It was exactly 2:30 PM when the train finally came to a halt.

  The brakes screamed against the tracks, a long metallic screech tearing through the station.

  The vibration travelled through the floor, into the steel pillars—and finally into their bones.

  Then the doors opened.

  One by one, they stepped out.

  Delhi did not welcome them in the way it should.

  The station was nothing like Lucknow.

  The floor beneath their feet was laid with polished marble tiles, so clean they reflected light.

  There were no vendors yelling, no people sprinting for exits.

  Everyone moved calmly, decisively, like pieces already placed on a board.

  Above them, massive digital boards flashed arrivals and departures in sharp, bright fonts.

  The announcer’s voice echoed softly— almost comforting— as it announced the arrival of the Gomti Express.

  Rishabh was the first to step onto the platform.

  The moment his foot touched the ground, his eyes lifted—not wandering, not curious, but alert. They scanned instinctively, counting exits, distances, blind spots.

  And then they stopped.

  A CCTV camera.

  Mounted directly above them.

  It stared down without blinking.

  For a brief second, Rishabh felt as if it wasn’t just recording—but observing.

  He stared back, his jaw tightening, his mind already mapping angles and coverage.

  “Rishabh—?”

  Vivek’s voice snapped him out of it.

  Vivek stumbled out next, struggling under the weight of multiple bags.

  He shifted them clumsily, almost losing balance, muttering under his breath.

  The strain on his face contrasted sharply with the station’s effortless calm.

  Kritika followed, slowing her steps unconsciously.

  Her eyes moved upward, across the ceiling, the boards, the people.

  Everything felt bigger— cleaner, distant.

  Farhan stepped out after her, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed.

  He looked around with quiet interest, the trace of a smile— as if this were just another city.

  Yug came out last.

  He held the bag of money tightly against his side.

  His gaze didn’t wander.

  His focus stayed straight ahead, locked on something only he could see.

  Delhi meant nothing to him.

  Only Tarun did.

  All of them reached the exit door together— and it didn’t open.

  They slowed, confused, standing before a wide glass barrier that reflected their own faces back at them.

  Then Kritika’s eyes moved quickly, scanning the frame, and she pointed at the small tablet fixed beside the door.

  “Scan,” she muttered.

  Understanding passed between them without much words.

  Vivek went first, nervously pressing his ticket against the screen— once, twice.

  The door beeped— red.

  His ears burned slightly as he tried again, this time the wrong side, then the right.

  It was only when Rishabh leaned in and adjusted the angle that the screen beeped softly— green.

  The glass slid open.

  And the moment they stepped outside, it felt like they had crossed into an entirely different world.

  This wasn’t the Delhi they had imagined.

  The roads were wide, stretching cleanly in both directions.

  Vehicles moved with eerie discipline— no honking, no sudden brakes, no chaos.

  The group slowed without realizing it.

  Their eyes kept drifting upward.

  BLC was everywhere.

  Billboards towered above them.

  Posters lined shopfronts.

  The logo was painted behind autorickshaws, plastered on buses, stamped onto digital screens outside the station.

  And on the largest billboard of them all, looming over the road like a silent judge, was Vikrant Chauhan’s face.

  Yug stopped walking.

  His furious gaze locked onto the billboard.

  For a moment, everything else blurred—the traffic, even his friends.

  There was only that face, staring back down at him, owning the city.

  And just when they began crossing the road— a sudden rev of an engine snapped them out of it, blocking their path.

  A bike cut across their path, forcing them to stop. The rider steadied the vehicle with one foot on the ground.

  He wore sunglasses, his hair slightly long, beard neatly trimmed. A suit and tie hugged his frame— and stamped clearly on the bike was the BLC logo.

  Before any of them could react, the road ahead shifted.

  Cars began moving in formation.

  SUVs rolled in from either side, smooth and synchronized, and at the center of it all was a black Mercedes, gliding forward like royalty.

  Every vehicle bore the same insignia— BLC.

  For those few seconds, it felt as if the rest of the city had vanished.

  Traffic paused. Pedestrians waited.

  Sound itself seemed to dip, bowing as the convoy passed.

  Then, just as suddenly, it was over.

  The road resumed. The noise returned.

  The biker glanced at their stunned faces and chuckled softly.

  “That’s BLC for you, kiddos,” he said, before pulling away and disappearing into the flow of traffic.

  The four began crossing the road in silence, each still processing what they had just seen.

  “We’ll enter tomorrow,” Rishabh finally said.

