[ complete ] 𝐌𝐀𝐅𝐈𝐀'𝐒 𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐍 𝐖𝐈𝐅𝐄 || 𝐉.𝐉𝐊 𝐅𝐅

86. Advait.

The church crouched in the dark like a guilty thing—stained glass blacked out, bell tower a silhouette against a crying sky. My hands were stone on the wheel, every nerve a coiled wire. Kian’s voice in my ear was measured, a metronome against the thunder of the engine. “Three minutes to the ping. Stay sharp. Team A flanks the north. Ivan hits the south alley. We take the center—fast and clean.”

I didn’t answer. Words felt like slow bullets. I wanted to tear the world open with my hands and pull Advait out myself. That need gave me focus, and focus was weaponized.

We rolled up the lane with engines off, headlights down, black cars slipping into the blanket of trees. My men spilled out like wolves; their boots barely made a sound on the gravel. I moved with them—silent, cold, the air around me tasting like winter. The church smelled of mildew and old prayers. Someone had painted the doors black; someone else had taped paper over the panes to keep light out. Perfect for hiding rot.

Kian put a hand on my shoulder—brief, grounding. “We go dark. You want to lead point?”

I gave him the barest nod. Lead point. Close combat. Take no prisoners who stood between me and my son. The men split—two left, two right—our formation practised, efficient. Ryker was on the cams. Ivan kept comms steady. We moved to the side entrance, silent as vultures.

Inside the church smelled like dust and candle wax. Our lights carved white lanes across pews; the altar was draped in shadow. The ping had come from under the floor—old crypts, old secrets. My heart skittered against my ribs. “Adva—” the name burned my tongue. I swallowed it down, a swallowed prayer.

We descended into the basement in a line, boots soft, weapons up. The corridor was narrow and low, pipes clanking like the church’s heartbeat. A single bulb hung swinging, throwing shadows that looked like hands reaching for us. Kian signalled left—two doors. The ping came from the second door. I tasted the moment like iron. We were close.

Kian whispered, “On my mark.” He counted. “Three… two… one.”

The door gave with a soft kick. A man in a gray jacket, startled, reached for a phone—too slow. I moved faster; my fist hit his sternum and his air left in a sob. He crumpled. Another lunged from behind a crate—Kian’s elbow met his throat in a blur. Two hits, neutralized. No theatrics. No mercy. We pushed deeper.

The room beyond was small, concrete, cold. A thin bed, a cot, a desk. A kid’s backpack lay by a corner—pink stickers, a dinosaur sticker half-peeling. My breath went ice-cold. There was a door at the back, bolted from the outside. The faint sound of someone crying—too quiet to be anyone else’s.

“Advait?” My voice came out a steel thread.

A small figure curled on a rug in the corner, head buried under his arms. He looked up at me as if he’d been waiting for me all his life and had also been taught not to expect miracles. His uniform was dust-streaked. He was thinner than he should be. His eyes hit mine and then slammed shut, stubborn like the rest of him.

“Hey,” I breathed. “It’s Appa.”

He didn’t move at first—then he pushed himself up like a boy who’d been told to stand until his legs obeyed. “Appa,” he whispered. The one word cracked something huge inside me and I nearly dropped to my knees. He was not a child to me in that moment; he was an entire world I’d been denied.

Two of my men lifted the bolt in seconds and we forced the door open. A guard swung; Ivan’s rifle answered with a kick that sent the man to the floor. The room smelled faintly of soap and fear. Advait was breathing fast, not in the way of terror so much as in the way of a soul who’d been holding himself like a stone for a long time.