" What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from."
-T.S. Eliot
In the enigmatic town of Kshaya lurks a figure shrouded in infamy: SHAITAN, the most wanted criminal whose true id...
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Ashwath Pawar regained consciousness in the midst of a dimly lit room, his vision still blurred, his ears ringing from the cacophony of distant explosions. As he struggled to rise, he felt a sharp pain in his head, his hand coming away sticky with blood. His sharp brown eyes with short-cropped hair and a clean-shaven face, his sharp jawline was visible even in the dim light. He was disoriented, unsure of his surroundings and how he had ended up there, until the realization dawned upon him: he was caught in the crossfire of the ongoing conflict between India and Pakistan.
Clad in his military uniform, it bore the telltale signs of battle-stains of mud, dust, and blood marring its once pristine fabric. His black vest showed signs of damage, a crack running along its side, testament to the dangers he had faced. His pistol lay discarded in a corner of the room, a stark reminder of the chaos that surrounded him.
The room itself was in disarray, filled with swirling dust and debris from the broken roof. Amidst the chaos, Ashwath's eyes fell upon a SPAS-12 shotgun lying beside him, its presence offering both reassurance and a chilling reminder of the violence that lurked outside. The distant sound of gunshots grew louder, sharpening his senses and driving him to action.
With practiced efficiency, Ashwath tightened his equipment belt and donned his cracked military helmet, its surface bearing the scars of previous battles. Gripping the shotgun firmly in his hands, he pulled back the reload, the click of the bullet chambering echoing in the room. Moving towards the corner to retrieve his pistol, his movements were interrupted by the sudden splintering of the already damaged door.
Without hesitation, Ashwath reacted, instinctively pulling the trigger of the shotgun. The deafening blast reverberated through the room as the enemy's head exploded like a burst water balloon, splattering the walls with crimson. Retrieving his pistol and reloading the shotgun with practiced ease, Ashwath steeled himself for the challenges that lay ahead. Amidst the swirling dust and the metallic tang of blood, he emerged from the room, prepared to confront whatever obstacles awaited him in the battlefield.
As he stepped outside, a chilling sight greeted him: one of his soldiers lay lifeless on the ground, his head crushed beneath the pillar of the building. With a heavy heart, Ashwath reached for his radio, his voice steady despite the turmoil within.
"This is Ashwath Pawar reporting. I'm on site, over."
"Return to base immediately, Ashwath. I repeat, return to base," the senior officer's voice crackled over the radio.
"Roger, sir," Ashwath responded solemnly, acknowledging the command as he retrieved his radio and prepared to depart from the scene.
He peered through the shattered window, his gaze fixed on the enemy group gathered outside, each one clutching their M16A4 rifles and engaged in what appeared to be tactical discussions. Knowing he couldn't take on the entire army single-handedly, Ashwath made a swift decision to retreat to the camp, situated roughly 3000 meters away, where preparations for the impending attack were underway.
