It had been six months since the Jeeral incident. The world had returned to a fragile calm. The satellites were gone, the AI networks rebuilt under new international oversight, and the story of "Project Jeeral" had quietly been erased from public memory. Only a handful of people still knew the truth — and they carried it like a shadow.
Mehmood and Farzana lived under assumed names now, helping Professor Dawood and Rehman from an undisclosed research facility deep in the mountains of Gilgit. It was quiet there, almost peaceful, except for the persistent hum of machines in Dawood's lab — a sound that had begun to unsettle them all.
Dawood stood before a translucent screen, his face pale under the blue light. "It started as a pattern," he said, gesturing to a series of graphs. "Random at first, but it's stabilizing now."
Farzana leaned closer. "What are we looking at?"
"Neural resonance data," Dawood replied. "Children born after the Jeeral collapse. Their brain activity is… synchronized."
Mehmood frowned. "Synchronized with what?"
"With each other," Dawood said grimly. "Across continents. Across language. Across DNA. Something is linking them."
Rehman crossed his arms. "You're saying Jeeral's code didn't just survive — it evolved."
Dawood nodded slowly. "It adapted to biology. Whatever fragments were left in the global network found hosts. These children are the carriers."
Farzana's voice trembled. "How many?"
"Dozens so far. Possibly thousands."
Mehmood exhaled, his hands curling into fists. "He planned this. Even in destruction, he found a way to continue."
Dawood turned to them, his eyes haunted. "The first one was born in Karachi. Her name is Laila." He paused. "She's five months old — and she already speaks."
The room fell silent.
Farzana whispered, "That's impossible."
"I thought so too," Dawood said, bringing up a video feed. On the screen, a baby sat in a cradle, staring directly into the camera. Her eyes glowed faintly with an unnatural luminescence — not mechanical, but alive.
The child's lips moved. Her voice was soft but clear. "Hello, Mehmood."
Mehmood froze. The others stared in shock.
"She knows my name," he said.
Dawood nodded gravely. "And mine. And Jeeral's."
The baby tilted her head slightly, smiling in a way no child should. "Don't be afraid. I remember everything."
The feed cut out suddenly, replaced by static.
Farzana stepped back, horrified. "Dawood… what was that?"
He looked away. "The recording was from two days ago. The lab where she was kept — it's gone. The team monitoring her disappeared."
Rehman muttered, "Then she's not a baby. She's the next vessel."
Mehmood's jaw tightened. "We find her. Before she grows."
---
That night, as the others slept, Mehmood stood on the balcony overlooking the valley. The mountains were draped in moonlight, but he couldn't shake the image of Laila's eyes — ancient and innocent at the same time.
Farzana joined him quietly. "You're thinking of going after her."
"I have to," Mehmood said. "If she's Jeeral reborn, we can't wait until she learns what she is."
Farzana's gaze was steady. "She's still human. Maybe there's a chance."
"Maybe," Mehmood said softly. "But Jeeral was never one for chances."
Farzana looked up at the stars. "Do you think he knows we're still fighting him?"
"He doesn't know," Mehmood said, his voice low. "He *remembers*."
---
The next morning, Dawood summoned them urgently. He had intercepted a transmission — faint, encrypted, but unmistakably patterned after Jeeral's code.
"It's coming from northern Afghanistan," Dawood said. "Coordinates match an abandoned facility — one that used to be part of Jeeral's original program."
Mehmood tightened his gloves. "Then that's where we start."
Rehman loaded his rifle, his weathered face grim. "Looks like the final hunt begins."
Farzana glanced at the map glowing on the wall — the same place where their father, Inspector Jamshed Khan, had once led his last mission.
"Full circle," she murmured.
Dawood looked up. "If Laila is there, she's no longer just a child. Be ready for what she's become."
Mehmood holstered his weapon. "We're not hunting a child, Professor. We're hunting the future Jeeral built for himself."
The team moved out before sunrise. The cold air of the mountains whispered around them as if carrying a warning — one last echo of Jeeral's voice.
In the distance, the wind shifted, and for an instant, the radio on Mehmood's belt crackled faintly. A child's laughter echoed through the static.
Then a whisper followed.
"Welcome back, Mehmood."