Prolouge

"Oh, Motherland, sacrifice for you is like life; living without you is death"

-Vinayak Damodar Savrakar

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[21st Century, Gwalior , Madhya Pradesh , Year:2042]

[ Pov: First Person ]

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Returning to your hometown is always an indescribable feeling—the anticipation during the journey and the familiarity of the place make you feel strangely happy, even if the only thing it reminds you of is the loss of the people you loved.

It had been almost a decade since I set foot on this land.

Even after the landscape had changed, with modernity visibly eating away at the historical architecture that once resided in the city, I felt no sense of estrangement.

Gwalior felt the same as when I left it.

The same old city where nothing of significance happens—a city of stagnation, a concrete jungle, the result of rapid urbanization.

One in thousands of such cities across India.

Sitting by the taxi window, I looked at the new buildings that passed by, reminiscing about the old times when my father used to bring me to the park that had now been replaced by a shopping complex.

I remembered the times when I used to visit the Gold Theatre with my mother, a building now serving as the office of some finance firm.

The city reminded me of the times when I still had people to care for in my life.

As my mind was filled with nostalgia, I missed the rest of the journey and only came to my senses when I noticed the taxi closing in on a very familiar road.

A giant hoarding at the beginning of the road bore the insignia of the DRDE and the Ministry of Defence, side by side.

The road was heavily guarded by multiple CRPF soldiers and advanced surveillance systems.

The taxi was stopped for inspection, as expected.

I opened my window and watched the guard approach.

"Please give your I.D., sir," he requested.

I handed him a sleek black card. It was devoid of any personal information, save for the bold, white letters that read "R&AW" alongside a single QR code.

The guard's expression shifted subtly as he scanned the code with a handheld device, recognizing the authority behind it.

"Sir, the card is valid," the guard said, lowering his gaze respectfully, "but the taxi isn't permitted to go any further. You'll have to proceed on foot."

I nodded without a word, slipping out of the taxi with a sense of calm familiarity. I grabbed my worn leather bag, slung it over my shoulder, and handed the driver a few crisp notes as payment. As the taxi turned around to leave, I started down the road, past the towering gates and under the watchful eyes of the CRPF soldiers and the ever-present surveillance cameras.

The road ahead, lined with trees that seemed older than the city itself, led to the sprawling complex of the Defence Research and Development Establishment (DRDE).

The sight of the familiar buildings brought back memories—some faint, some more vivid—but none stronger than the one of my former mentor, K.M. Khan.

As I approached the entrance of the DRDE, I noticed a figure waiting for me just beyond the security checkpoint.

K.M. Khan, now with a few more grey hairs and a little more added weight, was unmistakable. His presence still commanded respect, his eyes sharp and assessing as ever.

"Khan Saab," I greeted him, my voice holding the weight of years of separation and unspoken respect.

"Welcome back, kid," Khan replied, a hint of warmth in his tone that only those close to him would recognize. "Or should I call you 'sir' now, with your fancy new title?" His lips curved into a wry smile, but there was pride in his eyes.

I chuckled softly, shaking my head. "Still the same old Khan Saab even after a decade."

"Some things never change," Khan said, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "What brings you back here? I thought you'd be somewhere in the Himalayas, working on some top-secret project."

"Just a vacation, Khan Saab," I said lightly. "Needed a break from all that."

Khan nodded approvingly. "Good to hear. Everyone needs a break now and then. You've earned it."

As we walked through the corridors of the DRDE, Khan led the way with the ease of someone who had spent years in these halls.

We exchanged pleasantries, catching up on old times, the research projects I had left behind, and the changes in the department.

After some time, we reached Khan's office, a cluttered space filled with books, research papers, and various scientific instruments.

It was exactly as I remembered it—chaotic but comforting in its familiarity.

"So, what can I do for you, kid?" Khan asked, settling into his chair behind the desk. "You didn't come all the way here just to reminisce, did you?"

I hesitated for a moment before speaking. "There is one thing, Khan Saab. I was wondering if I could take a quick look through the digital archives. Off the books, of course."

Khan raised an eyebrow. "Archives? What are you looking for?"

"Just some old research files," I replied casually. "Nothing classified. I've been working on a personal project, and I think some of the data we collected back then might be useful."

Khan studied me for a moment, then nodded. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt. You always were one of the best researchers we had. But be careful, kid. You know how sensitive some of that data is."

"I'll be careful, Khan Saab," I assured him, a faint smile on my lips. "Just a quick look, that's all."

Khan leaned back in his chair, still watching me closely. "Alright. I'll get you access. But remember, you're here on vacation, so don't get too caught up in work, okay?"

"Understood," I replied, though I knew that my vacation was far from a typical one. There was something I needed to find, something buried in those archives that could change everything.

Khan handed me a keycard. "This will get you into the secure archives. Just don't let anyone catch you down there, or I'll have to write you up."

I took the keycard with a nod of gratitude. "Thanks, Khan Saab. I owe you one."

"Just take care of yourself," Khan said, waving me off. "And remember, I'll be here if you need anything."

