The once-thriving hospital was now nothing more than a mountain of debris and ash, a grim monument to tragedy. Smoke hung thick in the air as the Rescue Force tirelessly combed through the wreckage, pulling out survivors and retrieving bodies. The cries of the injured mixed with the groans of metal and the crackling remnants of fire, creating a harrowing symphony of despair. Amid this chaos, a frantic call went out from one of the rescuers. They had found something—or rather, someone.
Jogindar Singh, the second-in-command and right-hand man of Inspector Jagannath Saxena, was quick to respond. Tall and broad-shouldered, with a demeanor that balanced authority and compassion, Jogindar had served alongside Jagannath for five years. Their bond was more than professional; they were brothers in arms, confidants, and friends. As he approached the site where the rescuers had gathered, his heart sank.
Jagannath's bloodied body lay amidst the rubble, battered and bruised, his uniform shredded and soaked with blood. His face was pale, his chest eerily still. For a moment, Jogindar froze, disbelief and anger washing over him in waves. Kneeling down, he took Jagannath's cold, limp hand in his own, his head lowering to rest on his friend's chest. A single tear slipped down his cheek, glistening against the grime that covered his face.
"Jagannath," he whispered, his voice breaking. "You can't leave us like this."
Then, faintly, he heard it—a sound so fragile it could easily have been missed: a heartbeat. Faint, irregular, but unmistakably there. Jogindar's eyes widened, and a surge of hope and urgency replaced his despair. He sprang to his feet, carefully but swiftly lifting Jagannath's battered body into his arms. The rescuers looked on, their own spirits lifted by the sight of their second-in-command's resolve.
"Get a stretcher, now!" Jogindar barked, his voice carrying an authority that brooked no hesitation. The stretcher arrived within moments, and Jogindar himself placed Jagannath on it. "Get him to the nearest operational hospital. I want him in surgery within the hour. Move!"
As the medics rushed away with their precious cargo, Jogindar turned back to his team. His face was a mixture of grim determination and simmering rage. He clenched his fists as he surveyed the destruction around him.
"Listen up!" he shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos. "This isn't over! There are still people alive in this rubble, and we're not leaving until every single one of them is accounted for. Spread out, double your efforts, and stay sharp. Whoever did this will pay, but for now, our mission is to save lives!"
The rescuers, galvanized by Jogindar's resolve, nodded in unison. Their exhaustion gave way to a renewed determination, their faith in their leader unshaken. Jogindar himself dove back into the wreckage, his hands tearing through debris, his mind replaying the image of Jagannath's bloodied face.
As he worked, one thought consumed him: this attack wasn't random. It was targeted, calculated, and merciless. He didn't know who was responsible yet, but he swore on his honor and the life of his friend that he would find them—and when he did, they would face the full force of justice.
Far from the chaos of the hospital, in the quiet shadow of the city, a young girl stirred awake in her street home. Still groggy, she felt something soft and warm pressed against her—a puppy. Smiling faintly, she thought it was one of her toys and pulled it close. But the puppy's fur was damp, and as her fingers brushed against it, she noticed something strange. Blood.
The girl sat up abruptly, her sleepy mind jolted into wakefulness. Her mother, hearing her startled gasp, rushed towards the girl from across the street. The woman's eyes went wide as she saw the puppy's blood-streaked fur. For a moment, panic gripped her. Was the animal hurt? Her daughter, ever curious, carefully examined the puppy, but there was no wound to be found.
"Whose blood is this?" the mother whispered, her voice trembling. Then her gaze shifted to the corner of the street area where her daughter sleeps, there a bundle of cloth lay. Her heart skipped a beat. Inside the bundle was a baby—a boy, silent but breathing.
The mother stared at the child in disbelief. "Where did he come from? Who left him here?"
The puppy, seemingly understanding their confusion, began barking insistently. It nudged the woman's leg, pulling at her clothing as if trying to lead her somewhere. Initially reluctant, the woman eventually gave in to the animal's strange behavior, picking up the baby and following the puppy towards the bustling souds of Railway station.
The night air was cold, the streets eerily silent. The puppy led them to a secluded spot near the railway tracks. But when they arrived, there was nothing. No blood, no body, no sign of the nurse who had made her desperate sacrifice to save the child. The woman glanced around, her confusion deepening. How could there be no trace of the horrific scene the puppy seemed so desperate to show them?
Reluctantly, she turned back, cradling the child in her arms. As they walked away, she made a decision. This boy, left with them in such strange and tragic circumstances, would be raised as her own. Her daughter, sensing the weight of the moment, silently nodded her agreement.
Yet, in the distance, a shadow moved. Hidden among the trees, its presence was barely perceptible, but its malevolence was palpable. The figure watched the mother and daughter with cold, unfeeling eyes, its hunger insatiable. It was not human—not entirely. As the family disappeared from view, the shadow melted into the darkness, leaving behind only the faintest trace of its presence: a lingering sense of unease and the distant sound of something feeding.
The world had begun to shift, and the boy's presence marked the center of it all. It was the Assassins! New or Old, rich or poor, young or uncle! No mercy on anyone for mission. Itt was an abolishing deed. They will follow their Devotion for truth and burn those who seek to destroy the 'Truth of Devotion'.