The world around Ayaan was a blur of white. The sterile scent of the hospital clung to the air, mingling with the dull ache radiating through his body. His face, burned and raw, pulsed with a searing pain that made each breath a struggle. Memories flickered in his mind like broken fragments, sharp and disjointed, refusing to form a clear picture.
One memory stood out—a dark, cavernous space, the metallic tang of blood thick in the air, and a field of bodies, lifeless and strewn across the ground.
At the center of it all stood a man, his crimson-stained axe gleaming ominously, his presence radiating malice.
"I may have spared your life today, but rest assured—I will kill you one day. If you truly wish to kill me, face me with your wrath." The man's cold voice echoed relentlessly in Ayaan's mind, chilling him to his core.
He could recall the terror and the overwhelming sense of loss, but the rest of that day remained a haze. Why couldn't he remember? What had led to that horrifying scene?
On the second day, Ayaan caught a glimpse of his mother, Tanvi, standing outside his hospital room. Their relationship had been strained for over a year, but seeing her worried face through the glass now stirred a mix of emotions within him. Alongside her stood high-ranking officials, their hushed conversations hinting at the severity of the disaster he had survived.
On the third day, the sterile silence of the hospital was broken by a news broadcast playing faintly from a television outside his room.
"October 2024—The Valley Massacre: over a hundred lives lost in what is now being called one of the deadliest incidents in recent history. Authorities remain tight-lipped on the details, but sources confirm that the scale of destruction is unprecedented..."
Ayaan stared at the screen in silence. The words felt distant, surreal. A massacre? A hundred lives lost? He clenched his fists, his heart pounding against his ribs. He had been there. He had survived that. But why couldn't he remember how it all unfolded?
By the fourth day, fragments of memory began to resurface—the cave, the scent of blood, the bodies, the man with the crimson axe. But as he tried to piece it all together, an invisible wall blocked his thoughts, leaving him with more questions than answers. For reasons he couldn't explain, he had forgotten the details of that catastrophic day—everything except the sheer horror of what had transpired.
On the fifth day, Ayaan's strength was returning, though his heart felt heavier than ever. It was then that he realized something devastating—Anaya was missing. She had been by his side, hadn't she? He had felt her presence, even in his unconscious state. But now there was no sign of her.
He asked his mother, desperate for answers, but her expression only deepened his despair. Tanvi, her voice low and emotionless, said, "She broke my promise."
The words tore through Ayaan's heart. And yet, amidst the agony, a single bitter thought plagued his mind—if everything had gone as planned, if there had been no disaster, no bloodshed, no tragedy, today would have been a day of joy.This should have been his first wedding anniversary.
Instead, here he was, broken and alone, with no idea where his wife was or how to find her.
By the sixth day, Ayaan could finally stand. His legs trembled beneath him like they belonged to someone else, but he forced one foot in front of the other, gripping the cold metal railing along the corridor wall. Each step sent a dull throb through his bandaged body, yet his mind, for the first time since he'd woken, felt sharp awake in a way that unsettled him.
The corridor stretched ahead, fluorescent lights humming overhead, the air thick with antiseptic and silence. It was then that he noticed the shift the sudden hush of nurses stepping aside, the quiet click of polished shoes against tile. He looked up. A man in a tailored black coat approached, flanked by two guards whose eyes never stopped moving. Aditya. The president of the country, standing before him in the flesh, his expression unreadable, his voice carrying the weight of something far colder than sympathy.
"This world demands change from me," Aditya said, his tone flat, deliberate, as though he had rehearsed the words a thousand times before. "That is why I am inviting you to Project M."
Ayaan said nothing. The name hung in the air between them, heavy and foreign, and for a moment, the corridor seemed to close in around him. Somewhere beneath the confusion, beneath the grief still raw in his chest, something older stirred a memory of crimson steel and a voice that promised death. Wrath, quiet and simmering, coiled itself around his heart.
And as Aditya's words echoed in the silence, Ayaan's mind slipped backward, past the hospital, past the massacre, past everything he could no longer piece together. Two years ago, it all started.