  Even hearing it made Vivek swallow hard.

  No one replied.

  They walked a few more steps before Farhan broke away slightly, adjusting the strap of his bag. “I gotta go,” he said casually. “Got some work to do.”

  Kritika looked at him, suspicion flickering briefly in her eyes, but she said nothing.

  “I’ll be there tomorrow,” Farhan added, turning back. “With the ambulance… and the suit.”

  Yug met his gaze, steady and unblinking.

  “Just be on time.”

  ——————————————

  The room was dark again.

  Not abandoned—claimed by the Eternal Order.

  The broken tube light near the ceiling flickered faintly, more out of habit than function, throwing uneven shadows across the cracked walls.

  This place had long stopped being just another classroom in Silver Oak Academy.

  Now, it was territory.

  Everyone knew it.

  No one said it out loud.

  At the center of the room, Vijay Chauhan sat on a chair like a throne.

  He leaned back casually, arms spread wide across the chair’s edges, fingers loose, unbothered.

  A cigarette rested upright between his lips, untouched, the ash growing longer by the second.

  Smoke curled upward in slow spirals, merging with the darkness above him like it belonged there.

  He looked bored.

  And that somehow made the room more dangerous.

  The door creaked open.

  “V–Vijay…”

  Manav stepped inside.

  The sound of his shoes echoed louder than it should have. He shut the door behind him gently, as if loud noises weren’t allowed in this space.

  His eyes flicked instinctively to Vijay— then away— then back again.

  Vijay didn’t move.

  The cigarette remained steady.

  The smoke kept rising.

  Only then did his head tilt slightly to the side— deliberate.

  His eyes shifted first—cold, sharp—landing on Manav. They didn’t ask a question.

  They didn’t need to. They commanded.

  Manav swallowed.

  “Yug’s absent,” he said quickly. “And… all his friends too.”

  For a moment, nothing happened.

  Then Vijay let out a soft breath through his nose. Not a laugh. Not quite.

  Amused.

  His lips barely moved as he muttered, almost to himself, “Hmm…”

  The cigarette finally dipped as he spoke again, voice low. “What’s that brat up to now?”

  Manav took another step forward, the darkness pressing in on him from all sides.

  He hesitated, fingers fidgeting, shoulders tight. The silence stretched just long enough to make his chest feel heavy.

  “Umm…” he began, forcing the words out. “Are you… still thinking about when he came—”

  RINGGG!

  Vijay's phone buzzed.

  Sharp. Sudden.

  Manav froze mid-sentence.

  Vijay’s eyes shifted downward slowly as he pulled the phone from his pocket.

  The screen lit his face faintly, carving out his features— calm eyes, an expression that never rushed.

  'UNKNOWN NUMBER''

  The room fell into absolute silence.

  Even the flickering tube light seemed to hesitate.

  Vijay lifted the phone to his ear.

  He didn’t speak.

  Seconds passed.

  Manav could hear his own breathing now.

  Whatever was being said on the other end wasn’t loud— but it didn’t need to be.

  Vijay’s expression changed almost imperceptibly.

  His jaw tightened just a fraction. The cigarette was finally removed from his lips, smoke spilling out as he exhaled slowly.

  Then—

  A smile.

  Not wide.

  Not friendly.

  The kind that meant something had just gone very, very interesting.

  Vijay leaned forward slightly, resting his elbow on his knee, voice smooth and unmistakably calm.

  “Who else could it be…”

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  A pause.

  “…Tarun Singh.”

  ——————————————

  The BLC office was quiet, almost suffocating in its elegance.

  Charts of stocks and company data scrolled across multiple screens, green numbers climbing steadily.

  Vikrant Chauhan leaned back in his chair, a cigarette held between fingers as he tapped the desk in time with his own thoughts.

  Smoke coiled lazily toward the ceiling, curling like a phantom around his head.

  He studied the screens, his sharp eyes catching every rise, every fall, calculating, always calculating.

  The door creaked open.

  Tarun Singh stepped in. Face blank. Expression unreadable.

  He didn’t nod. He didn’t smile. He just entered.

  Vikrant’s eyes flickered. A faint smile tugged at his lips.

  “Who else could it be… Tarun Singh,” he said softly, almost to himself.

  He removed the cigarette from his fingers and ground it into the crystal ashtray.

  The faint scent of smoke lingered, mixing with the sterility of the office.

  Tarun remained motionless, the silence stretching in the room.

  Vikrant studied him for a bit longer, then reached into his drawer, sliding it open with deliberate precision.

