---
Somewhere underground.
Aarav woke to the sound of humming—low, mechanical, steady.
The ceiling above him flickered with pale, dying light. Cold metal touched his back. The smell of disinfectant mixed with rust and blood.
He tried to move.
Pain answered first.
His breath caught as a sharp throb tore through his right side. He looked down—
And stopped breathing.
His leg—gone.
In its place: a matte-black prosthetic. Rugged. Sharp. Brutal. More machine than limb. It didn't look like healing. It looked like a weapon.
His fingers brushed the surface. Cold. Real.
Footsteps echoed nearby. He turned his head.
Shubham stepped through the doorway.
Dust clung to his shoulders. His face was shadowed. Older. Scarred.
Still familiar.
"You're awake," he said quietly.
Aarav opened his mouth, throat dry. "I… feel like shit."
Shubham didn't smile. "Good. You're alive."
He approached, tapped the prosthetic with his knuckles.
"Military-grade. Reinforced carbon alloy. Took it off a dead operative two weeks ago."
Aarav blinked. "So it's… used?"
"It's survived two missions. You haven't survived one. Now it's yours."
"Gee. Thanks for the hand-me-down."
Shubham raised an eyebrow. "Better than dying."
Aarav exhaled, the edge of a grin tugging at his lip.
Then it faded.
"You were dead," he said. "Everyone thought so."
"I had to be," Shubham replied. "Deep cover. No contact. No backup. When the war started… I broke orders. Came home."
Aarav stared at the ceiling. "You were too late."
"I know."
The silence stretched.
"I told her to shut up," Aarav whispered. "Right before the blast. That's the last thing I said to her."
Shubham didn't speak. Just sat down beside the table.
Aarav's voice cracked. "I didn't mean it."
"I know."
Another silence. But this one… sat heavier.
"She loved you," Shubham said at last. "Even when you didn't speak. Even when you were a ghost in the house."
Aarav swallowed.
"I don't know who I am anymore," he said.
"Then become who you need to be."
Aarav turned to him. "How?"
Shubham stood.
"Get up."
---
Later — rooftop.
The city burned below.
From the edge of the crumbling rooftop, Aarav could see everything — fire twisting up from buildings, gunshots echoing like drums, black smoke threading through the orange dusk like veins.
He leaned on a rusted pipe for balance. His new leg felt wrong. Heavy. Unfamiliar.
Shubham stood beside him.
"Lesson one," he said. "Watch."
Below, three enemy soldiers stalked the street. One kicked down a door. Screams followed.
A blur dropped from the rooftop next door.
Shubham.
He landed in silence. Crushed the first man's windpipe with a single strike. The second didn't even scream — just dropped.
The third fired.
Missed.
Shubham was already there, twisting the man's arm behind his back, dropping him fast. Clean. No flair. No sound.
He dragged a family from inside the building — mother, father, child — into a nearby shelter. Then disappeared back into the shadows.
Aarav's heart thudded in his chest.
Minutes later, Shubham reappeared beside him, breath calm.
"That's what it looks like," he said. "Precision. Speed. Purpose."
Aarav stared. "You're not human."
"I'm trained. You will be too."
"I just got this leg, man."
"You just got another chance."
Aarav looked down at the metal. Then at the sky.
"Why me?"
Shubham didn't answer immediately.
"You carry her memory now," he said. "So carry it right."
Then he added, quieter:
> "We lost our mother. You don't get to lose yourself too."
Aarav nodded.
Not in anger. Not in tears.
Just… ready.
---
To Be Continued →