The CGS base never truly slept.Floodlights sliced through the dark, sweeping across walls lined with razor wire. The low hum of generators mixed with shouted orders and the occasional crack of a rifle in the distance — a reminder that death still lurked beyond the fences.
Ayush watched it all from the barracks window. Even after months inside, his mind refused to accept the illusion of safety. His side still ached when he breathed too deep — a gift from Rahul's rooftop ambush — but pain had become an old friend now.
His eyes scanned every guard tower, every routine patrol shift. He noted who looked alert, who looked bored, who might be bribed.
Leon moved like a phantom in the shadows. During the day, he was a model trainer — teaching new recruits to shoot, how to move, how to listen to wind patterns over ruined city blocks. But at night, he reported to Ayush in whispers: troop morale, rations shortages, the hidden cracks beneath Raj Singh's iron leadership.
Suraj, meanwhile, had become something else entirely. In the earliest weeks, he discovered an abandoned maintenance shaft behind a forgotten storage room. With Ayush's quiet approval, he expanded it, building a hidden network beneath the base — a breathing artery of smuggled weapons, black-market medicine, and even desperate refugees who could pay enough to disappear.
But it wasn't easy. Every shipment risked exposure. A single slip, a single rat among the guards, and the entire underground would burn.
Suraj grew harder, more guarded. He stopped joking during ration lines. His hands, once steady, began to tremble when he was alone. At night, he sometimes scribbled on old scraps of paper — exit plans, fake identities, routes out of Delhi if it all fell apart.
Kartik never fully healed. He still took guard shifts on the high walls, but some nights he'd break down, sobbing quietly into the dark. Ayush checked on him regularly, forcing him to eat, to sleep, to hold his rifle the right way. Kartik began calling Ayush "Bhai" — brother — a bond deeper than blood now.
Shivam and Riya found a fragile peace. Arguments flared and cooled like dying coals, but they stayed together. During water distribution, they would exchange small jokes, hiding their fear in shared glances.
Ananya, unable to bear the monotonous routines and stifling walls, often snuck into Ayush's room. Their moments together were quiet — no grand declarations, just hands tangled together and the warmth of shared breath in the cold nights.
"You ever think we'll see the sea again?" she whispered once, her fingers tracing the scars on his chest.
"Someday," Ayush lied softly. He watched her drift to sleep, each exhale a fragile promise that tomorrow would still come.
Leon never stopped watching the man from the bus — fourth row, middle left. The man called himself Tarun, claimed to be a wandering exile. But Leon noticed the way Tarun positioned himself near comms equipment, how his eyes darted over patrol maps posted in the mess hall.
"He's planning something," Leon whispered to Ayush one night, rain hammering the barrack roof. "BSA eyes never truly close."
"Let him make the first move," Ayush replied, voice low but certain. "We aren't the prey anymore."
Weeks turned into months. The infected still haunted the streets outside, breaking through in random waves. Some nights, alarms shrieked as hordes crashed against the outer walls, forcing all guards to line up shoulder-to-shoulder, rifles barking into the dark.
Kartik almost died once, pulled back from the edge by Leon's quick hands. After that, he began carrying an old photo of his school friends in his pocket — a small anchor to a world that no longer existed.
Colonel Raj Singh remained a looming figure — respected but increasingly paranoid. He doubled patrols, rationed water harshly, and occasionally purged supposed "traitors" with public punishments. The rich still thrived in upper quarters, throwing private parties where music drifted down like poisoned honey.
Suraj's empire nearly crumbled after one of his couriers was caught smuggling antibiotics. The young runner was executed on the main square, blood soaking into the cracked concrete as the base watched in shocked silence.
That night, Suraj almost vanished. But Ayush found him near the tunnel entrance, fingers bloody from clawing at the walls, eyes wild.
"I'm done," Suraj choked out, shaking. "I can't… I can't carry this anymore."
Ayush grabbed his collar, forced him against the wall. "Look at me. You think I don't see your fear? You're alive because you're smarter than them. Stronger than them. You stop now, we all die — together."
Suraj wept, then finally nodded. When Ayush let him go, he sank to the floor, chest heaving. From that night on, Suraj hardened further — no more open trades, only select trusted runners, each sworn to secrecy under threat of death.
BSA radio silence stretched on. No squads. No Uncrowned King. Just rumors of distant conflicts, fractured commands, and internal betrayals. But Ayush knew better — silence was never safety, only the prelude to something worse.
Years passed like sand slipping through bloody fingers.
Delhi decayed further, its skyline a skeletal silhouette under red sunsets. Children born inside the base had never seen an open street. Festivals in the upper quarters grew louder and crueler, while those below lived on half rations and black-market water.
Ayush and Ananya grew even closer. They didn't marry — there was no priest, no law. But every scar they shared, every whispered promise, every exhausted embrace felt stronger than any vow.
Leon stayed at Ayush's side, his quiet loyalty unbreakable. Some nights on the wall, they shared smuggled cigarettes, staring at the stars.
"Five years," Leon said once, flicking ash over the parapet. "We outlived them all."
"Not yet," Ayush replied, his voice distant. "The real war is never over."
Leon smirked faintly. "That's why I stuck with you. You never lie to yourself."
In the shadows below, Suraj kept his tunnel alive — an artery of last chances for those brave or desperate enough to run. Kartik, steadier now, became a quiet guardian of outer walls. Shivam and Riya tended to the sick and wounded, small candles of hope flickering in dark corners.
And always, Ayush watched. Waited. The Ghost they once called Joel now more myth than man — a silent architect of survival beneath walls meant to imprison them.
Every night, as the floodlights flickered and the wind carried distant howls, Ayush stood on the roof. He would close his eyes and listen. Not just to the city's decay — but to the steady heartbeats of his people below.
In those fragile rhythms, he found the only truth left in the world:
They were alive.
And that, for now, was enough.