10:02 AM — CHANDNI CHOWK, DELHI (HUKUM LAL'S SWEET SHOP)
The first Hukum Lal Sharma heard about the incident was through the panicked voice of his regular customer, Mrs. Verma, who came running into his shop with her dupatta half-wrapped around her head and terror in her eyes.
"Hukku! Hukku, there's been an accident!" she gasped, collapsing against the counter where the jalebis sat glistening in their sugar syrup. "Two streets over, in Naya Bazaar gali. A taxi crashed into Sharma's sweet shop. There's blood everywhere. The police are there. Someone bit a dog and the dog went mad!"
Hukum Lal's face went pale. He was a man of approximately fifty-three years, with the kind of excessive mustache that he maintained with religious devotion and the kind of nervous energy that came from running a small business in one of Delhi's most competitive markets. He was known in Chandni Chowk for his loud voice, his tendency to exaggerate every story that passed through his shop, and his remarkable ability to panic at the slightest disruption.
But he was also, paradoxically, a survivor.
"Bit a dog?" Hukum repeated, his voice rising an octave. "What do you mean bit a dog? Who bites a dog? That's... that's insane! That's completely insane!"
He moved to the window of his shop—a modest storefront with faded paint and a hand-painted sign that read "Sharma Ji's Pure Ghee Jalebis Since 1987"—and peered out into the gali. From where his shop stood, he could not see Naya Bazaar, but he could hear the distant sound of police sirens and the raised voices of a gathering crowd.
His mind immediately leapt to the worst possible conclusion: If there was chaos two streets over, if people were injured and police were involved, then his own shop could be affected. Customers might not come. His daily earnings—meager though they were—could be disrupted.
"Mrs. Verma," he said, his voice taking on the false bravado that he deployed whenever fear threatened to overwhelm him, "don't worry. This is nothing. Delhi sees such incidents every day. Some drunk man, probably, got into a fight. By evening, everyone will forget about it. You'll see. Business as usual."
But even as he spoke, he was mentally calculating: Should he close the shop early? Should he stay open and try to profit from the curiosity-seekers who might come to see the site of the incident? Should he move some of his premium stock to the back room in case there was looting?
His hands were already trembling.
10:05 AM — RAJASTHAN (DEVRAJ'S HOUSE)
The news was playing on the old television in the living room—a boxy device that had survived three decades of use and looked it. Devraj Sharma sat on the worn carpet, his six-year-old daughter Vrinda nestled against him, her small fingers pointing at the screen with the innocent curiosity of a child.
"Papa, what is that?" Vrinda asked, watching as the news anchor described the incident in Chandni Chowk with the kind of dramatic urgency that television newscasters deployed for every story, no matter how significant or trivial.
Devraj was a man of forty-two, with the kind of weathered face that came from working as a construction supervisor in the arid landscape of Rajasthan. His hands were callused. His eyes carried the weight of someone who had built things and seen them torn down by the indifference of weather and time. But when he looked at his daughter, those eyes softened into something almost unbearably tender.
"It's just something that happened in Delhi, beta," he said carefully. "A traffic accident. Nothing to worry about."
But Anshika, his wife, had gone very still. She stood in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen, one hand on the doorframe, her face pale.
"Delhi?" she said quietly. "That's near Chandni Chowk."
Devraj felt something shift in his chest. "Yes. Why?"
"Your sister," Anshika said. "Priya lives in that area. You know she lives near Chandni Chowk. She works at that NGO office just two streets away."
The words hung in the air between them, each one carrying weight.
10:06 AM
Devraj's mind immediately began to calculate: Was his sister safe? Had she been near the incident? Should he call her? The television was still playing, the news anchor still describing the scene with that particular blend of sensationalism and uncertainty that characterized early reporting of any incident.
"We should try to call her," Anshika said, and her voice was steady now, but Devraj could see the fear in her eyes.
He reached for his phone, but before he could dial, Vrinda tugged on his kurta.
"Papa, are we going to Delhi?" she asked hopefully. "Will we see the accident? Will we bring Aunty home?"
Devraj looked at his daughter's innocent face, then at his wife's worried expression, then back at the television where the news anchor was now describing something about an animal attack, about police involvement, about a scene of significant chaos.
The decision crystallized in his mind with the certainty that comes from a father's protective instinct: They would go to Delhi. Today. They would find Priya and bring her back to Rajasthan where she was safe. His family came first. Always.
10:08 AM — BANGALORE (DIYA RAO'S APARTMENT)
Diya Rao's apartment was the kind of space that revealed everything about her personality: walls lined with zombie survival strategy guides, a gaming PC setup that had cost more than most people's cars, posters of post-apocalyptic landscapes, and scattered across every surface, the detritus of someone who had dedicated significant portions of her life to the fantasy of survival in a collapsed world.