  He pulled out a small silver badge, smooth and gleaming under the light, with a simple, proud letter ‘A’.

  He gestured to the chair opposite his desk.

  “Sit,” Vikrant commanded softly.

  Tarun obeyed, his movements careful, deliberate, almost robotic.

  “And… how does your first day feel?”

  Vikrant asked, leaning forward, resting his elbows on the polished surface.

  Tarun didn’t answer. His eyes stayed locked on Vikrant, blank, unwavering.

  Vikrant’s fingers tightened on the edge of the desk. He removed his glasses, setting them down slowly.

  His smile disappeared. His gaze sharpened, cutting like steel.

  “Good?” Vikrant pressed.

  Tarun’s voice came out almost under his breath, clipped, reluctant.

  “Go… good, sir.”

  Vikrant’s smile returned, colder this time. “Nice to hear. Now… let’s get to work.”

  He slid the silver badge across the desk. The metal glinted under the fluorescent light.

  “Wear it,” Vikrant said. “You’re an A-class guard. One of my best ones. Don’t disappoint me.”

  Tarun’s eyes widened fractionally.

  His throat moved once. A gulp.

  The weight of the responsibility hit him— not just the badge, but what it represented. He reached forward and took it, fingers brushing the cool metal.

  Vikrant rose from his chair, the movement deliberate, commanding. Tarun followed suit, silent and attentive.

  "You're in charge of training the new recruits," he said with a smile that didn't match his words. "I'll send you the list shortly."

  As they reached the office door, Vikrant placed a firm hand on Tarun’s shoulder.

  The touch sent a chill down his spine.

  He felt the weight of expectation, authority, and legacy pressing down.

  “Train them,” Vikrant said, voice low, almost a growl. “Like I did.”

  His hand traced down from the shoulder, a finger now lightly against Tarun’s chest, then he removed it.

  Tarun felt the imprint linger.

  Tarun stepped out of the office, closing the door behind him, the badge heavy against his chest— both a symbol and a warning.

  ——————————————

  The next day, the group stood a few meters from the monolithic BLC building.

  The sun reflected off its mirrored glass, glinting in streaks that made the towering fortress seem almost untouchable.

  Rishabh was at the center, notebook in hand, flipping pages almost obsessively.

  The sketches inside were detailed— meticulously labeled, the blueprint of the building made with perfection. His finger traced the lines as he spoke, like repeating the plan would make it better.

  “This place… it’s huge. Forty-five floors,” he said, voice steady, eyes flicking between the group and his sketches. “Including the basement for vehicles."

  He paused, as if he was analysing the diagrams himself, glancing at every mark and circle, "That’s where we start.”

  Kritika leaned forward, scanning the building. “But… how do we know where Tarun is?”

  Rishabh hesitated. “I… don’t know.”

  Vivek’s eyes widened. “You don’t? Then what trust do we have going in?”

  Yug’s jaw tightened. “Nothing. We don’t know, but we have to move.” His gaze swept across the building, unwavering. “If he’s here, we find him. If not…”

  He paused, the corner of his lips twitching.

  “We check the whole damn city.”

  Vivek swallowed hard, his hands gripping the straps of his bag. Yug noticed and placed a hand lightly on his shoulder.

  “It’ll work. Trust me, or at least… trust Tarun.”

  Rishabh glanced at his watch, eyes narrowing. “Where’s Farhan?”

  A sudden roar shattered the quiet— the wail of an ambulance siren cutting through the morning air.

  The group froze.

  Dust swirled as headlights bore down, and the vehicle skidded to a halt inches from their feet, brakes squealing against the asphalt.

  The driver’s window rolled down with a soft hiss, and there he was— Farhan.

  Suit perfectly fitted, hands steady on the wheel, eyes glinting with mischief.

  Vivek gaped. “How… how did you get it?!”

  Farhan smirked. “Let’s just say… some cash from the concert made it happen.”

  He winked and glanced at Rishabh. “Ready?”

  Rishabh’s notebook snapped shut.

  “It’s time. Let’s start.”

  Farhan’s expression hardened too.

  His fingers tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles white.

  He shifted the gear and the ambulance roared forward, the hum of the engine reverberating through the street like a warning.

  The group watched in silence as the vehicle disappeared towards the building, tires kicking up small clouds of dust.

  From the distance, Farhan’s voice carried, amplified by the siren’s fade.

  “Off to the main gate I go!”

  And just like that, the infiltration began.

  Farhan drove forward.

