"Life is a shadow of death."
Vikram sat at the dining table, a newspaper spread before him. "All stale and useless news. Can't a man here ever read something new?" he growled, his voice echoing faintly against the stone walls.
The guards exchanged glances but wisely kept silent.
Across the table, Andrich sipped his coffee. "They fear that if we get access to current news, we might cook up some evil scheme," he said with a wry smile.
Vikram scoffed. "What childish minds these fools have."
Andrich chuckled softly. "You can't really blame them. They've seen what your 'brilliance' can do."
Vikram leaned back, eyes narrowing. "I'm getting tired of this—every day the same routine. It was entertaining at first… but now it's just dull. Monotonous. I hate this place."
Andrich lowered his head and sighed.
Vikram pushed his chair back and rose, his footsteps echoing down the corridor as he returned to his cell. He lay on his cot, eyes closing slowly, and drifted into uneasy sleep.
A thunderous explosion jolted Vikram awake. His ears rang—deafened. Disoriented, he splashed water on his face and stumbled outside. Another blast hurled him backward. Gritting his teeth, he got up and sprinted toward Andrich.
A powerful fist came out of nowhere, smashing into his jaw. Vikram staggered but didn't fall. He caught the assailant's arm, drove his knee into the man's chest, and followed with a brutal punch to the face. Grabbing his head, Vikram slammed it against the wall—once, twice—until the neck snapped.
Gunfire erupted behind him. Bullets tore through the air, forcing him into a desperate roll. He dove for cover as dust and smoke choked the hallway. A fallen guard's rifle glinted near his feet—Vikram grabbed it and fired blindly toward the muzzle flashes.
The kitchen lay ahead—a ruin of shattered tiles and blood. Dead guards sprawled across the floor, the smell of gunpowder mixing with burnt food. Behind the counter, the chef clutched his stomach, blood seeping through his fingers.
"Please… help me. I have a family," he gasped.
Vikram didn't answer. He stepped over the body and peered around the corner. Shapes moved through the haze—assassins closing in. He shot one. The rest opened fire, bullets shredding the counter as he ducked and rolled aside.
He burst from cover, cracked the butt of his rifle against one attacker's skull, and drove a broken plate into another's throat. More gunfire followed. Vikram ran, heart pounding.
Death was closing in, and he knew it.
Andrich lay hidden beneath a heap of bodies, barely daring to breathe. The stench of blood clawed at his throat. Footsteps echoed nearby—slow, deliberate.
"We don't have much time," a voice said. "VPS needs to die tonight. Henderson said he was in Cell 41. We checked—it's empty. He's killed some of our men already. Someone's helping him."
"Then we kill them both," another replied. "No one crosses Henderson."
Andrich's pulse hammered. He pressed his face deeper into the corpses as the assassins' boots creaked past. When the sounds faded, he lifted his head—just a little. Silence. A fragile hope flickered inside him.
He crawled out from the pile and ran—blindly, desperately. His foot caught on a body, sending him crashing to the ground. His chin slammed into the floor, pain searing through his jaw as his front tooth cracked. He spat blood and staggered up—only to see two men aiming guns at him.
His heart froze. Death was steps away. He shut his eyes, trembling.
Then—thud. Thud.
He opened his eyes. The gunmen lay dead, sprawled across the corridor. Behind them stood five armed men.
"Where's VPS?" one demanded.
Andrich pointed toward the direction of the cells. "That way."
The men sprinted forward. Andrich followed—not out of loyalty, but out of sheer will to live. They reached Cell 41. Empty.
"Where is he?" the leader barked, his voice sharp enough to slice air.
"I—I don't know!" Andrich stammered. "He was here before— I swear!"
"Useless!" the man spat, and the group stormed out.
Silence returned.
Andrich dropped to his knees, crawled under the bed, and covered his ears. The world outside roared with gunfire, but he stayed there—small, trembling, and alive.
Vikram's left knee was ruined—shredded by the explosion he failed to outrun. The only alternative had been death, so he took the blast instead.
He dragged himself across the floor, each pull leaving a thick smear of blood behind him. Every nerve screamed. This wasn't the heroic end he'd imagined. He always pictured himself going out like an action star — slow-motion glory, last witty line.
Reality burned. Reality broke bones. Reality hurt like hell.
He forced himself upright against a cracked wall, breath shaking, and crawled into the nearest room.
The sight made him chuckle through the pain.
An armory.
Pistols, revolvers, shotguns, grenades — even swords — scattered like offerings from the gods of war.
"Wish I'd found this earlier," he muttered with a weak smile.
He tore a strip from his shirt, tied it tight around his knee, and used a sword as a crutch to haul himself up. He stuffed every pocket with bullets he could carry and grabbed two pistols — one in hand, one spare.
He peered through a bullet-splintered hole in the door. Nothing. Silence.
He pushed it open and limped forward in a desperate half-run.
"Where the hell are the guards?" he whispered.
Gunfire boomed in the distance, sharp cracks echoing like thunder.
"Backup already… great," he muttered.
Dust and smoke thickened the air — a choking grey battlefield where vision meant luck more than skill. Then, through the haze, he spotted a flashing light downstairs.
Hope.
He rushed down the stairwell. Then his foot hit rotten concrete — it gave way.
He plunged two floors, slammed into steel and rubble. Bones cracked. A metal beam sliced past him — close enough that death kissed his cheek but missed his heart.
