17 September — Afternoon (12:31 PM)
Outside the Bhavan, celebration filled the air. Supporters gathered in clusters, waving flags and cheering as news channels replayed the same headline again and again.
A television anchor spoke over the noise.
"On the sixteenth of September, the National Governance Party—NGP—secured a historic victory in the general elections, winning four hundred and sixty-seven of the six hundred and sixty-two seats. This landslide win has left the opposition shattered and establishes NGP as the most dominant government in recent history."
A white Ambassador car rolled to a stop at the main entrance.
The door opened.
Member of Parliament Rukhdeep Mittal stepped out.
He ignored the celebrations entirely. His face was tense, his movements hurried. Two documents were clenched tightly in his hand as he walked straight into the Parliament building.
Inside, he scanned the hall until he spotted Party Leader Hari.
"Sir," Rukhdeep called out sharply.
Hari—an elderly man with decades of political experience—was smiling, surrounded by congratulatory voices. He turned at the sound of Rukhdeep's voice and nodded, still enjoying the moment.
But Rukhdeep did not smile back.
"There's a problem," he said, his voice low but firm.
Hari's expression changed as Rukhdeep handed him the papers.
"The military transport truck carrying our soldiers to Arunachal Pradesh has gone completely off the grid," Rukhdeep continued. "No signal. No transmission. No recorded message."
Hari straightened. "When were they expected to reach the camp?"
"Yesterday afternoon," Rukhdeep replied. "They were scheduled to report by noon."
Hari paused for a moment. "What about the rescue unit? Have they been alerted?"
"They were dispatched early this morning," Rukhdeep said. "No response yet. They're still trying to establish contact."
Hari frowned. "Could it be a delay? A mechanical failure?"
Rukhdeep shook his head. "Unlikely, sir. The truck was inspected thoroughly before departure. Twenty-three soldiers were on board. They were being deployed to the LAC."
The words hung heavily in the air.
Hari looked up. "What was their last transmission?"
Rukhdeep checked the report. "Yesterday morning. At that time, they were still one thousand and thirteen kilometers from the nearest post."
Silence followed.
"This doesn't make sense," Hari said quietly.
"No, sir," Rukhdeep replied. "It doesn't."
Earlier that morning…
Meanwhile, inside the Prime Minister's lodge…
17 September — Morning (10:03 AM)
Government VVIP Lodge
Outside the main gate, security stood alert.
A man in a long black coat waited silently beside the personal aide of the newly elected Prime Minister. No one spoke. The atmosphere was heavy, disciplined, and tense.
Inside the lodge, Prime Minister Vikram Sharma stood by the window.
Thirty-seven years old, with faint streaks of white already showing in his hair, he held a cup of tea in one hand and looked out at the black Mustang parked below.
"That car," he said calmly, without turning around, "the model is old. Still… beautiful."
A voice answered from behind him.
"Yes. Some things age like fine wine."
The room fell silent again.
The voice continued, measured and confident. "I hope our partnership under the PPP model will work smoothly. After all, we're the only ones providing medicine at such low cost—with competitive reach."
The Prime Minister chuckled softly and took a sip of his tea.
"Scripted," he said. "Yes, of course. The cheapest. The most accessible."
He paused. "Let's not talk about quality."
He continued looking out the window. "Paper decides quality. Not words."
"The government in 2004 approved everything," the voice replied.
Vikram finally turned.
"This is 2022," he said evenly. "So if you have something to say—or want something—say it clearly."
A pause.
"I'm looking for someone," the voice said. "A police woman."
Vikram raised an eyebrow. "Who is she?"
"A trickster."
The Prime Minister smirked. "Then file a police complaint. That's what they're for."
Silence returned, thicker than before.
"Don't pretend you don't understand," the voice said quietly. "This government is strong. I only hope the public doesn't do to you what they did to the last one."
"That," Vikram interrupted, "is not your concern. We're done here."