  The ambulance rolled smoothly, its tires humming softly against the clean Delhi road.

  The siren was off now— only the dull mechanical growl of the engine filled the cabin.

  Ahead, the BLC building rose from the ground like a concrete giant.

  At first glance, it looked ordinary.

  Tall. Wide. Corporate.

  But Farhan felt it.

  The glass fa?ade reflected the sky too perfectly, hiding whatever lay behind it.

  No banners. No loud signs.

  Just a massive structure standing still— confident enough to stay silent.

  The truth was buried inside.

  Farhan eased off the accelerator.

  The main gate drew closer.

  Two towering metal barriers stood open just enough to invite vehicles in, flanked by reinforced booths on either side.

  Cameras were mounted everywhere— above the gate, along the walls, even embedded into the road itself.

  Red sensors blinked faintly, like eyes that never slept.

  Farhan tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

  His palms were damp.

  He wiped one hand against his trousers and glanced briefly at the dashboard clock.

  2:34:17 PM.

  The engine idled.

  Too loud.

  Or maybe his heartbeat was.

  The building loomed larger now, swallowing the sky above it.

  Shadows stretched across the ground, crawling up the ambulance as if trying to pull it in.

  Farhan swallowed.

  As the ambulance crawled closer, Farhan’s jaw tightened, his shoulders squaring instinctively. His eyes sharpened, scanning mirrors, gates, guards, exits— every detail locking itself into place.

  And then—

  Rishabh’s voice surfaced in his head.

  Like it had been waiting for this exact moment.

  Farhan’s gaze stayed forward.

  The gate was right there now.

  And as the ambulance rolled on, his memory pulled him back— to the train, to the map, to the plan Rishabh had drilled into him—

  ——————————————

  The train thundered forward towards Delhi the day before, steel wheels hammering against the tracks in a relentless rhythm.

  Inside the dimly lit compartment, the world outside blurred into streaks of grey and green, flashing past the barred windows like time itself refusing to slow down.

  Farhan and Rishabh sat directly opposite each other.

  Between them, spread across the narrow table, lay the map.

  Not a clean one.

  It was creased, folded too many times, edges frayed. Lines were drawn over lines— red circles, black arrows, blue crosses— corrections layered on top of older mistakes.

  Certain spots were smudged where fingers had lingered too long, thinking.

  The words 'BLC – MAIN STRUCTURE' were written at the top in block letters, slightly slanted, as if scribbled in a hurry.

  The train rocked violently as it crossed a junction.

  The map shifted.

  Rishabh instinctively placed his palm flat against it, steadying it like it mattered more than the table itself.

  His eyes didn’t lift.

  “At the main gate,” he said, voice low but precise, cutting clean through the noise of the train, “there will usually be two low-level guards.”

  His finger traced the entrance— slow, deliberate.

  The train passed through a tunnel, darkness swallowing the train compartment instantly.

  Rishabh continued, unbothered.

  “They don’t want attention there. So they keep it simple.”

  Farhan leaned back slightly in his seat.

  The train horn wailed somewhere ahead, long and distant.

  He studied the map, then Rishabh’s face— calm, calculating, already three steps ahead of danger.

  A corner of Farhan’s mouth lifted.

  He smirked, tapping the table lightly with his knuckle.

  “Good way to hide the secrets…”

  A brief pause.

  “…bastards.”

  ——————————————

  The ambulance rolled forward, its engine humming low, tires crunching over gravel.

  Farhan slowed as the main gate came into view.

  For a moment— just a moment— he frowned.

  Only one guard stood there.

  Not two.

  One.

  He leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing as he scanned the entrance. The gate was massive— steel bars rising high, cameras embedded into concrete pillars, floodlights mounted like watchful eyes.

  One guard didn’t make sense.

  The ambulance crept closer.

  The distance shrank.

  And with it, Farhan’s confusion curdled into something colder.

  The guard stepped into a clearer view.

  Farhan’s throat tightened.

  The man was huge.

  Not bulky in a sloppy way. This was disciplined mass. Shoulders stretched the fabric of his shirt, arms thick and veined, posture straight without effort.

  He had to be at least 6'5, maybe more, standing there like the gate itself had learned how to breathe.

  His hair was unnervingly precise— trimmed sharp, every strand in place, not a millimeter out of line.

  Below it, a thick, long beard framed his jaw, dense and deliberate, as if even that had been trained.

  But his shirt— untucked.

  A small detail, but it screamed recklessness. Someone who followed rules because he had to, not because he chose to.