Agony swallowed him, but he grit his teeth and crawled into a pocket beneath the collapsed debris, breathing hard, waiting.
Minutes felt like hours.
"Where's my damn cell? Did that idiot survive?" he growled under his breath.
He dragged himself back into the open, limping through ruin, chasing that blinking signal. Step. Drag. Step. Drag. Every nerve was fire, but the light drew closer.
He reached it.
A fire emergency button.
Vikram stared at it… then exhaled in disappointment.
Of course. Of course fate would do that to him.
Then, slowly — a grin cut through the blood and dust on his face.
A better idea.
"Oh, they're not gonna like this," he whispered.
And he slammed his hand on the button.
Water began dripping from every corner of the ceiling — not just rain, but something mixed with it. Blood. There was more red than clear in the flood pouring down the walls.
Vikram glanced around, breath shallow. Shadows darted in the haze — men running toward him. Before he could think, the roar of gunfire split the air. Bullets tore past, sparking off metal.
He dropped low, rolling behind a broken crate, and fired back — one sharp shot toward the muzzle flashes. His eyes caught something in the corner — gasoline canisters scattered near the wall. Perfect.
He grabbed one, yanked off the cap, and hurled it onto the flooded floor. The fuel spread quickly, floating over the water like a slick mirror of fire waiting to be born. Vikram squeezed the trigger.
The bullet struck, and the room ignited. Flames leapt up, devouring everything. Screams echoed through the smoke as his attackers stumbled, their silhouettes burning against the inferno.
Vikram crouched behind a metal beam, shielding his face from the heat, and hurled another canister. The explosion shook the air, thick black smoke curling everywhere.
Coughing, he sprinted through the haze, leaping over debris as the fire consumed the entire floor. A thunderous blast followed — the ground gave way beneath him.
He crashed hard onto a pile of rubble below. Pain seared through his skull; warm blood streamed down his temple. His vision blurred, colors swirling into darkness.
Through the ringing in his ears, he saw shadows — men, running toward him. Then everything faded to black.
Vikram slowly opened his eyes. His head throbbed, the world spinning in slow, uneven circles. A soft hum filled his ears — the steady purr of an engine beneath him.
He blinked hard and realized he was lying on a cushioned bed inside what looked like a moving ambulance… or something much more expensive. The interior wasn't spacious, but it was oddly lavish — leather seats, polished panels, and the faint scent of antiseptic mixed with cologne.
"Farooque? Massino? Who...?" he muttered, voice rough and dry.
His eyes fell on the small side table. A basket of fresh fruits sat there, next to half-used rolls of bandages, a few medicine vials, and a flask pressing down a folded letter that fluttered slightly with the vehicle's motion.
He pulled the letter free and began to read:
> I am extremely sorry that I couldn't come myself. But I sent my best men to your aid. If you're reading this, they've done their job. I have so much to talk with you. It was painful for me and my friends to see you suffer, but I couldn't act sooner. When I finally saw a chance, I took it — and rescued you. Much has changed since your incarceration, Vikram. It's time you do something about it. But that's a conversation for later. Rest well and heal fast.
— Farooque
Vikram let out a short, dry laugh. "Bastard remembered me after all," he murmured, a faint smile crossing his bruised face.
He leaned back on the bed, eyes half-closing — but a sudden thought jolted him upright. "Andrich?" he blurted, scanning the cabin. "Where's that idiot? Did he die?"
Silence.
He sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Whatever. I don't care about him anymore. He's too damn delusional."
Exhaling slowly, Vikram lay back down, staring at the dim ceiling lights as the hum of the engine carried him deeper into uncertain safety.
A sudden jolt shook the vehicle, snapping Vikram awake. The door creaked open, and a man stepped inside.
Seeing him conscious, the man asked, "You alright?"
Vikram managed a faint smile. "Looks so."
The man rolled a wheelchair forward. "You should sit. Easier that way."
Vikram waved him off. "I'm not crippled. I don't need wheels beneath my feet."
The man shrugged and set it aside. Vikram pushed himself up, took a long drink from the flask, and bit into an apple with a sharp crunch.
"Where's Andrich?" he asked between bites.
The man blinked. "Who?"
"My cellmate. Obnoxious, jittery... scared of his own shadow."
The man's lips twitched. "When they dragged you out, you were unconscious and bleeding badly. I barely saw anything else before they laid you here. But I did catch a glimpse of the place — burning to ashes. So, if your friend was still inside…" He paused, then gave a slight smirk. "He's probably fried."
Vikram chuckled darkly. "Heh. That's about how he deserved to go."
The man mixed something in a small metal cup — a bitter-smelling decoction — and handed it over. "Drink this."
Vikram pinched his nose and swallowed it in one go, grimacing. "Where are we?"
"England," the man replied.
Vikram smirked. "That much I figured. Where in England?"
The man gently pressed Vikram's shoulder, guiding him back to sit. He began unwrapping the bloodied bandage from Vikram's head and replaced it with a clean one.
"We're under orders to send you home," he said evenly. "My boss thinks it's time you see your birthland again."
Vikram's expression softened for a moment. "Yeah," he murmured. "It's time indeed."
He rose slowly, steadying himself. Outside, through the open door, the early dawn light glinted off the sleek body of a waiting private jet.
Vikram stepped forward, his footsteps steady despite the ache in his body, and walked toward the plane — toward India, and everything waiting for him there...