Chapter-1: The Aftermath

2 months ago

aakanksha4

@aakanksha4

The weight of that night still clung to the Emergency Task Force like a thick, choking fog. The fluorescent lights overhead hummed incessantly, indifferent to the broken souls that moved beneath them.

The ETF building, abandoned for over a year after the attack, still bore the invisible scars of that day. The temporary office they had used since then had lacked the pulse of their real home. Today, they were back - back to the ghosts that refused to leave.

Sameer Rathore stood alone in the conference room, the familiar creak of the leather chair sounding deafening in the silence. His fingers traced the edges of a photo frame, the glass cracked, but the smiles inside untouched.

"We were invincible," he thought bitterly.

Sameer had been the first to step into the carnage that day. Minutes after celebrating a successful operation against Sikander's aide, Pathan Lala, he had returned to find his team — Ayesha, Sakshi, and Lisa — captured, tortured, murdered.

He should have been there.

A leader protects.

But he hadn't.

Now, every decision, every breath he took was a reminder of that failure. He clenched his jaw, shoving the guilt down where it festered quietly.

---

Shree sat hunched over the tech station, the blue light of the monitors washing over his tired face. His glasses slipped down his nose, unnoticed.

He was the mind behind their security, their shield against the unseen.

He had failed.

The system he built — his pride — had crumbled when it mattered most. One vulnerability, one small gap, and the enemy had slipped through like a knife between ribs.

"If I hadn't taken the cameras offline… If I had checked again…"

The endless "what-ifs" gnawed at him. Sleep was a luxury he hadn't allowed himself since.

The monitors beeped softly. He wiped his face roughly. Codes couldn't resurrect the dead.

---

Chotu sat in the gym, fists pounding against the punching bag, each blow a desperate attempt to silence the screams in his mind.

Commando. Protector.

But when it had truly mattered, he had arrived too late.

The images were seared into his memory— Sakshi's lifeless smile, Lisa's broken form, Ayesha's final breath escaping in his arms.

He had carried them out, but not to safety. To coffins.

He struck the bag harder, feeling the skin split across his knuckles. Physical pain was a welcome distraction from the gaping wound inside.

"Protect. Save. Fail."

The words were a chant, a curse.

---

Arjun Rawte sat in the darkened corner of the ETF lounge, a half-empty glass in his hand.

ACP Arjun Rawte.

The man who could outthink any criminal, anticipate any move.

Except when it had mattered most.

He had been coordinating from outside, relying on systems and plans that crumbled like paper against a storm. The last thing he saw through the broken feed was the terrified faces of his team mates as the enemy closed in.

He had barged into the bloodbath too late. Their deaths weren't quick or painless. He had seen it.

Felt it.

Lived it. Again and again.

The guilt of Roshni's death had nearly drowned him once. Losing his team shattered whatever pieces of him were left.

"Hope is a fool's luxury," he muttered, downing the last of his drink.

---

Each man, trapped in his private hell, tried to survive the aftermath.

Sameer buried himself in leadership and paperwork, wearing duty like armour.

Shree buried himself in codes and wires, trying to build systems that could never undo the past.

Chotu buried himself in relentless physical training, hoping strength could erase memory.

Arjun buried himself in rage and alcohol, building walls so high even he forgot what lay behind them.

They didn't speak of that day. They didn't speak of the ghosts that hovered in the corners of rooms and behind their eyelids when they dared to close them.

The unspoken vow was clear: "Never again."

But vows made on broken hearts are fragile things.

---

The room crackled with silence; a hundred conversations left unsaid.

Outside the ETF, life moved on. Festivals, promotions, awards.

Inside these walls, time had frozen on a single bloody day.

Sameer finally stood, dropping the photo frame onto the desk with a hollow clink. His voice, rough with disuse, broke the silence:

"We rebuild. Or we fall apart. Choose."

And one by one, the men stood. Broken, bleeding inside, but not ready — not yet — to give up the fight.

The ghosts would walk with them.

But so would the memories of promises once made. Promises still kept, in the blood and bone of those who remained.

Even if the price was their own humanity.

The Emergency Task Force would rise.

But the cost would be far more than any of them yet understood.

---

Author's note:

Hey everyone!

If you’re reading this… wow. Just thank you. This story began 11 years ago, written by a starry-eyed 13-year-old who had way more ideas than writing experience (and probably a questionable grasp of punctuation). Life happened, as it does, and I had to leave it unfinished. But now—plot twist!—I’m back to finally give this story the ending it deserves.

To all the lovely readers who used to follow this way back when: I've tried to track down as many of you as I could and send you the link like a very determined story-carrying owl. 🦉 And if I have disturbed you or you are no longer interested or even worse, you are still angry for going MIA, I'm sorry!

And if you're a new reader just hopping in: welcome aboard! There's a lot of heart in here, both old and new.

If you’re interested in sticking around for the rest of the ride, please follow the story—it makes it so much easier to keep you updated when new chapters drop (and yes, I will be updating). The frequency of those updates might just depend on the response, so your likes and especially your comments really help fuel the fire! 🔥

Don’t forget to share your thoughts—whether it’s a deep analysis or “OMG THEY DID WHAT?!” I genuinely want to hear it all.

Let’s see this story through, together.

With nostalgia, excitement, and way too many open tabs,
A