"The closer you get to the truth, the further the mirror moves."— Agent Z-57, Redacted Case Notes
3:12 A.M. — Whitefield Subsector, Outer Bangalore
The rain had stopped, but the silence was worse. Too perfect. Kabir parked three blocks away from his target. No tail. No drones. He was sure.
He was always sure.
Until now.
The neighborhood was upper middle-class. New construction. Sharp corners. Lots of glass. Too modern to feel alive.
His target: House No. 17-B.
On paper, it belonged to a mid-tier software engineer, now deceased. Reality? It had been unlisted for two years. But two nights ago, power usage spiked between 2:00 and 4:00 AM. Again last night. Always during the marks.
And tonight, Kabir had seen a silhouette in the upstairs window.
Zayen Mehra.
The boy whose name had been whispered too many times without echo.
He approached without backup.
Without protocol.
This wasn't a mission.
This was instinct.
The front gate creaked. No alarm.
He stepped inside.
The living room was… pristine. Unlived.
No dust. No smell. Like someone had wiped every memory from it.
On the wall was a blackboard.
Not digital. Old-fashioned slate.
Empty.
Kabir took out his flashlight and scanned the room. The edges of the board were smudged. A cloth lay beside it, damp and red-tinged.
Chalk dust?
No.
Blood.
Suddenly—
A voice behind him.
Calm. Young. Crisp.
"You shouldn't be here."
Kabir spun, weapon half-raised.
Zayen stood at the hallway threshold. No shoes. Hoodie. Dry hair.
Like he'd been waiting.
Kabir didn't lower the weapon.
"Hands where I can see them."
Zayen obeyed without flinching.
"Are you here to kill me?"
Kabir blinked. "Why would you say that?"
"Because you look like someone trying to decide if I'm a threat."
Another pause.
This boy… he wasn't afraid.
That wasn't right.
"What's with the board?" Kabir asked, motioning to it.
Zayen looked past him.
"I write equations sometimes."
"With blood?"
He smiled faintly. "Not mine."
Kabir's grip tightened.
"Do you know what's happening in this city?"
Zayen nodded. "Yes. But I'm not the only one watching."
Kabir took a step forward.
"Who else?"
Zayen met his eyes. "You."
Kabir froze.
That sentence was loaded. Too much knowledge. Too direct.
He stepped closer. "You think I'm involved?"
"No. I think you're being followed."
That hit harder than Kabir expected.
"By whom?"
Zayen just stared at him.
Then turned and walked away.
Kabir didn't stop him.
Not yet.
On the desk, he found something new — a photo.
A man in a military uniform.
Face burned.
But written on the back, in careful red ink:
"He knew what they buried in Kashmir. That's why he vanished."
Kabir pocketed the photo and walked out without another word.
He didn't look back.
He didn't have to.
From the second-floor window, Zayen watched him disappear into the fog.
Elsewhere…
A red checkmark bloomed across a white car parked outside a government cyber division.
Inside, a fresh body. No ID. Just a coin pressed into his palm.
Another message.
Another death.
And across town, someone else watched it all unfold from behind an untraceable lens.
Zayen closed his laptop.
And smiled.