"For now," the voice growled.
Vikram placed the teacup down. "I'm getting late for the first session of the year. I hope we don't have to speak again."
"Same," the voice replied.
As the Prime Minister turned to leave, the voice added, almost casually,
"I hope things go well—for you."
Vikram didn't respond.
He walked out with his aide, got into his car, and the vehicle rolled toward the Bhavan without slowing down.
The man in the long black coat stepped out of the room.
"Let's go," he said.
Moments later, the black Mustang pulled away from the lodge.
Inside the car
Silence filled the vehicle as the driver steered through the road. The city moved past them, blurred behind the tinted windows.
Finally, the driver spoke.
"What's this about the woman?" he asked carefully. "I thought the System had already closed the case on her."
The man looked out the window for a moment before answering.
"The System wants confirmation," he said. "They want to know whether she's alive or not."
The driver frowned. "It's been a long time. Fifteen years, maybe more. There's been no trace of her. There's no way she survived."
The man turned slowly, his eyes calm.
"No," he said. "She's tough."
He paused.
"She survived where everyone else died. She escaped when others were already on the edge of death."
A faint chuckle escaped him. "It would be disappointing if she died so easily."
Silence returned.
The man reached into his coat and pulled out a pistol. He slowly polished the muzzle with his thumb, his movements deliberate.
The driver glanced at the weapon. "And if the System finds out she's alive?"
The man stopped polishing the gun.
"They'll send someone to kill her," he said flatly.
A beat.
"And most likely," he added, "that someone will be me."
17 September — Afternoon (12:36 PM)
Inside the Prime Minister's car
The car moved smoothly through the road.
The driver broke the silence with a light tone.
"First time I've seen someone wearing a long black coat like that," he said with a chuckle. "What do they think they are?"
Vikram smiled faintly. "Powerful," he said. "At least, that's what they want to look like."
"They certainly look rich," the driver added. "And powerful."
The Prime Minister's personal aide leaned forward slightly.
"They are," he said. "Very powerful. Very rich. They're among the top members of the Corporation."
He paused, then added, "The System has dominated the pharmaceutical industry for years."
Vikram's smile faded.
"Not anymore," he said. "They've corrupted everything—the industry, the water, the food, the people."
He hesitated for a moment before finishing,
"Even the government."
The aide nodded. "Only the previous one, sir. We're new. We'll be a new kind of danger for them."
Then, more cautiously, he added, "But if we challenge them… won't they do to us what they did to the last government?"
"The last government," Vikram replied calmly, "was already owned by the System."
The driver glanced at him in the mirror.
"Forgive me, sir," he said carefully, "but who actually controls the System? And why are they even legal in this country?"
The aide turned sharply. "That's classified. You don't need to—"
Vikram raised a hand.
"No," he said. "He's asking the right question."
The aide fell silent.
Vikram looked at the driver through the mirror.
"You voted for me," he said. "And you have every right to ask. We are responsible now."
He paused.
"I'm giving you my trust," he added. "You'll see the results of your vote."
The car slowed to a stop.
Outside Parliament
"We're late for today's session, sir," the aide said as he stepped out.
Vikram nodded and followed. "Let's go."
As he walked toward the entrance, a familiar voice stopped him.
"Congratulations, Prime Minister."
Vikram turned.
Aditya Kamble—forty-one, former Prime Minister, now Leader of the Opposition—stood before him.
"Thank you," Vikram replied.
"Heading somewhere?" Aditya asked casually.
"Yes," Vikram said. "The session."
"Oh," Aditya smiled. "After a long time. Or rather—your first time. Good to see."
Vikram's expression turned cold.
"Leader of the Opposition," he said, "it's surprising how an overthrown government still manages to hold that title."
Silence stretched between them.
"I hope," Aditya said quietly, "this doesn't happen to you as well, sir."
Another pause.
Both men smiled—thin, controlled smiles.
Vikram turned and walked inside.