  The ambulance came to a halt.

  The engine idled.

  Now Farhan could see him properly.

  And fear finally hit.

  The man’s eyes were steady, unreadable.

  Farhan’s gaze dropped— against his will— and that’s when he saw it.

  The badge— silver.

  Clean and untarnished.

  A single letter engraved into it— 'A'.

  Farhan swallowed hard.

  A-Class.

  The kind of guard you don’t assign to gates unless the gate itself mattered more than lives.

  His fingers tightened around the steering wheel.

  He rolled down the window.

  The guard didn’t speak.

  Didn’t step closer.

  Didn’t ask a question.

  He simply raised one eyebrow.

  That was all.

  It felt heavier than shouting.

  Farhan forced air into his lungs.

  “I’m… I’m a new recruit,” he said, keeping his voice steady by sheer will. “Brought some injured people from a recent duty…”

  The guard tilted his head slightly.

  Then he spoke.

  The sound crawled out of his chest, deep and rough— like a lion growling low before a kill.

  “Name…?”

  As he opened his mouth, Farhan caught the glint.

  Gold.

  One of his teeth was golden, catching the light just enough to make it unsettling rather than flashy.

  Farhan answered quickly, afraid silence would crush him.

  “I’m Farhan… Farhan Qureshi.”

  The guard studied him for a long second.

  Then his hand moved.

  Slow. Unhurried.

  He reached behind his back, fingers slipping beneath the loose shirt, and pulled out a thin, almost holographic tablet, its surface flickering faintly as it powered on.

  And that’s when Farhan felt truly scared.

  But the memory was still fresh in Farhan's mind—

  ——————————————

  The train rattled forward, steel screaming softly against steel.

  Outside the window, the world blurred— stations, poles, half-built buildings slicing past like unfinished thoughts.

  Inside the compartment, the noise settled into a steady rhythm, almost hypnotic.

  Rishabh hadn’t looked up in a while.

  His eyes were fixed on the map, calm, calculating, like he wasn’t on a moving train but already standing inside the building.

  Farhan shifted in his seat.

  The question had been clawing at him for minutes now.

  He finally spoke, trying to sound casual— but failing just enough.

  “But what if that day…”

  He paused, glancing at the window, then back at Rishabh.

  “…some other big shot is on duty, you know?”

  The words hung in the air.

  The train jolted slightly as it crossed a junction.

  Rishabh didn’t answer immediately.

  He picked up the pen.

  Tapped it once against the paper, then twice.

  Farhan watched him, pulse ticking louder than the tracks beneath them.

  Then Rishabh finally looked up with certainty.

  “Then,” he said quietly, “just wait for the clock to hit 2:35 PM.”

  That was it.

  Just a time.

  2:35 PM.

  And that itself was the trigger.

  ——————————————

  As Farhan snapped back to reality, he realised that the man was on his tablet.

  Farhan’s eyes followed it, unable to stop himself.

  The man held the device— thin, black, seamless— no buttons, no edges.

  The surface shimmered, waking up.

  Light unfolded from it like smoke trapped under glass, forming a translucent screen that hovered just above the man’s palm.

  A holographic tablet.

  Lines of data flickered across it in sharp blues and whites, scrolling vertically, horizontally— names of every single bodyguard— too fast to read, too precise to be fake.

  Farhan’s throat went dry.

  Farhan forced his eyes away from it and glanced down at his watch.

  2:35:41 PM.

  He didn’t overthink it.

  He just hoped.

  Hoped that somewhere, Rishabh was doing exactly what he’d promised.

  Hoped that right now, fingers were flying over keys.

  That screens were lighting up.

  That systems were being nudged, bent, lied to.

  Farhan tightened his grip on the steering wheel more as seconds progressed, knuckles pale.

  Please, he thought, not daring to look back at the tablet.

  "Be up to it…"

  The holographic screen continued to glow between them— silent, merciless— waiting to decide whether Farhan Qureshi existed…

  Or didn’t.

  ——————————————

  The time wasn't normal.

  It was when Sahil Malhotra's bot got active.

  It was when BLC firewalls got weak.

  It was what helped the group reach Sahil.

  And Manav was the first one to realise it— when he helped group to find Sahil.

  Manav pulled a chair loudly, making a screeching sound that caught all ears.

  "Alright, Scooby-Doo gang, get yourselves over here!"

  They quickly assembled around the laptop near him. On the screen, clean repeated patterns of timestamps lined the log like an eerie digital heartbeat.