She was twenty-seven years old, with sharp features and sharper eyes, the kind of eyes that noticed patterns and inconsistencies the way other people noticed colors. She had been watching the news for approximately eight minutes now, and her entire body had gone electric with a sensation she had been chasing for most of her adult life.
Finally.
The news anchor was describing the incident in Chandni Chowk with the kind of breathless urgency that typically accompanied natural disasters or celebrity scandals. But Diya was listening to what was not being said. Multiple incidents. An animal attack that seemed disproportionate. Police overwhelmed. A second incident at a hospital where a constable was showing "acute neurological symptoms."
No one was connecting the dots. But Diya's mind—trained by thousands of hours of zombie games and apocalypse fiction to recognize the patterns of systemic collapse—was connecting them with terrifying clarity.
This was not a simple incident. This was the beginning of something.
Her hands moved to her keyboard with the speed of someone acting on pure instinct.
She pulled up the news website. She opened Reddit. She started scanning social media posts from Delhi. Her fingers flew across the keyboard as she cross-referenced timestamps, locations, symptom descriptions. The amateur videos being uploaded to social media platforms. The confused reports from hospital staff. The police dispatch audio—which she had access to through a legal gray area involving archived public broadcasts.
The pattern emerged slowly, then suddenly: Multiple simultaneous infections. Rapid symptom onset. Behavioral changes. Aggression.
Diya's breath came faster. This was it. This was actually it. Not the fantasy of a zombie apocalypse but something real, something happening right now in a city she could reach within hours.
She pulled up her flight booking app.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard for exactly two seconds—two seconds in which she considered calling her parents, telling them what she was doing, getting permission.
She discarded the thought.
She booked a flight to Delhi departing at 2:15 PM, arriving at 5:45 PM. She used the travel money that her parents had given her for a "company team-building event" that she had no intention of attending.
No one needed to know. No one needed to understand. She just needed to be there. To see it. To experience the beginning of something real.
Her heart was racing with an anticipation that bordered on sexual.
10:12 AM — PAKISTAN-INDIA BORDER, MILITARY BASE (ADITYA RAJPUT'S TENT)
The tent was sparse: a cot, a small table, military equipment secured in precisely organized compartments. Sergeant Aditya Rajput sat on the cot, cleaning his rifle with methodical precision. He was twenty-five years old, with a face shaped by years of discipline and violence—sharp lines, hard eyes, a jaw carved from stone.
He had served in the Thakurana Rifles for six years, fought in Kashmir, seen combat, taken lives. All sanctioned. All for the country.
Until two weeks ago, when everything changed.
The three men approaching his tent now were not just colleagues—they belonged to a different regiment. Azim Khan, Zalim Ahmed, and Asif Malik. All Muslim. All soldiers. Men who ate lunch beside him, shared moments of camaraderie, and whom he had come to respect.
But all of them were sleeper cell operatives working for Pakistani intelligence.
Aditya had stumbled on the truth by accident—intercepted communications, a partially decrypted message, small inconsistencies that, when pieced together, revealed betrayal. He brought the evidence to his superior, Major Vikram Singh.
Major Singh had believed him.
But Major Singh had told him to wait.
To gather irrefutable proof before making accusations that could ruin lives and ignite international conflict.
So Aditya waited. Watched. Listened.
And today, in this very tent, he heard them speak.
Not in code.
Not in half-truths.
But in clear, unmistakable language.
"The explosives are in place. Tomorrow night, during the changing of the guard. We'll take out the ammunition depot and create enough chaos for the Pakistani forces to breach the perimeter. The attack will come from inside."
10:13 AM
Aditya had stood up slowly. He had not drawn his weapon immediately. He had simply said: "So it's true."
Azim had turned, and for a moment, his face had shown surprise. Then it had hardened into something else—resignation, perhaps, or the cold professionalism of someone who had always known this moment would come.
"Aditya," Azim had said, and there was something almost apologetic in his voice. "You were not supposed to understand. You were not supposed to put the pieces together."
"You're going to attack your own country," Aditya had said quietly. "You're going to kill your own brothers."
"We're not Indian," Zalim had said, stepping forward. "We're Pakistani. We were always Pakistani. This uniform, this identity—it was all a tool. Nothing more."
That was when Aditya's control had shattered.
The first punch came from pure rage. It caught Azim across the face, snapping his head backward. The second punch targeted Zalim's stomach, driving the air from his lungs. Asif tried to run, but Aditya was faster—faster and stronger and fueled by the particular violence that comes from betrayal.
