Time… they say it heals all wounds.

But does it really?

Do wounds truly heal, or do we just learn to live with them?

And some wounds, they fester—turn into poison that seeps through your soul… every moment, every breath.

---

Five Years Later

South Kashmir, Jammu & Kashmir

Five armored army vehicles raced along the winding road, cutting through the stillness of the valley like a blade through silk. Their urgent speed made it evident—something had once again ignited the smoldering heart of the valley.

As the convoy approached a sparsely populated stretch, their pace slowed. The area wasn't deserted—there were scattered houses, and ahead, perched at a dignified distance, stood a palatial home.

It was breathtaking—an estate surrounded by towering chinar trees, flanked by blooming apple orchards, and enclosed within a vibrant, manicured garden that looked like something out of a dream. But beauty wasn’t all that enclosed the house.

Indian Army troops had surrounded it, joined by the Jammu & Kashmir Police and the CRPF’s Anti-Terror Wing. This house—this picture of peace—had become a war zone.

Four heavily armed militants were holed up inside. The family had been taken hostage. The encounter had been raging for two days straight. And the house—it was no ordinary residence.

It belonged to Raqeeb Ahmed Dar, a powerful man, heir to generations of wealth and influence. Three years ago, he had won the District Development Council elections with a landslide and was currently serving as the District President. His politics advocated for Kashmiriyat—rooted in identity, yet loyal to the Indian state. Often seen lobbying in Delhi’s political corridors, he was a respected voice: nationalistic, yet deeply committed to his people.

That voice had made him a target—multiple times. But each time, he had narrowly escaped.

This time, he wasn’t the target.

His family was.

While he was away in Delhi.

Inside that grand house were his elderly mother, his wife, two daughters, and a son—held captive.

As gunshots and grenade blasts echoed through the valley, the armored vehicles halted just beyond the house. A swarm of media personnel was already there—risking life and limb for the next “exclusive.”

To the military, the media at an encounter site was often a bigger nuisance than the militants themselves.

From the formation of the convoy, it was clear—a high-ranking officer had arrived to assess the situation. The doors flung open and masked commandos spilled out, weapons raised and senses sharp.

One of them moved to open the central vehicle. But before he could, the door swung open on its own.

Sangram stepped out.

He sliced through the media like a knife—his presence as sharp, as commanding as ever.

That same rigid demeanor. That same death-like silence surrounding him.

But something had changed.

“As you can see on your screens right now,” a reporter began, excitement crackling in his voice, “five armored army vehicles have just arrived at the site. These appear to be Special Forces. A senior Army officer has arrived. It seems the next phase of the operation—”

He couldn’t finish.

One of Sangram’s commandos turned sharply, glaring at the reporter and signaling him to stop.

When the camera didn’t stop rolling, the commando marched forward.

“Do you even understand whose side you're on?” he barked.

“You think you’re spreading awareness? You're compromising the lives of hostages and the soldiers trying to save them. If you love breaking news so much, pick up a rifle and join us.”

Before the stunned journalist could respond, Sangram’s voice rang out like a commandment—

“Clear this area. Get the media out. Now.”

That was all it took.

Within minutes, the media was cleared out.

Major Rahul Arya approached Sangram quickly—he’d been leading the local operation.

“Jai Hind, sir! We weren’t expecting you in person,” he saluted.

“Latest update?” Sangram returned the salute, already sliding gloves over his hands.

As Major Arya briefed him, Sangram loaded his weapons. He was readying himself—calmly, methodically.

“Sir… are you going inside yourself?” the Major asked, startled.

He’d heard stories about Sangram Singh Sanger—the living legend. They had crossed paths before, but never in combat.

“You’re coming with me. Let’s run a quick briefing.” Sangram’s voice was crisp.

Arya nodded, gathering a team of four to move in alongside Sangram’s unit.

The plan was sharp—enter through the back, where apple crates were stored in a set of storerooms. From there, they’d sweep the two-story house floor by floor. Outside, cover fire would distract the terrorists—keep them focused away from the breach.

As they geared up, Major Arya couldn’t take his eyes off Sangram.

He had heard that Sangram never led from the rear.

“The first bullet touches him,” soldiers whispered,

“Only then does it reach the rest of us.”

But now, it seemed—even bullets feared touching him.

---

They slipped through the storeroom entrance—rifles raised to shoulder level, footsteps muffled to ghostly whispers.

Two teams split up—one ascending to the upper floor. Communication devices in their ears linked them, every movement relayed, every breath accounted for.

Arya’s team paused outside a room upstairs—soft sobs could be heard from within.

He raised his fingers, counting down—five, four, three, two, one.

At one, two soldiers rammed the door open.

Inside, cowering behind an old trunk, were Raqeeb Dar’s mother and wife, stifling their sobs with trembling hands.

