The icy winds of Kulgam, South Kashmir, howled through the narrow streets, as Major Siddharth Iyer crouched behind the jagged edge of a crumbling stone wall. His breath, controlled and steady, puffed in the freezing night air. The mission was straightforward. It was supposed to be a clean sweep. Operation Black Frost. Civilians were harboring terrorists in their homes. The objective was clear: infiltrate, identify, neutralize. Get in. Get out. No witnesses.

The plan had been set. Siddharth’s team, Commandos Anil Deshmukh and Ravi Rajput, along with a few others, moved under the cover of darkness, synchronized like the gears of a well-oiled machine. But the plan was based on bad intel. A false information from an insider who had misled them all.

"Team, house three. The target’s inside. Prepare for breach." Siddharth’s voice was calm, authoritative. He led from the front, a man whose name was synonymous with precision and speed. They’d all heard the whispers: Falcon. A nickname given to Siddharth, not only because he was the fastest, or the strongest, but because of his eyes.
Siddharth Iyer had the uncanny ability to see things before they happened—routes, sniper nests, escape windows. He didn’t guess; he observed. And when he moved, he did so with the silence and precision of a predator. Cold. Calculated. Unflinching.
But tonight, he had misjudged. “Clear!” shouted Anil as he peered into the darkened windows of the house. The commandos moved swiftly, opening the door with practiced ease. But as they did, the unmistakable sound of gunfire erupted from an unexpected direction. Siddharth’s pulse quickened, and he raised a fist to halt the team’s advance. “Contact left! Not house three, house four!” Anil shouted, but it was already too late. A burst of AK-47 fire erupted from an upper window in House Four, the next building over. A few of Siddharth’s men, caught off-guard, ducked for cover. “Abort breach! Abort breach!” Siddharth barked into the comms, but the command was lost in the chaos.

The situation spiraled quickly out of control. Siddharth’s heart pounded as he assessed the scene. There were civilians inside House Four. He could see them now, their frightened faces pressed against the window. A woman holding a child, both of them caught in the middle of a firefight they had no part in. And then, the sound he would never forget—the child’s scream as the grenade landed. The blast was deafening. The building was rocked. The world seemed to pause for a moment before the bitter cold silence followed.

Siddharth crawled forward, his eyes wide with disbelief. The child. The woman. The mission had failed. Civilians dead. And he had been the one to give the order. The explosion was his fault. "Damn it!" Siddharth slammed his fist into the snow. He had made the call. He had messed up.

Later, in the sterile confines of the military office, the report went through the motions: “Three terrorists neutralized. Three civilians dead. Mission Failure.”

Siddharth had always prided himself on his sharp instincts. Falcon, they called him unbeatable. But today, he was just a man who had made the wrong choice, and people were dead because of it. The army had ordered a Court of Inquiry, and the investigation was swift. The results were clear: a court-martial was inevitable. Betrayal was whispered, though no one said it aloud. Someone inside had sold them out. But just before the hammer could fall, there was an unexpected intervention.

Aditya Mishra, Colonel in the Indian Army, entered Siddharth’s room. His tall, imposing figure was often a reminder to Siddharth of the weight of military discipline. But there was more to Aditya than what met the eye. “I’ve spoken to them, Siddharth,” Aditya said, his voice low, like he had seen this coming. “You’re acquitted,” He said flatly. “No charges. But don’t mistake this for absolution.”

Siddharth looked up, his voice hollow. “Three civilians, Sir. That was my call.”

Aditya’s eyes were hard, though his tone softened just enough to cut through. “You know why they call you Falcon? Not for speed. Not for precision. For instinct. You’ll find your way back, because that’s who you are.”

Siddharth’s jaw tightened. “I don’t know if I believe that anymore.”

Aditya didn’t flinch. “Believe it or don’t. The Army can forgive one mistake. The enemy won’t. Wars don’t end at the border, Major. RAW fights the wars you’ll never see.”

He pulled a sealed envelope from his coat and set it on the table, the insignia of the Research and Analysis Wing stamped across it.

“Think about it,” Aditya said, turning to leave. “In the Army, loyalty is enough. In RAW, survival demands more.”

Siddharth’s brow furrowed in confusion. “RAW?”

“Yeah.Research and Analysis Wing. The real deal. You’ll be an asset there.” Aditya paused. “Trust me. You’ve seen things, done things, that the Army can’t take any longer. But in RAW, they’ll use that… and they won’t ask questions.”

 It was clear, this was more than just an offer. This was a recruitment, an invitation to something bigger than what he had ever imagined. But Siddharth wasn’t ready yet. Not after the mission. Not after the failure. “I’ll think about it,” he said, his voice steady, but his eyes betrayed a hint of uncertainty.

Aditya didn’t push further. “Take your time, Major. But know this: the world doesn’t wait. And neither do the people who will need you.”

***

Meanwhile, in RAW’s Operations Room In an abandoned surveillance room, Joint Secretary Arvind Sinha moved methodically between the cluttered desk and the wall. The room was filled with the faint scent of dust and stale air, untouched by time. Arvind walked towards the old corkboard, the one that no one else used. It was a wall of red string and pinned photos. Faces of spies, agents, operatives, some alive, some dead. One face stood out.

Major Siddharth Iyer
Age: 35
Status: Acquitted
Potential: High

Underneath the pinned photograph was a handwritten note: “Recruit him.” It was signed simply with two words. The Ghost.

Arvind stared at the note for a moment. The Ghost was a name whispered among the highest ranks of RAW, a figure so elusive that no one had ever seen him or confirmed his existence. Some even thought he was a myth, a figment of legend. But whoever The Ghost was, he had already made his choice. He had been watching Siddharth for longer than anyone realized. And now, RAW would find out if Falcon was truly ready for the shadows.