  "Look at this. A fixed cycle."

  Kritika scrolled, pointing at certain codes.

  Manav began, his tone dipping in pride. "Every day— from the day before exams till now— the bot comes online at 2:35:00 pm and stays exactly for 2 minutes and 35 seconds."

  "Down to the second. No signs of change." Kritika nodded, her eyes turning to the clock.

  2:35:00 PM.

  Rishabh slammed keys and Kritika kept eyes on the windows that were so fast they blurred into white flashes.

  The BLC firewall surged, pixelated, and then… flickered.

  ——————————————

  In the present, the street of Delhi was quiet.

  Too quiet.

  Rishabh and Kritika hunched over their laptops, their screens casting pale, ghostly light onto their faces.

  Every car that passed, every pedestrian’s step sounded amplified in their minds.

  Rishabh’s fingers moved rapidly, almost a blur over the keys. Lines of code raced across the screen like a waterfall of green fire.

  “Come on… come on…” he muttered under his breath, voice barely audible.

  Kritika’s eyes flickered across her laptop, scanning for anomalies.

  Her fingers trembled slightly as she typed commands, the reflection of the codes shimmering in her widened eyes.

  “Thank you… sadistic uncle,”

  Rishabh whispered, teeth gritted, as another firewall collapsed under their assault.

  The holographic interface on the screen pulsed, a ghostly projection hovering above the keyboard, revealing a complex, layered network of BLC servers.

  The list of bodyguards slowly began to materialize— a grid of names, badges, and shifts.

  Every second felt like a lifetime.

  The clock on Rishabh’s laptop blinked.

  2:36:50 PM.

  A gust of wind rattled a nearby signpost, and both flinched. The city noises felt like intruders in their bubble of tension.

  “Almost there…” Kritika hissed, her knuckles white as she held the laptop steady.

  The cursor hovered over the final file— the one that would confirm their entry.

  Rishabh’s hand trembled as he clicked.

  2:36:54 PM.

  Instantly, the system responded.

  The BLC security interface flickered.

  Green lights pulsed across the screen.

  Rishabh exhaled sharply, but his chest still felt tight. The screen reflected in their eyes— the names were there.

  The list. The access.

  Yet, neither moved. Not yet.

  Their hearts beat in perfect synchrony with the blinking cursors.

  The mission was no longer theoretical.

  It had crossed into reality.

  ——————————————

  Farhan’s chest heaved, his fingers digging into the steering wheel as the massive figure of the guard stepped closer.

  The tablet was tucked aside now, its faint holographic glow fading— but the threat didn’t.

  “There’s nothing about you,” the guard said, low and measured, each word striking like a hammer.

  Farhan’s stomach churned.

  His heart pounded against his ribs like a drumline in a battlefield.

  Every step the guard took echoed in his ears. Heavy boots on concrete, deliberate, unhurried.

  The man’s shadow stretched over the ambulance, swallowing the light, and Farhan felt as if the entire street had vanished.

  Only he and the looming figure remained.

  The guard’s gaze locked onto Farhan’s, unwavering, piercing.

  It wasn’t just sight— it was a probe, a search for weakness, for fear, for a single crack in resolve.

  And Farhan’s body betrayed him.

  Every muscle tensed. Every breath hitched.

  The guard reached the door of the ambulance, towering over him.

  A hint of a smirk tugged at his lips, just enough to send a shiver down Farhan’s spine.

  Farhan’s jaw tightened.

  His eyes flicked to the clock.

  2:37:24 PM.

  Somewhere, somewhere back at the street where Rishabh and Kritika worked, he hoped, they were doing their part.

  They had to be.

  This was the only thing keeping his hands from shaking entirely.

  He met the guard’s gaze, swallowing hard. “Check it… again,” he said, voice sharp but trembling, “You must have missed it.”

  For a heartbeat, nothing moved. The guard’s eyes narrowed slightly, amusement flickering across his face like a predator savoring its prey. Slowly, deliberately… he reached up.

  His fingers hooked under his lower eyelids, pulling them apart in a slow, sardonic motion. His gaze widened, mocking, theatrical, and Farhan felt his courage unravel with every millimeter.

  “…My eyes missed it…” the guard whispered, low and measured, every word dripping with sarcastic menace. “…Apparently.”

  Then, slowly, the man straightened, stepping back just enough to allow the tablet back into his grip.

  His voice, low and lethal, broke the silence.

  “What was your name… again?”