They fought. It was brutal and efficient. Aditya had trained in hand-to-hand combat since he was eighteen years old. These three men, for all their military training, had never been soldiers in the way that Aditya was a soldier. They were operatives. Spies. Trained in deception and stealth, not in the fundamental violence of direct combat.
Aditya broke Azim's arm. He dislocated Zalim's shoulder. He drove his knee upward and felt ribs crack beneath the impact.
They were on the ground, bleeding, unable to continue.
That should have been the end of it.
But as Aditya stood over them, breathing hard, his rifle still in his hands, Asif had looked up at him with blood streaming from his nose and had laughed.
But Asif, bleeding and breathless, laughed bitterly. "You think this changes anything? This land will fall. Pakistan will take Kashmir. China will claim the north. India is finished. Your sacrifice means nothing. Bharat means nothing."
The words had hit Aditya like a physical blow. Not because he believed them, but because they represented everything that he had been fighting against his entire adult life. The idea that his country, his Bharat, could be sacrificed on the altar of someone else's ambition.
He had raised his rifle.
The first shot had taken Azim in the head. Clean. Professional. No hesitation.
The second shot had caught Zalim as he tried to crawl toward the tent flap. Also clean. Also professional.
The third shot was for Asif, and this time it tore through his shoulder and struck him with a perfect headshot, dead center. There was no need for a fourth shot.
Three men. Three shots. Aditya's aim, even in the grip of rage, was flawless.
Your passage effectively conveys tension, conflict, and the harsh realities of military justice. Here's a cleaned-up version with refined tone, enhanced clarity, and tightened pacing to suit the gravity of the scene:
10:13 AM — Thirty seconds after the shots
The tent flap opened.
Major Vikram Singh stepped inside. His face registered shock at first, then something darker—suspicion, calculation—the cold, measured assessment of a military mind confronted with an unexpected situation.
"Rajput," Major Singh said quietly, "what have you done?"
Aditya turned slowly, rifle still in hand, blood splattered across his uniform.
"They were sleeper agents," Aditya said. "I brought you evidence two weeks ago. You told me to wait. I waited. Today, they revealed themselves. They planned an internal attack. I stopped them."
Major Singh's gaze shifted to the three bodies, then back to Aditya's bloodied face and the rifle. His expression remained unreadable.
"You had no authorization," Major Singh stated flatly. "You acted on suspicion and rage. That makes you a murderer, Rajput. A liability."
"Sir, the evidence—"
"There's no evidence that will hold up. What I see is a sergeant who lost control and executed soldiers in cold blood. A court-martial will see the same."
Aditya understood then. Major Singh had never liked him. His promotions, commendations, and officer training recommendations—all ignored by Singh, who'd stalled at the same rank for eight years.
This was Singh's opportunity.
"I'm placing you under arrest," Singh said. "You'll be transported to Delhi for court-martial. Charged with murder. Do you understand?"
Aditya stood still, understanding everything. He'd been set up the moment he acted. The three bodies would become inconvenient truths. The truth he had tried to defend would be buried.
Yet, he also knew he had stopped an attack that could have killed countless soldiers.
He lowered his rifle and nodded.
"Yes, sir. I understand."
5:48 PM — Military transport vehicle, on the roads of Delhi
Aditya sat restrained in the back of a military-grade transport vehicle, guards flanking him. The highway stretched ahead, leading to military headquarters where his fate would be decided.
He didn't think of the trial.
He didn't think about the future suddenly narrowed to darkness.
He was thinking about whether he had made the right choice.
He was thinking about the faces of the men he had killed.
Of Major Singh's cold cruelty.
The radio crackled to life:
"All military transport units, be advised. Incident reported at Delhi military headquarters. Multiple personnel exhibiting violent behavior. Quarantine protocols in effect. Proceed with caution. Stand by for further instructions."
Aditya lifted his head slightly. An incident at headquarters. Multiple personnel. Another complication in an already fractured world.
The vehicle rolled on, carrying a man who fought to save his country—and was now its prisoner.
10:22 AM — UP, DHARMENDRA LAL CHAUDHARY'S GARAGE
Dharmendra Lal Chaudhary's garage was not really a garage. It was a front. The real business happened in the spaces behind the walls, in the underground chambers where metal was shaped and welded into tools of violence.
He was fifty-six years old, with hands that had mastered every kind of mechanical skill. He had built cars. He had built motorcycles. He had built weapons.
The first call had come from his supply contact at approximately 10:15 AM.
"Dhar," the voice on the other end had said—a voice that belonged to someone named Rajesh who operated out of a warehouse in East Delhi, "there's chaos in Chandni Chowk. Police are stretched thin. A dog went mad and attacked people. There was a car crash. Multiple casualties."
"So?" Dharmendra had said, not yet seeing the opportunity.
