye was a question. Every silence, a trap.
But Chhayika was not new to shadows. She was the shadow.
Disguised, alert, and always two steps ahead, she spent three nights gathering intel. An old tea vendor finally gave her the slip she needed—"Matsya" was expected at a hidden checkpoint near the river. The man she was to eliminate was no ordinary criminal; he was ex-intelligence himself, a ghost who had once trained under the same institution that raised her.
The operation was supposed to be surgical. But on the second day, her safehouse was compromised. She had to kill three armed men in silence and drag their bodies into the nearby sugarcane fields. By daybreak, she had buried the evidence and moved headquarters.
Then came the message.
"We've found Kabir. He's alive. But Matsya has taken him deep across the river. No backup. You're on your own."
There was no signature. But there was an attachment—Giriraj's voice, encoded.
"You always wanted to disappear into fire, Chhaya. Here's your chance to walk through it. Return only when the blaze is done."
Three Weeks Later
Kabir was rescued. Matsya was dead. The militants scattered like dry leaves in a summer storm.
She stood on the bank of the Rapti river, blood caked on her arms, her disguise long gone. Her eyes were darker now, holding something colder than before.
And then she got the message that burned more than any bullet.
"Your presence is required at Rajgriha Estate, Patna. The engagement ceremony is in three days. You promised your attendance." —G
Her fingers trembled slightly as she read it. Not because she was afraid. But because this time—he had won. Not through power, but through patience. Manipulation wrapped in concern. Politics dressed as love.
She looked at the smoldering remains of Matsya's bunker and whispered,
"ये जंग थी। आपने जीता। सिर्फ इस बार।"
(This war—you won. Just this once.)
But wars never end, do they?