Aditya remained standing, his smile gone, watching Vikram disappear into the building, anger settling on his face.
17 September — Afternoon (2:23 PM)
Parliament Session
The House was already tense.
Debate over the new budget had spiraled into arguments about instability—about whether the country could hold itself together after the change in government. Voices overlapped. Tempers rose.
Then Hari, Member of Parliament, stood.
"Mr. Speaker."
His voice cut cleanly through the noise.
"I have grave information to place before the House."
The chamber slowly fell quiet.
"The military transport vehicle assigned to deploy our soldiers to the LAC has gone missing."
A ripple of disbelief passed through the room—then silence.
"No signals. No transmissions," Hari continued. "A rescue unit was dispatched early today morning. We have received no response from them either."
A pause.
Rukhdeep Mittal rose from his seat.
"Yesterday," he said, "a woman filed a formal complaint. Her son—a soldier—was among those in the missing convoy."
The murmuring grew sharper, uneasy.
Then Kiren stood.
"There is a remote town in Arunachal Pradesh" he said, choosing his words carefully, "that has been completely cut off from communication."
Prime Minister Vikram Sharma looked up at once.
"Since when?" he asked.
Kiren hesitated.
"Four years."
The word echoed.
Vikram stood.
"Four years?" His voice hardened. "And this is being acknowledged now?"
Kiren lowered his eyes.
"We attempted multiple inspections. Each time, we were stopped."
"Stopped by whom?" Vikram asked.
"They presented official documents," Kiren continued. "Letters stating that no entry was permitted. No interference. No inquiry—without direct authorization from the Central Government."
Vikram's jaw tightened.
"You filed petitions?" he asked.
"Yes," Kiren said. "Every one of them was rejected. The response was identical each time."
He swallowed.
No further questions. No further action.
Vikram took a slow breath.
"They," he said quietly. "Who is they?"
No one answered.
The chamber was completely still now.
Something shifted in Vikram's expression—not anger this time, but recognition.
Kiren spoke again, barely above a whisper.
"The System."
The word felt heavier than it should have.
Vikram's eyes moved instinctively—to Aditya Kamble.
Aditya was already watching him. Unblinking.
Vikram turned back.
"Which System?" he asked.
Kiren did not hesitate this time.
"Neuraxis System" he said.
"They blocked us. They had approval. Orders. Authority."
The cameras had gone dark.
No one spoke.
Every eye in the House was fixed on the Prime Minister.
"Neuraxis System," Vikram repeated.
The name settled into the silence—
not as information,
but as a warning.
Outside Parliament — 17 September, Afternoon
The Prime Minister's car stood parked near the exit.
The driver was wiping the windshield when a voice spoke from behind him.
"Hey."
He turned quickly. It was the Prime Minister's personal aide.
"Good afternoon, sir," the driver said, straightening up.
The aide nodded once.
"Earlier, in the car," he said, "you asked who controls the System. And why it's legal in India."
The driver hesitated.
"I'm sorry, sir. I shouldn't have asked."
"No," the aide said calmly. "Listen."
The driver froze, attentive.
"The Neuraxis System was established in India in 2004," the aide continued. "On paper, it's a pharmaceutical company."
The driver nodded slowly.
"But in reality," the aide said, lowering his voice, "the System operates with its own internal authority. A parallel system. Powerful enough to rival the Central Government."
The driver's expression changed. He hadn't expected that.
"They have their own structure," the aide went on. "Their own hierarchy. Their own decision-making body. People inside the government know about it."
He paused, then added,
"Don't think too hard about it."
The aide looked directly at him.
"And don't repeat this to anyone."
The driver swallowed.
"Yes, sir. This will stay with me."
"Good," the aide said.
He turned and walked away, already moving on to his next schedule.
The driver remained where he was, cloth still in his hand, staring at the car without really seeing it—trying to process what he had just heard.
Trying, and failing, to forget.
-END-