The soldiers lowered their guns.

Arya swept the room. Once clear, he signaled his men to assist the women and radioed Sangram:

“We’ve got the mother and wife. No sign of the kids. All clear on this floor.”

That could mean only one thing—the children and the remaining terrorists were still below.

“Get the family out,” Sangram ordered.

He himself advanced down the narrow corridor—alone.

He gestured silently—his team fanned out behind him. The door ahead was shut. He pressed his ear to it—nothing.

Outside, the gunfire had stopped. That silence spoke volumes. The terrorists knew.

They knew the Army was inside.

And they were waiting.

Sangram signaled. His men breached the door.

Bullets rained immediately—violent, unrelenting. Sangram’s shoulder took a hit, the round tearing through muscle.

But two of the militants fell in the return fire.

He scanned the room.

No children.

The remaining two militants had slipped through a side door, using the chaos to their advantage. Sangram held his position with two commandos while signaling the others to circle around from the alternate corridor.

Only one room remained unchecked.

His team peeled off. Sangram turned toward the last door, following the trail of the terrorists. Every step he took was deliberate. Silent. Like a predator.

Then—

Gunfire from the darkness.

Sangram and his two men hit the wall beside the door, taking cover.

A few minutes later, the gunfire ceased.

Silence fell like a curtain.

Inside the dimly lit house, not even the sound of breath could be heard. Sangram raised his hand, a silent command. The commandos, weapons drawn and nerves like steel wires, began to move—each step precise, synchronized, like the ticking of a lethal clock.

As they entered the room, they found the terrorists crawling toward the window like wounded animals. Bloodied and broken, both of them had dragged themselves there with unimaginable effort, their clothes soaked in sweat and crimson.

Sangram didn’t hesitate.

Two shots. One bullet to each leg. The thuds of their bodies slamming against the floor followed like punctuation to a statement of wrath. One of them reached for his rifle, desperation in his eyes—but Sangram was already there. With the agility of a wild predator, he snatched the weapon away, flipped it, and brought the butt down with brutal force across the man’s face. The crack echoed in the room like a gavel of judgment.

Just then, a message crackled through Sangram’s radio.

“The children are safe. We found them... but not in any room. They were hiding in the basement.”

Raqeeb Ahmed Dar had transformed his home into a labyrinth of rooms—some connected, some deliberately disjointed, all designed with paranoia and precision. He had always known that if he himself wasn't the target, his family would be. After all, to them, he was a kafir—a blasphemer. And kafirs... aren’t meant to live.

Back in the room, hand-to-hand combat had erupted.

Sangram versus the last fragments of resistance.

It was savage. Raw. No guns now—just instincts, muscle, and fury. The terrorists were clawing for any chance to escape, but standing in their way was a man who was no longer just a soldier. He was a storm in uniform.

One of them, eyes wild, pulled a knife from somewhere deep in his boot and lunged.

Sangram twisted back, narrowly avoiding the blade, then locked the man in a chokehold so tight it seemed forged from iron. His forearm looped around the terrorist’s neck like a noose. With a single motion, Sangram snatched the knife from the attacker’s hand and drove it across his throat in a clean, decisive slash.

His eyes—now pools of bloodlust—turned to the second man, who lay trembling on the ground, paralyzed with terror.

The operation was over. Flawless. Not a single civilian casualty.

And then... silence again.

When Sangram finally stepped out of the house, time seemed to slow. All eyes turned to him—stunned, reverent, afraid. Even Major Arya stood still, eyes locked on him with something between awe and unease.

There was blood on Sangram’s face. Blood on his uniform. But everyone there knew—it wasn’t his.

Major Arya gave a subtle nod.

Two soldiers quietly fell in behind Sangram, each carrying a bottle of water, their footsteps cautious, as if approaching a god just returned from war.

"You know what they say," one of the soldiers whispered to the other, eyes still glued to Sangram. "If Lieutenant Colonel Sangram Singh Sanger shows up in an op, it’s not war... it’s tandav—the dance of destruction. He’s chaos in human form. Ever since Operation Bawandar, when he lost his whole team five years ago, he’s been tearing through terrorists like a wounded lion. What a bloodbath he creates, man... what a storm!"

The other soldier nodded, not daring to speak.

Suddenly, Sangram glanced over his shoulder.

Both soldiers froze mid-step.

Drenched in blood, lit by the morning sun like some mythical demon out of folklore, Sangram looked terrifying.

“Sir... water... your face...” one of them finally managed, holding out a bottle with trembling hands.

Sangram took it, stepped aside, and washed his face slowly. The blood ran down in rivulets, fading into the dust below.

And just like that, the monster faded.

The soldiers exhaled.

Looking at his clean face—calm, human once more—they felt as though they had just watched a beast transform back into a man.