  ——————————————

  “Farhan… Qureshi!” he shouted, voice cracking under pressure, a raw edge of desperation cutting through it.

  Every word carried weight, a command sent through the digital veins of BLC’s security network.

  Rishabh’s fingers danced across the laptop keys like a conductor leading a symphony of chaos.

  Kritika’s hands moved swiftly, almost in tandem with his thoughts.

  “New recruit. Make him a new recruit!” she added, her voice steady despite the tension, her eyes fixed on the lines of code flowing across her screen.

  Vivek’s hands clenched into fists, jaw tight, his eyes darting between the screens and the towering BLC building in the distance.

  Yug, meanwhile, paced silently, boots tapping sharply against the pavement.

  His eyes were fixed on the BLC towers above, scanning, analyzing, calculating.

  The faint digital hum of Rishabh’s laptop grew louder in their ears, a mechanical heartbeat synchronized with the adrenaline pumping through Farhan’s veins somewhere at the gate.

  Then, almost as if the world itself paused, the moment came.

  The clock ticked over.

  2:37:35 PM.

  Time hit them like a physical blow.

  Rishabh froze mid-keystroke, his fingers hovering above the keys for a split second before he slammed them down one last time.

  He leaned back in his chair, a long, shuddering sigh escaping his lips.

  His hand pressed to his forehead, eyes closing as the tension finally leaked out in a flood of relief and exhaustion.

  He could feel every muscle in his body loosening slightly, though his heart still pounded like a drum of war.

  The street remained still, the tension so thick it could be cut with a knife, every heartbeat echoing like the countdown to a bomb waiting to detonate.

  ——————————————

  The holographic tablet hummed softly as the guard set it down, a sound so subtle it cut through the tense silence like a scalpel.

  Step by step, he moved forward.

  Each step was deliberate, measured, exuding menace.

  Farhan froze. His mind screamed,

  "This is it. Mission failed. I’m done."

  The world narrowed.

  There was only him and the man approaching, the impossible strength radiating from every movement.

  The man stopped a mere foot away from the door, looming over him, and Farhan’s heart hammered against his ribcage.

  He could feel the weight of the guard’s gaze— not just on his body, but on his very soul.

  Then, the impossible happened.

  The corners of the guard’s lips twitched. A smirk, wide and unnerving, spread across his face.

  “Welcome to BLC. Head to the right.”

  Farhan’s mind froze.

  The tension, the fear, the expectation of pain— it all crashed against a wall of confusion and relief.

  His body slumped slightly against the ambulance, trembling, still unsure whether to collapse or run.

  The guard’s smirk didn’t waver.

  His eyes held piercing intensity, but now there was amusement— like a predator that had been playing with its prey, and finally decided to let it live.

  Farhan exhaled slowly, realizing he had survived the first— and perhaps the deadliest— gatekeeper.

  ——————————————

  The ambulance moved forward, tires humming softly against the polished concrete of the entrance.

  Farhan’s eyes flicked to the right— a narrow compartment just beside the towering main gates.

  It wasn’t a driveway— it was a slot, a tunnel wide enough for the ambulance to slip into, like a secret artery hidden beneath the steel and glass of BLC.

  He guided the vehicle in with precision, every centimeter counted.

  The sensors beeped softly, scanning the ambulance from every angle, mapping the vehicle’s exact dimensions.

  A small panel on the side blinked green as the scanner verified his clearance, then the massive door hissed shut behind him.

  The sound echoed, metallic and final, sealing him inside.

  Farhan’s pulse spiked.

  The compartment was silent now, claustrophobic, the faint hum of hydraulics the only reminder that the world outside still existed.

  And then— a low rumble beneath him.

  The floor shuddered slightly as the platform moved.

  It wasn’t a normal garage. This was a lift— engineered for vehicles, precise to the millimeter, descending vertically into the fortress beneath the city.

  The walls, lined with reinforced steel panels, reflected his tense expression in distorted strips as the ambulance slowly sank into darkness.

  The numbers on a small digital panel flicked downward.

  Farhan kept his hands steady on the wheel, each movement deliberate.

  He could feel the lift’s hydraulics adjusting, counterweights balancing the immense mass of the vehicle.

  Every vibration, every micro-shift sent a surge of adrenaline through him.

  One wrong move, one hesitation, and the whole mission could collapse.

  Finally, a deep metallic thunk signaled the lift had reached the basement.

  The doors slid open smoothly, revealing a cavernous underground space, dimly lit with overhead LEDs that cast pale reflections on the polished concrete floor.

