The paper sat in Aryan's pocket all day."Syria wasn't your last battlefield — J."Fourteen words that refused to leave his head.
He'd read it so many times he knew the fold-marks by feel.
Morning: Whispers and Screens
By Monday morning, the fight had already gone viral inside the campus.Someone had filmed it from a balcony—the clip was ten seconds long and grainy, but you could still see how Aryan moved: calm, mechanical, detached.The caption read:
"When the Ghost fights, you don't hear him—just bodies drop."
He walked through the gate and felt the shift immediately.People didn't look straight at him anymore. They looked around him, like he carried static.
Aditya caught up. "Bro, you're trending on the school page."Aryan didn't even check. "Delete it.""Already tried. Admin says it gets reposted every time."
He stopped near the notice board, scanning the usual papers—exams, lost-and-found, sports tryouts.A small plain envelope was pinned there too, unmarked.He didn't touch it, just stared. Someone else's. Or maybe not.
Lunch: New Rumours
The canteen felt louder than usual—metal trays clattering, laughter a little too sharp.Kabir sat with Raghav's old crew now, chatting easily.Aryan watched the body language: relaxed shoulders, deliberate smiles.That was infiltration done right.
Aditya leaned closer. "You think he's trying to replace Raghav?"Aryan's eyes stayed on Kabir. "No. He's trying to study something."
"What?"
"Me."
Aditya went quiet.
Evening: The Trail
After classes, Aryan returned to the notice board. The envelope was gone.He waited until the hallway emptied, then checked his locker.Inside lay another folded sheet, same paper, same handwriting.
"You're not the only one who walked out alive. 8 p.m. — Qutub Metro parking."
He closed the locker quietly.He could ignore it, pretend he never saw it.But curiosity and survival were old habits; both whispered the same thing—go.
Night: The Meeting
Delhi at 8 p.m. was a blur of horns and halogen.He reached Qutub Metro parking—half-lit, echoing, smell of oil and rain dust.He waited near a column, eyes scanning reflections in bike mirrors, glass panels, shadows.
A figure stepped out from behind a car—black hoodie, face masked.Voice low, rough with accent."Still silent, like before."
Aryan's muscles tightened. "Who are you?"
The man tossed a coin-sized chip at his feet. "Proof."
Aryan crouched, picked it up—a military dog-tag fragment.Engraved: JACKAL UNIT – A-02.
His throat went dry. "Jackal's dead."
The man shook his head. "Not dead. Rebuilt. And he's looking for you."
Before Aryan could respond, a motorcycle engine roared nearby. Headlights flared.The stranger backed away. "They're watching. Circuit's men. Leave now."
Two bikes slid into the lot, helmets tinted black.No words, just motion—one jumped off, swinging a steel rod.
Aryan moved on instinct.Rod swung—he ducked, shoved the attacker's elbow up, redirected momentum, strike to the jaw—clean, silent.Second came from behind; Aryan pivoted, grabbed the helmet, slammed it into concrete.
No fancy moves. Just survival—measured, efficient.
By the time the noise died, the stranger was gone.
Only the dog-tag lay gleaming under the parking light, half-cracked.
Late Night
Back in his room, Aryan rinsed blood off his hands in the sink. Not his own.He placed the tag beside the old Circuit badge.
Two relics from two worlds colliding.
His phone buzzed—unknown number.A single message:
"Welcome back to the game, Ghost."
He stared at it until the screen dimmed.