The dusty fan above creaked softly, cutting the heavy silence that clung to Major Siddharth Iyer's army quarters like a second skin. A near-empty bottle of Old Monk stood defiantly on the table, accompanied by a single glass, untouched. The only sound in the room was the faint rattle of the ceiling fan and the soft rustling of paper as Siddharth twirled the envelope between his fingers.

Siddharth leaned back into the aging wooden chair, his jaw set, eyes scanning the lifeless walls. The betrayal still burned. His last mission, the ambush, the screams of his brothers-in-arms, the metallic taste of blood in snow. He had trusted the intel, trusted command. And in return, someone had fed him lies.

Despite the court-martial, he had walked free—thanks to Colonel Aditya Mishra, his immediate supervisor. A man whose calm exterior belied a shrewd, calculating mind. Siddharth owed him more than just his freedom. Still, the scars ran deep. To wear the uniform and be betrayed by it. It was a wound pride couldn't ignore.

He stared at the envelope one last time, then set it down.

Fifteen minutes later, he picked up his phone and dialed.

"Sir," he said, voice steady. "I'm ready."

***

Aditya Mishra was waiting outside in a modest white Bolero. No military tags, no insignias. He wore civilian clothes—a white shirt over black slacks, and a steel watch that glinted faintly under the sun. Tall, lean, with short cropped salt-and-pepper hair and a neatly kept moustache, he looked nothing like the man Siddharth once took orders from on the battlefield.

Aditya gave a faint smile as Siddharth stepped into the passenger seat. "Good choice," he said simply, starting the engine.

"Do I get to know where we’re going, or are we doing this the RAW way already?" Siddharth asked, half-serious.

Aditya chuckled, eyes on the road. "You’ll see."

***

They arrived at a weathered, two-storey building nestled between a tea shop and a godown on a narrow old street in Delhi. The board above read in faded red letters: Shree Laxmi Press – Offset & Binding. The shutters were half-down, and a tangle of wires hung from a nearby pole like vines.

"A printing press?" Siddharth frowned.

Aditya opened the car door. "Best place to hide secrets is where no one bothers to look. Come."

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of ink and paper. Old printing machines clanked rhythmically. Men in dusty vests moved about casually, carrying reams of paper and boxes. A short, stocky man with glasses perched precariously on his nose sat at a wooden desk in the far corner, flipping through proofs.

He looked up as they entered.

"The Colonel’s brought a reader?" he said with a raised brow, eyeing Siddharth.

Aditya smiled. "Only if he learns how to bind."

The man grinned. "Then you’ve come to the right page."

Siddharth caught on quickly—code.

The man stood up. "I’m Sanjay Bhatia. Deputy Director here." He extended a calloused hand. "And this press? It only prints truths."

Siddharth shook his hand firmly. Sanjay was in his early 40s, with a mop of messy hair tied loosely at the back and a sharp gaze that missed nothing. There was something rogue about him—like a hawk pretending to be a pigeon.

He pulled aside a wooden partition and led them to the back wall, then tapped twice on a bookshelf. It creaked open, revealing a hidden staircase spiraling downward.

Siddharth blinked. "Seriously? A secret staircase behind a bookshelf?"

Sanjay shrugged. "What can I say, Raghav has a flair for the dramatic."

The Chief Editor's office sat beneath the façade of the printing press. It wasn’t lavish—just a clean, cold room with steel filing cabinets, a world map littered with colored pins, and a massive oak desk. Behind it sat Raghav Malhotra.

He was around fifty, with silver-streaked hair combed neatly to the side and a calm, unreadable expression. His posture was relaxed, but there was weight in the way he carried his silence. A spymaster who no longer walked the shadows—but controlled them.

He looked up from a file as the door shut.

"So you’re the Falcon," he said, studying Siddharth.

Siddharth stood tall, chest proud, the years in uniform visible in every inch of his stance.

"Sir," he nodded.

"You know why they call him the Falcon?" Aditya said lightly to Sanjay.

"Because he sees everything before it hits?"

"Because in Kashmir, a sniper once claimed Siddharth moved like a shadow with wings. Shot three insurgents before they could even turn. They never saw him coming."

Raghav leaned back. "The Army lost you. Their mistake. Ours to gain."

Siddharth remained quiet. Raghav studied him from across the table, fingers steepled under his chin. “How’s Kashmir treating your conscience?”

“Still loud,” Siddharth muttered, eyes distant. “The kind of noise that doesn’t need sound.”

Raghav nodded slowly, then leaned forward, voice low but deliberate.
“You ever heard of The Ghost, Major?”

Siddharth blinked, caught off guard. “The Ghost? That some codename?”

A small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of Raghav’s lips. “Not just some codename. He's RAW’s ghost in the wind. Unseen. Untouched. Unmatched. There’s not a soul in this agency who doesn’t know the legend.”

Siddharth’s curiosity stirred. “So, who is he? A myth?”

“No myth,” Raghav said coolly, swirling the glass of water in his hand. “He exists. Or existed. No one knows. No face. No paper trail. Only a trail of bodies—each one marked with a trishul scar. Three-pronged. Precise. Like some divine executioner carved it himself.”

Siddharth frowned. “A trident? Like a symbol?”

“Exactly,” Raghav said, his tone sharpening. “Some say it’s carved post-mortem. Others believe he wields a custom blade—strikes once, and the mark stays forever. Either way, that scar means one thing: India neutralized its threat. Efficiently. Silently.”

Siddharth was silent for a beat, absorbing the weight behind the words. “And RAW just… lets him operate?”

Raghav chuckled. “RAW doesn’t let him. RAW needs him. Recruits still speak of him like he's God. Hell, even seasoned agents keep a photo of that trishul mark as a reminder: loyalty is life, betrayal is death.”

“Sounds like the man I’d want beside me in a war.”

Raghav leaned closer, his gaze now deadly serious. “No, Major. You’d want to make sure you’re never on his list.”

"I won’t give you speeches, Major. You’ve been burned. We know. That’s why I’m handing you something simple but urgent. You’ll work this one alone."

He pushed a folder across the desk.

"There’s credible intel. Sleeper cells are planning to target the Ganesh Chaturthi procession in Bangalore. Thousands of people, one single blast, mass panic. Our sources say the group’s leader is embedded in a major marketing firm there."

Siddharth opened the folder. Surveillance photos. A building. Employee IDs. Maps. One photo had a red circle drawn around a man’s face but no name.

"We’re planting you as an executive in the company. We’ll forge educational records, employment history and everything. In the system, you’ll be Siddharth Iyer, MBA in Digital Strategy."

Siddharth arched a brow. "MBA?"

Raghav cracked a small smile. "We make spies out of worse. You’ll be on long leave from the Army. Unofficially, of course."

"And the mission?"

"Find the handler. Neutralize. Quietly. No glory. No medals. Just results."

Siddharth closed the folder and looked up. "When do I leave?"

"You’ve already left, Major," Sanjay said, walking to the side cabinet. He pulled out a duffel bag and tossed it to Siddharth. "Welcome to RAW."

Siddharth caught it. Outside, the hum of the printing press resumed. Machines clattered in the press above, printing books that no one would ever read. But in the basement below, RAW was scripting a story that would never make the headlines. And at the heart of it stood the Falcon.

Eyes sharp. Wings folded. Waiting to strike.