With that, I left Khan's office, heading toward the secure archives.

---

The man reached the archive room, a labyrinth of interconnected CPUs and massive cooling systems.

The room buzzed with the low hum of machinery, but his expression remained impassive as he approached the large screen and its attached keyboard.

He moved with precision, pulling out a set of USB drives from his bag.

Plugging them into the ports, he began typing rapidly, his face a mask of calm as lines of code scrolled across the screen.

The computer resisted his efforts, each attempt to transfer data met with layers of security protocols.

He methodically bypassed each one, breaking down firewalls, disabling encryption, and overriding permissions.

The process was slow, the computer's defenses forcing him to stop and manually adjust, reprogram, and reinitiate the transfer at every turn.

His fingers never faltered. He navigated through the digital archive with practiced ease, locating the files labeled Project-I and others marked with single letters.

Each file required additional work to unlock, but he worked steadily, the same neutral expression on his face.

The transfer process was slow and tedious, the progress bar crawling forward as the files slowly moved to the USB drives.

He waited, making minor adjustments when necessary, his eyes never leaving the screen.

When the transfer was finally complete, he disconnected the drives, slipped them back into his bag, and shut down the system.

Without a backward glance, he turned and left the archive room, his face as unreadable as it had been when he entered.

---

As the man exited the archive room, he was greeted by Manoj, the cleaner who had been with the facility for years.

"Arrey, sir! It's been so long!" Manoj called out with enthusiasm, his smile wide and genuine.

The man responded in kind, his expression warm and welcoming, despite the lack of real emotion behind it. "Manoj, it's good to see you. How are your wife and kids? The oldest must be nearly grown by now."

Manoj beamed, delighted that the man remembered. "Ah, yes, sir! My oldest is 17 now, the middle boy is 15, and my little girl just turned 13. They're all doing well, thank you for asking."

The man nodded, his smile perfectly in place. "That's good to hear, Manoj. You must be proud of them."

"Proud, indeed, sir!" Manoj replied with a laugh. "They're growing up so fast, sometimes I can hardly believe it."

The man chuckled in response, his tone light. "Time flies, doesn't it? Make sure to enjoy every moment with them."

"I will, sir, I will," Manoj said, still smiling brightly. "It's really good to see you again."

"Likewise, Manoj. Take care, and give my best to your family," the man replied, patting Manoj on the shoulder.

Manoj nodded eagerly. "Of course, sir! Thank you!"

With a final smile, the man turned and continued down the corridor, his expression neutral once more as he left Manoj behind, the brief interaction already fading from his mind.

As the man turned to leave, Manoj hesitated for a moment before speaking up again. "Sir, if you don't mind me asking... are you back here again? It's been so long since we last saw you."

The man paused, turning back to face Manoj, his smile returning effortlessly. "Just visiting, Manoj. Needed a break and thought I'd stop by the old place."

Manoj nodded, his curiosity satisfied. "It's good to have you back, even if it's just for a while. This place isn't the same without you."

The man gave a small, appreciative nod. "Thank you, Manoj. It's good to see familiar faces. Take care of yourself."

With that, the man continued down the corridor, his expression slipping back to its usual neutrality as he walked away, leaving Manoj to return to his work.

---

The man arrived at the rundown family house just as the sun was setting, casting long shadows across the neglected property.

The once-proud home now stood in disrepair, with broken windows, peeling paint, and a yard overrun with weeds.

Inside, the air was thick with dust, and the faint scurrying of rats and spiders echoed through the empty rooms.

None of this phased him.

His expression remained neutral as he moved through the house, navigating the debris with practiced indifference.

His steps were purposeful, heading directly toward the basement, but he paused as his eyes fell upon a shelf in the living room.

A thick layer of dust covered a bronze medal hanging from a tarnished ribbon, next to an old rifle.

His brother's Olympic bronze medal—a symbol of achievement and pride, now forgotten and neglected.

His brother had been a shooter, an Olympian who had once brought glory to the family.

The man stood still for a moment, staring at the medal and the rifle, memories flashing briefly in his mind.

He tsked, his gaze shifting to the photographs scattered across the walls and shelves, images of his family now long gone.

They stared back at him from behind cracked glass and faded frames.

His face hardened as he turned away, continuing his journey to the basement.

Reaching the basement door, he paused only briefly, his hand resting on the worn doorknob.

The basement, unlike the rest of the house, was surprisingly clean, almost pristine.

He stepped inside, flipping a switch to bring the room to life.

A large, closed computer sat in the corner, its bulky frame humming to life as he powered it on.

The lights flickered on, illuminating the cold, sterile environment.

His eyes flicked briefly to the bier he had purchased when his mother died, still unused.

He had intended to give her a traditional send-off, but in the end, had opted for an electrical cremation, as advised by the doctors.

The unused bier stood as a silent reminder of that decision.

Without further hesitation, he pulled out the USB drives from his bag and connected them to the computer.

The screen flickered, displaying lines of code as the data began to upload.

