Location: Indo-Kyrgyz Border — Supply Corridor Omega
The snow didn't fall here.It stabbed.
Convoys moved slow through the frozen pass. Old tanks wrapped in camo nets. Soldiers on foot, boots crunching like glass. Above them, silent drones blinked red, keeping watch over the most important lifeline left — Corridor Omega — the artery keeping Akhand Bharat alive from the Soviet side.
Food. Ammo. Fuel. Hope.
Until today.
"Movement at ridge," whispered the recon trooper.
Shoonya didn't answer.
He stood still, wrapped in frost-covered combat gear. His left eye scanned infrared. He could see the shape forming behind the cliffs — big, brutal, fast.
Then the first blast hit.
The lead truck vanished — one second it was there, the next just smoke and blood. Bodies flew. No warning. No sound. Just impact.
Shoonya dove sideways, rolled behind a snow-dipped armored car. Screams tore through the blizzard.
"Artillery?!" someone yelled.
"No. Missiles."
Then came the cresting sound. The echo of steel on ice.
Soviet tanks.
Rolling down the ridge with their flags already replaced — no tricolor, no peace signs. Just black and red banners, painted with something that wasn't mud.
Soviet forces. Firing on Indian supply lines.
Friendly fire? No.
This was betrayal.
Deliberate.
Shoonya's comm crackled. Static. Then a deep Russian voice:
"To General Shoorya Sen. Corridor Omega is now under Federation authority. Step back, or be cleansed."
He muted the line.
"Return fire."
His unit hesitated. "They're… they're allies."
Shoonya turned.
"No. They're ghosts wearing friend masks. Kill them before they wear yours."
The reply came with rockets.
Soviet shells pounded the hill. A battalion of Indian soldiers ran, slid, screamed — half of them didn't even carry ammo. This wasn't a fight. It was slaughter.
Shoonya moved like a shadow — not yelling, not commanding — just ending.His rifle barked six times. Six Soviets dropped. Cold. Done.
He planted charges on a frozen cliffside. Timed it with precision. The whole thing collapsed — burying one enemy flank under 100 tons of ice.
Still not enough.
He looked to the sky.
Two Indian gunships above. Hovering. Engines loud. But they didn't fire.
They turned.
Left him.
Left them.
Gone.
Orders from command?
Probably.
Or maybe there was no command left.
Within hours, the corridor was gone.
So were four hundred Indian troops.
Shoonya barely crawled out, dragging two survivors, their faces half-melted from fuel burns.
He didn't cry.
He didn't scream.
He just pulled a black cloth from his pocket. Wiped the blood off his rifle.
Then he carved a new message into the snow, with boot and fire:
TRUST NO FLAGS.
The Soviet Federation had flipped.
But they hadn't counted on one thing.
Shoonya was still alive.