A man lay stretched across a bed in a darkened room.
The phone rang.
Without sitting up, he answered.
"So you're telling me someone broke into Arvind's house and kidnapped him?"
A brief pause.
"How many of them were there?"
On the other end of the call, a voice replied—hesitant, trembling.
"He… he was alone, sir."
The man's expression twisted instantly. Rage erupted.
"Then it's him," he snarled.
"The same one who put Khalid to death."
He clenched the phone tighter.
"Send me anything you have. A photo. A video clip. Anything."
The reply came after a pause.
"Sir… we couldn't get a clear recording. He was too fast. The cameras couldn't capture him properly."
The man hurled the phone straight into the wall.
It shattered.
"So," he said coldly,
"you've finally arrived."
This was Faris Al-Haq—
the boss of the Amritsar terrorist network.
A man who had burned cities in anger
and toppled governments in silence.
Khalid Raza had only been a commander under him—
a disposable piece on the board.
Khalid ran operations.
Faris dismantled systems.
Border routes.
Police chains.
Political silence.
Everything moved through his hands.
When people heard his name, they didn't run.
They disappeared.
He stared out the window toward Amritsar, his jaw tightening.
"It's him," he said.
"The one who killed Khalid… and now he's come this far."
There was no fear in his voice.
No surprise.
Only one thing—
A hunger for war.
People believed Faris Al-Haq was just an angry man.
The truth was—
anger was only the surface.
Years ago, on the outskirts of Amritsar, an entire village vanished overnight.
No bodies.
No reports.
No FIRs.
Only one thing was recorded.
The next morning, standing on that land, was a brand-new warehouse.
Locals said no gunshots were heard that night.
No screams were recorded.
People simply walked out of their homes—
and never returned.
Government files listed it as:
"Relocation due to security reasons."
The underground world knew better.
That was Faris's signature.
He never showed how dangerous he was.
He simply made people
forget how to exist.
---
Greenfield Farmhouse
Morning
The city's morning light faded before it could reach this place.
The sun had risen, yet despite the daylight, there was an unnatural coldness in the air.
Open fields stretched in every direction—
green crops forming the illusion of peace.
But the air still carried a suffocating weight,
as if something beneath the soil was alive.
Rohan had arrived.
Ahead of him stood a massive iron gate.
Black.
Thick.
Wrapped in barbed wire—
not built to keep people out,
but to keep something trapped inside.
Rotating CCTV cameras were mounted on both pillars.
Even in daylight, their red indicators blinked steadily, tracking every movement.
One camera swept left.
Another to the right.
A third fixed directly on the gate.
Beyond it stood the farmhouse.
From the outside, it looked ordinary.
White walls.
Green fencing.
A patch of land pretending to be farmland.
But the lighting was wrong.
Too clean.
Too controlled.
This place wasn't built for farming.
It was built to erase records.
This wasn't a normal farmhouse.
It was a secured zone.
Entry here didn't depend on time—
it depended on permission.
Rohan surveyed the area once.
Cameras.
Gate.
Walls.
There was no hesitation on his face.
Only a cold thought—
This is it.
And then he stepped forward.
As if, even in broad daylight,
the cameras had failed to recognize him.
---
Rohan continued walking.
A voice suddenly echoed from the speaker near the gate.
"Hey, kid."
"This isn't a playground."
"Leave immediately."
Rohan stopped.
For a moment—
complete silence.
Then he slowly looked up at the camera.
On the other side of the screen, the man froze.
Yes—
the face looked young.
Almost like a child's.
But there was something in that gaze
his mind couldn't process.
As if something from the depths of hell
was staring directly into his soul.
A chill ran down his spine.
And then—
DOOOONG!
A thunderous sound rang out,
like a massive bell struck with full force.
The man's attention snapped to the gate.
Rohan's first punch had landed on the iron.
A clear dent had formed.
His eyes widened.
Second punch.
Third.
Fourth.
With every blow, the metal screamed, echoing across the fields.
And then—
CRASH!
The massive gate collapsed inward.
The man didn't even scream.
His legs gave way.
He collapsed unconscious from sheer terror.
As the gate fell, alarms erupted inside the farmhouse.
Red lights spun wildly.
Chaos exploded across the compound.
"INTRUSION!"
"INTRUSION!"
And through it all—
Rohan walked forward calmly.
As if the alarms were nothing more than background noise.
Several men rushed forward, blocking his path.
Large guns raised.
Fingers tight on triggers.
Fear and rage burning in their eyes.
Rohan looked at them.
"Where is your leader?"
One man stepped forward, arrogance in his voice.
"You're not worthy of our leader's attention."
Rohan lowered his head slightly.
"Tell me one thing," he said calmly.
"Was it you who attacked the college?"
The man hesitated, then replied—
"What are you talking about?
We received no such order."
A flicker of disappointment crossed Rohan's face.
As if he had received the wrong answer.
His gaze dropped to the ground.
A sword lay there.
Rohan picked it up.
Light slid across the blade.
Then he spoke—
"Maybe it wasn't you."
A brief pause.
"But cleansing India…"
"that's still necessary."
The sword rose slowly.
And the air itself
filled with the presence of death.