He pulled out his phone and sent a single SMS to five contacts: "I will find peace soon."

The message was cryptic, its meaning known only to those who received it.

With the computer running, he left the basement and exited the house, locking the door behind him.

The night had fully descended as he made his way to the Gwalior Fort, a place he had visited many times in his youth.

The fort loomed in the distance, its ancient walls bathed in the pale glow of the moon.

Before heading up to the fort, he made a stop at the Gurudwara on the same hill.

It was established where Guru Hargobind Singh had once been imprisoned by Jahangir.

The man's uncle, a devout Sikh, had brought him here often as a child.

The memories were faint but familiar, etched into the recesses of his mind.

The Gurudwara was quiet, the hallways nearly empty as he made his way to the Langar hall.

The warmth of the place contrasted with the cold night outside, and he felt a faint sense of comfort as he sat down to eat.

The simple meal brought back memories of a simpler time, though he noticed two figures in the otherwise empty hall, their eyes fixed on him with barely concealed intent.

He finished his meal calmly, aware of the attention but unbothered by it.

Afterward, he made his way out of the Gurudwara, his footsteps echoing in the quiet night.

The figures followed him as he left, trailing him.

He had been aware of them since he stepped foot at the airport, but he had managed to lose them before he reached his house.

Now, they had picked up his trail again once he entered the city center.

His face remained impassive as he walked through the darkened streets, the ancient fort looming above, silently watching the events unfold.

The man reached a secluded area at the edge of the Gwalior Fort walls as the sun dipped below the horizon.

The darkness wrapped around him, a fitting cloak for the end he knew was approaching.

He called out into the night, his voice steady and commanding.

"Come out."

The two figures emerged from the shadows, now clad in advanced suits made from metal threads.

They held guns at the ready, their faces obscured by sleek helmets.

They approached him with silent precision, their intent clear.

"So the higher-ups have finally decided to put a stop to my story, huh?" The man's voice was calm, almost resigned, but there was a hint of a smile on his lips.

The two operatives nodded and took aim, preparing to end his life.

But before they could fire, another figure stepped forward from the darkness.

A female officer, dressed in a similar tactical suit, approached with an air of authority.

Her presence was commanding, her eyes focused on the man.

"Before you die, you should know just how extensively we're greatful for your service" she began, her voice cold and detached. "From assassinating the Chinese president to establishing puppet nations, your work has been remarkable."

She continued recounting his actions with a clinical detachment, listing his achievements and the chaos he had sown.

The man listened, his expression a mask of calm as she spoke.

"But there's one thing we couldn't overlook," she said, her tone sharpening. "You were never one to submit to us —the politicians, the bureaucrats, the very government that enabled your rise. "

"The government doesn't know how or when, but they are aware that you plan to dismantle the Indian political system and replace it with something else."

Her voice grew even more critical. "It was our mistake to let you influence countless young officers. We realized too late."

The man climbed the wall of the fort, standing on the edge, his figure silhouetted against the darkening sky.

He spread his arms wide, his posture defiant.

"I'm but a catalyst," he declared, his voice echoing in the night. "Killing me won't stop what I have started."

The night was suddenly split by the sound of gunshots.

Two bullets found their mark, piercing through his head cleanly.

He fell from the height of the fort wall, but despite the impact, he did not die immediately.

His enhanced body, the result of countless experiments, stubbornly clung to life, though it was slowly shutting down.

Lying on the cold ground, his vision began to blur. The man gazed up at the Gopachal rock-cut Jain statues , his thoughts turning inward.

His eyes wandered toward the heavens, and in his final moments, he turned to the divine.

"Ah, God," he whispered, his voice weak and trembling.

He had abandoned his faith long ago, believing he was beyond redemption.

He had stopped praying, stopped going to temples, once he had stained his hands with blood. His devout self had lost the courage to face the divine.

Now, as he faced his end, he felt a surge of fear and regret.

He called out to Brahma, Vishnu, and Mahesh, the gods he had long forsaken. "Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh," he murmured, his voice filled with desperation. "Forgive me for the suffering I've caused. I am afraid. I am afraid of the suffering that comes after this."

His mind raced through the memories of the MPs he had killed, the politicians whose lives he had ended, the countless people who had suffered because of him.

He had become an agent of death, stripping himself of any remaining morality as he carried out his missions with ruthless efficiency.

As his body began to give out, the man clung desperately to the remnants of his humanity.

He thought of the countless lives he had taken, the pain he had inflicted, and the morality he had shed.

The political system he had set out to destroy would continue its descent, whether he lived or died.

But in these final moments, he was not thinking of his legacy or his cause. Instead, he was gripped by the dread of what lay beyond. The enormity of his actions and the weight of his sins bore down on him, and he found himself pleading for mercy, even though he believed he did not deserve it.

His vision faded, his breaths becoming shallower.

The night sky above offered no comfort, no absolution.

The stars looked on impassively as he took his final breath, his pleas for forgiveness swallowed by the vast, indifferent expanse of the universe.

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