Chapter 7: Reporting in Delhi
25th August 1970
After two grueling years behind enemy lines, Vikram finally stepped onto Indian soil.
His boots touched ground just past the last security barrier along the border, hidden beneath the hushed cover of dawn. No parades. No ceremony. Just the quiet crunch of gravel and the muddled scent of dew, earth, and silence.
Over the next two days, he moved carefully, first on foot, then by bus, finally by a rented jeep. When he crossed into Delhi, the city's pulse greeted him as if time had stood still. Honking rickshaws, chai stalls steaming in morning light, mothers bargaining in markets, the scent of parathas in the old lanes—things too ordinary to appear in spy reports, but more comforting than any intel ever could be.
Now, he stood in front of a non-descript three-story building in central Delhi. A concrete structure with peeling beige paint, rusted name boards, and a faded sign that read: "Dalmia & Sons: Security Consultancy Services."
Anyone passing by would dismiss it as a dusty, underfunded private firm.
But Vikram knew better.
This building wasn't what it seemed. Hidden beneath its drab civilian disguise was one of the Research and Analysis Wing's most secure command nodes.
He stared at it for a moment. A wave of quiet nostalgia crept over him.
This was the first time in two years that he would step foot into a RAW office—not as a ghost feeding messages across borders, not as a disappearing shadow, but as himself, alive, returning.
Before he entered, Vikram paused just outside the gate and triggered his internal check.
System Status – Vikram Singh
Host: Vikram Singh
Age: 23 (active) / 89 (total lifespan)
Occupation: RAW Spy
Skills:
- Spying: Level 5 (Max) – Clear vision and hearing up to 1 km
- Stealth: Level 5 (Max) – Invisible in darkness, unnoticeable even within 2 meters in daylight for 30 minutes
- Combat: Level 5 (Max) – Capable of defeating 1,000 close combatants with stabilized stamina
- Weapons Mastery: Level 5 (Max) – Guns, rifles, snipers
- Cold Weapon Mastery: Level 5 (Max) – Knives, spears, swords, sticks
- Gamer Body / Gamer Mind: Max – Peak strength, emotional control, and mental clarity
- Face Change / Voice Change / Memory Reader: All Max – Instantaneous disguise and memory extraction
- Running: Level 5 – Max speed: 80 km/h
- Swimming: Level 4 – Max speed: 45 km/h
- Persuasion: Level 4 – Sharp intuition, emotional influence
- Gamer Points: 20,000 G.P.
His arsenal was complete. His body a refined weapon. His mind, fire-hardened. His disguise held perfectly—clean-shaven, formal slacks, leather bag slung over one shoulder.
He stepped forward.
The building's shaded entry porch led to a small reception office. Behind the wooden desk, a man in yawning conversation with another guard barely lifted his eyes before stiffening. Recognition sparked behind trained calm.
No words passed. Vikram gave a slight nod. The guard gestured once, discreetly, and the reinforced door behind him unlocked with a loud mechanical click.
Inside, the building changed.
Behind beige walls were corridors layered with reinforced glass. Agents in civilian clothing strode by with guns tucked just out of sight. This was deep RAW territory—protected, unannounced, untouched.
Vikram followed the familiar route. Down the hallway, past an elevator never listed on the building plans. No alarms. No lags.
He reached an unmarked grey door. Knocked twice. Then once more. A pause.
A voice finally called, "Come in."
He entered.
The office was minimalist—iron shelves stacked with sealed folders, a large fan turning slowly above a walnut desk. Behind it sat a man dressed in plain khaki formals, sleeves folded, brow knit in concentration. Abhishek Tripathi. RAW field director. The man who had first recruited him into the shadows.
Tripathi looked up. For a second—just a second—his face softened with emotion.
"Jai Hind, Sir," Vikram said, planting his heels and snapping into attention.
Tripathi rose and returned the greeting with quiet pride. "Vikram. You're a legend in this office now, you know that?"
Wordlessly, Tripathi gestured to the chair opposite his desk.
Vikram sat, posture perfect but relaxed now—eyes sharp.
"You've made India proud," Tripathi continued. "We've been receiving whispers of your progress for months, but what you did in the last few weeks…" He shook his head. "You dismantled their operations across PoK. Destroyed key terror safehouses. And Sargodha…" He leaned back. "Pakistan doesn't even know how to explain it."
"All in the line of service, sir," Vikram replied calmly. "Everything for Bharat Mata."
Tripathi gave a rare smile, then slid a thick dossier aside and pulled a small folded slip from his drawer. He set it down gently, tapping a finger on its corner.
"This is your next briefing. But you've earned rest first. Two months. Go home. Recalibrate. We'll activate you when needed."
Vikram picked up the slip, read it silently:
"Mission: Infiltrate East Pakistan (now Bangladesh). Gather intel on military actions and domestic unrest. Classification: Top Secret. Timeline: Flexible. Report via secure channel only."
He didn't blink. Instead, he reached into his coat and clicked open a small brass lighter. Without urgency, he lit the paper's edge. The flame crept up as it curled into glowing ash that fluttered to Tripathi's desk.
"I appreciate the trust, sir," he said. "Thank you."
Tripathi gave him a firm nod. "You've earned it, Vikram. Be proud."
Vikram saluted, stood, and exited.
Outside RAW HQ, the sun was slowly dipping below Delhi's skyline. Dust drifted in golden rays, roadside vendors called out from leaf-shaded stalls, and honking autos returned him to the rhythm of normal life.
Yet something about the air stung his lungs. The smell of home—familiar and bitter. It reminded him that his war wasn't over.
Return to Gorakhpur
Vikram boarded an overnight bus from Delhi's Anand Vihar depot. His destination: Gorakhpur, eastern Uttar Pradesh. His homeland.
Gorakhpur greeted him not with welcome signs, but the same grim chaos he'd always known—the narrow roads full of potholes, the calls of street hawkers, and the underlying hum of corruption and fear that had plagued the region for decades.
He passed the bridge where he once fished as a boy. Saw the sprawling mango orchard that had been swallowed up by concrete. Somewhere, he imagined his mother hanging clothes outside their tin-roofed house, voice singing softly. His father's stride coming home from police duty. But all that was long gone.
In his two years away, nothing had changed.
The land mafia still ruled the villages as if crowns sat on their heads. Political strongmen walked untouched by law. Deals were made in temple courtyards while farmers lost land passed down generations.
Vikram had followed the news. He had kept tabs even from across the border. And now, standing here—no longer the boy who left—he made a quiet decision.
No flags. No headlines. No medals.
He would dismantle them.
With the skills he had now, he could eliminate two hundred—no, three hundred criminals—without detection. Not for glory. Not for vengeance.
But for justice.
One village. One gang. One family at a time.
And he would never be seen doing it.
That night, from the window of the darkened sleeper bus, Vikram stared quietly into the hills. The moonlit fields of eastern U.P. rolled past, hushed and endless. His face was unreadable.
But for the first time in years, he allowed himself a small, unguarded smile.
He was home.
And somewhere in the darkness, justice was coming.
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