Location: Sector 17, Bunker Transition Point, Akhand Bharat
Two days before hell.
Everything felt off.
Delhi looked like a war ghost already. Streets were empty. No kids, no shops, no chai stalls. Every few minutes, alarms echoed through cracked speakers. People didn't even flinch anymore. They just walked — bags on backs, tags around necks, orders in their hands.
Mock drills, they called it.
Truth? Everyone knew it wasn't practice anymore. Cities were shutting down in layers. Power cuts. No internet. Phones buzzing with emergency codes.
Shoonya stood in the middle of it. Still. Watching.
A train below screamed as it dragged more families underground. One-way ticket to the bunkers.
He didn't move. Didn't blink.
"Feels like the world's already dead," a voice said behind him.
Shoonya turned.
An old man, limping, grey uniform faded from wars no one even remembered. His medals were gone. Only the scars remained.
General Ajit Rathore.
He was a fossil. One of the last men alive who'd seen wars before they went nuclear.
"You're Shoorya Sen," the old man muttered. "I knew your father."
Shoonya didn't answer.
Ajit lit a match, stared at the flame. "They trained you to kill. Not to think. That's why I'm talking."
Shoonya raised a brow.
"Tell me," Ajit said, "Do you know what Pakistan was?"
Shoonya shrugged. "An enemy."
Ajit laughed. "That's what they taught you. But it wasn't. Not always."
He pointed at the cracked land across the map.
"Pakistan was India. A piece torn out by men in suits. British bastards drew lines like they were playing tic-tac-toe. Same soil. Same blood. Same gods. Then they burned it into hate."
Shoonya stayed silent.
"They erased it from your books," Ajit said. "From your screens. Said it was always 'the other side'. Lies. All of it. Your ancestors, boy... they died not killing Pakistanis. They died as Pakistanis. As Indians."
Shoonya's fingers tightened around his belt.
"Now it's gone," Ajit whispered. "Wiped in seconds. No flags left. Just dust."
Shoonya didn't flinch. "Was it necessary?"
Ajit didn't smile. "You tell me, soldier. Did the nuke make us safer?"
Silence.
"Akhand Bharat," Ajit muttered. "It means 'undivided India'. But we divided it ourselves. Over borders. Over lies. Now, we're the last ones standing — barely."
Behind them, more families were loaded into trucks. One kid looked up — maybe five years old — and saluted Shoonya.
He didn't salute back.
Ajit leaned in close. "Two days, boy. And then this whole planet will bleed. They'll call it victory, but it'll just be more names in the dirt."
Shoonya looked at the sky — dark, quiet, fake.
Then turned away.
"History's dead," he muttered. "I don't care about the past. Only about who's left to finish the job."
Ajit didn't stop him. Just stared as Shoonya vanished into the bunker maze.