"So," Rajesh had continued, "this kind of chaos creates opportunity. If you want to move product, if you want to establish new supply lines, this is the window. When the police are busy with one crisis, they're not watching for others."
Dharmendra had understood immediately. Chaos was opportunity. When the city's attention was focused on one disaster, the shadows became easier to move through.
He had hung up and made a decision. He would drive to Delhi today. He would meet with Rajesh. He would establish new distribution networks for weapons while the chaos provided cover.
His business was not moral. His business was practical. There would always be demand for weapons. There would always be people willing to pay for them. The ethics were irrelevant.
He had locked his garage and begun to pack.
10:25 AM — FLIGHT FROM KOLKATA TO DELHI, AIRPLANE
Ritoban Ghosh sat in his seat on the flight, his laptop balanced on the narrow tray table in front of him, his fingers moving rapidly across the keyboard. He was a nervous man by nature—thin, with the kind of posture that suggested someone who had spent too much time hunched over computer screens—but there was an intensity in his focus that belied his generally anxious demeanor.
The notification had come through that morning: "Company Cultural Expedition to Delhi — IT Department Selected." He was being sent, along with twenty other software engineers, to participate in a "cultural immersion experience" that would involve visiting historical sites and networking with colleagues from the Delhi office.
Ritoban had groaned inwardly at the prospect. He was not a cultural person. He was not a networking person. He preferred the company of computers to the company of people.
But it was a company trip. He had no choice.
Now, as the flight climbed toward cruising altitude, his attention had been caught by something on the news feeds he was monitoring in the background of his work. Something about an incident in Delhi. Something about multiple injuries. Something about a police response.
He had started cross-referencing. His fingers had begun to move faster.
Hospital admission records (which he could access through a legal gray area involving tech support credentials and outdated security protocols). Police radio broadcasts (which were public but rarely monitored). News reports from multiple outlets (which were contradicting each other in interesting ways).
The pattern was becoming visible, but it was subtle. Too subtle for the mainstream media to notice. Too scattered for any single authority to connect.
But to someone trained in pattern recognition, someone who had spent years debugging complex systems and tracking data anomalies, the pattern was unmistakable: something systematic was happening.
Ritoban's mind was already beginning to calculate what it could be. His hands were already reaching for his phone to make notes. His thoughts were already moving faster than his ability to articulate them.
By the time the flight landed in Delhi, Ritoban had formed a preliminary hypothesis. He did not know what it was, but he knew it was significant.
And he knew that no one else had noticed yet.
12:32 PM — BACK AT CHANDNI CHOWK
The chaos had largely subsided by this point. The police had cordoned off the area around the crashed taxi and the damaged sweet shop. The dog control van had come and gone. The injured had been transported to hospitals.
The news cycle had moved on to other stories: political developments, sports results, celebrity gossip.
But in the background, invisible to the cameras and the reporters and the gathered crowds, the virus continued its work.
The infected dog had been taken to the municipal animal clinic, where the staff began to notice something was wrong. Its behavior defied all the usual signs of rabies. The progression was different, the aggression unlike any they had seen before, the infection pattern unfamiliar.
Despite their growing unease, the clinic workers were unable to identify the cause. With no answers and against better judgment, they placed the dog with other animals, unaware of the consequences of their decision—or what they had truly unleashed.
The bitten police constables were already showing symptoms. One of them was in a hospital bed, his fever spiking, his behavior becoming increasingly erratic. The hospital staff was preparing for quarantine protocols, though they were not yet certain what they were quarantining against.
The taxi driver, Rajesh—or what remained of Rajesh—was in a police holding cell, and his transformation was entering a new phase.
And in the back streets and alleys of Chandni Chowk, Kabir was moving with inhuman speed and efficiency, his body no longer human but not yet fully transformed into whatever it was becoming.
The outbreak was spreading, but it was spreading silently, invisibly, beneath the notice of a world that was still processing the story as a simple violent incident.
06:45 PM — THE CONVERGENCE BEGINS
In Rajasthan, Devraj was on the road to Delhi, his mind heavy with the weight of what awaited him.
In Bangalore, Diya stepped onto Delhi Airport's tarmac, her heart pounding with a mix of anticipation and nerves.
Inside a military transport vehicle, Aditya listened to scattered radio chatter about chaos unfolding at headquarters. He filed every detail away, aware that his world had already shifted beyond recognition.
In Uttar Pradesh, Dharmendra locked his garage behind him and headed toward his truck, senses alert to the growing unrest.
At the airport, Ritoban arrived, an uneasy feeling settling in his chest as if forewarning of impending disaster.
And in Chandni Chowk, the virus moved silently, a ghost weaving unseen from host to host, spreading through the city's labyrinthine streets with deadly patience.