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Chapter 12 - THE DELHI BREACH

The air smelled like gunpowder and panic.

Sirens had been ringing for thirty-four minutes straight. Nobody was listening anymore. Delhi was breaking. Not just buildings — the very bones of the nation's heart were cracking.

The Parliament had turned into a graveyard. No votes. No speeches. Just dust, screams, and flickering emergency lights.

Shoonya stood on a balcony four blocks away, watching the skyline burn.

His comm buzzed.

"North gate gone. AI tanks malfunctioning. They're pushing in."

He didn't reply. He already knew.

Every model of drone they had launched had been intercepted in under 17 seconds. The Soviet backstab wasn't just betrayal — it was perfection. Coordinated, surgical, ruthless.

Inside the capital, civilians had already been pushed underground two days ago. Mock drills had turned real. Power grids shut. Oxygen systems flickering. India's leaders, the few who were left, were huddled in steel bunkers pretending to still have power.

Shoonya lit a smoke with a live wire sparking from the wall.

"Commander, should we pull out?"

He looked at the soldier like he was trash.

"No. Hold position. Let them bleed."

"Sir, we're outnumbered."

"We're always outnumbered. That's not new."

Shoonya walked into what was once a museum of Indian war history. He picked up a shattered glass frame with a photo of soldiers from Kargil. Half-burned. Looked better that way.

"They want the flag. Don't let them have the pole."

Three minutes later, Sector 17 collapsed.

Not figuratively. Physically.

A tunnel-bomb dug by Neo-Dragon contractors — supplied by the Soviets — tore through the ground. Whole platoons vanished in an instant. Screams didn't echo. Too much fire.

Inside the Parliament bunker, generals were screaming at holograms. Maps glitching. AI support was lagging 8 seconds. In war, that's a lifetime.

One Minister started praying. Another pissed his pants.

Shoonya wasn't there.

He was outside. With a loaded pulse rifle and a cracked comm link. Fighting like a man who knew the gods had quit.

"Shoonya, this is Central. We're falling. Repeat—"

He clicked it off.

Then turned to his remaining men. 29 soldiers. Half wounded. Two unconscious. One shaking so bad he couldn't reload.

"All of you. Line up."

They did. No one questioned. Not anymore.

He looked at the youngest. Nineteen, maybe twenty. Blood on his sleeve. Eyes full of fear.

Shoonya handed him a grenade.

"You pull this when they breach the hallway. Not before. Not after. You die today. But you'll take twenty of them with you."

The boy nodded. Didn't even flinch.

Shoonya looked at the rest.

"No gods. No country. Just hold the fucking line."

Then he walked back out into the smoke.

Six hours passed.

Delhi didn't fall. It was eaten alive.

Missiles rained. AI jets hunted survivors. Soviets dropped "silent bombs" — pulse shocks that fried nerves instead of buildings. People dropped like rag dolls.

And through all of it… Shoonya kept moving.

Not because he cared.

Because he had one last target to hit — a server room 11 stories underground, storing the last active battle blueprints for the Indian fleet.

They reached it. Barely.

"Password denied."

He ripped the panel off and rewired it with a pen knife.

Inside, data was still warm. Live feed from Mumbai. Kolkata. Jaisalmer. All under siege. But still fighting.

Shoonya uploaded his own command script.

A new code.

"Plan Delta-Seven: No Orders, No Retreat."

Every AI unit left in India — every gun-toting robot, tank, drone, or hacked railgun — was now on his command line.

Manual override.

The last gamble.

At 4:06 AM, the Soviet army declared Delhi captured.

At 4:09 AM, 14 AI tanks woke up in East Delhi and opened fire on the invading troops — without human orders.

By dawn, half the city was painted in oil and blood.

And Shoonya?

Gone.

No record. No signal. No body.

Just a piece of broken gear found in the server room, with one word etched into it:

"SHOONYA"

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