  Rows of vehicles— sleek, armored, emblazoned with the BLC insignia— lined the walls, silent sentinels in the underground vault.

  Farhan drove carefully along the designated strip, weaving between the parked machines with surgical precision, and finally brought the ambulance to a halt in the marked slot.

  He opened the door, stepping out into the cool, recycled air of the basement.

  The faint hum of ventilation systems filled the space, and the scent of machinery, rubber, and ozone hit him— a sterile, controlled scent that made him acutely aware of every sound, every breath.

  Before climbing the stairs, he leaned forward and slammed the back door of the ambulance twice.

  THUD!

  THUD!

  It was as if he passed a signal to someone— a signal that he was ready.

  The air still buzzed with anticipation—the kind that precedes chaos.

  Every microsecond mattered now.

  ——————————————

  The guard at the gate stiffened as his earpiece crackled alive.

  Static.

  Then a voice— controlled, professional, trying too hard to sound calm.

  “Minor breach detected in BLC systems. Don’t worry. We handled it.”

  The man’s fingers slowly tightened around the edge of the tablet.

  “There was a name entry,” the voice continued. “Someone called… Farhan Qureshi. But it was fake.”

  Silence followed.

  The guard didn’t respond immediately.

  Instead, a low chuckle slipped out of him.

  He leaned back in his chair, amusement spreading across his face like a predator savoring the scent of blood.

  A fake name.

  Of course it was.

  His eyes narrowing—

  not at the screen, but at the building itself.

  At the vast, sealed structure behind him. The fortress everyone believed was untouchable.

  He tapped his earpiece once.

  “That name’s already inside, fools.”

  ——————————————

  Farhan stood on the first floor of BLC.

  The space was vast— too clean, too quiet.

  Soft white lights hummed above, clinical and indifferent, washing the place in a glow that felt less like safety and more like exposure.

  This was the main reception.

  The mouth of the beast.

  And somehow… he wasn’t dead yet.

  He adjusted his suit slowly, deliberately—straightening the lapel, smoothing invisible creases.

  Ahead of him, the lift indicator glowed.

  He didn’t need to raise his hand.

  The arrow was already moving downward.

  Farhan’s jaw tightened.

  He stood still, positioning himself just right.

  The lift slowed.

  The doors slid open.

  And a man stepped out.

  Fast.

  Too fast for a casual exit.

  The shoulder hit Farhan— solid, deliberate.

  The man didn’t apologize.

  Just kept walking, long strides carrying him away.

  Farhan hesitated— just a fraction too long— then stepped inside the lift.

  There were two men inside.

  Identical twins.

  The resemblance was unsettling— not just in face, but in posture, in the way they stood with weight evenly balanced, shoulders squared, hands resting close to their sides.

  Grey hair slicked back with rigid precision.

  Deep lines carved into their skin, the kind earned by years of violence, not age.

  Both wore chest harnesses— black, tight and heavy.

  Each harness held a hammer.

  Not for construction, but for murder.

  Farhan felt the temperature drop.

  His eyes flicked— quick, controlled.

  Bronze badges.

  The letter B stamped into each one.

  The doors slid shut with a soft, final hiss.

  The hum grew louder now, enclosed, pressing against his ears. The air felt thicker, harder to pull into his lungs.

  The silence stretched.

  Farhan swallowed.

  “Sir,” he said finally, voice steady despite the thudding in his chest. “I’m a new recruit.”

  Both men turned their heads.

  At the exact same time.

  The symmetry made his skin crawl.

  “I’ve been told to report to Tarun Singh,” Farhan continued, choosing each word like a step across thin ice. “Could you help me find him?”

  Then the man on Farhan’s left spoke, his tone almost conversational.

  “Oh. Tarun?”

  He tilted his head slightly, as if thinking.

  “He just stepped out.”

  The words landed slow.

  Then hit hard.

  Farhan’s breath caught.

  The man.

  The collision.

  That was Tarun.

  He’d been right there.

  Missed by seconds.

  Farhan felt something sink deep in his gut, heavy and irreversible.

  His fingers curled slightly at his sides before he forced them still.

  “I see,” he said quietly.

  The lift continued its ascent.

  Farhan gathered himself.

  If there was a moment to act normal.

  “Then,” he added, carefully, “could you take me down? I really need to meet him.”

  Both the men smiled

  A smile that didn’t reach their eyes.

  “Not so fast,” the man on the right said at last.

  Farhan turned slightly toward him.

  “…intruder.”