Bela’s apartment was quiet, the silence broken only by the faint hum of the ceiling fan. She sat on the edge of her couch, folding uniforms and placing them neatly into her travel bag. The mission ahead was unlike any she had handled before — not intelligence gathering, not combat, not counter-ops. This time, she was entrusted with something far more delicate: three young lives.

As she zipped one of the smaller compartments, her phone buzzed. A message flashed across the secure group chat — a group of four people who were more than colleagues. They were her family, forged not by blood, but by years of shared missions, dangers, and trust.

Dharam Sir: Bela, ab tabiyat kaisi hai?
Radhika Ma’am: Haan, ab theek hai? Kaun kehta hai barish mein bhig kar training puri karne ko? Zara bhi health ki parwah nahi hai.
Rajan Sir: Aur nahi toh kya, kisne banaya ise agent?

Bela paused, staring at the screen. A small smile broke through her otherwise stoic face. These three had been her pillars through years of service — teasing her like family, scolding her like elders, trusting her like equals. She set the phone down, memories stirring.

.

.

Flashback

The roar of helicopter blades cut through the storm that night. Rain lashed the tarmac as young Bela sprinted across the airstrip, her rifle strapped to her back. At the cockpit, Air Marshal Radhika Agarwal was already strapping in, her expression calm despite the chaos.

“Hop on,” Radhika commanded, voice sharp but steady. “I’ll fly. You cover.”

Bela climbed aboard, gripping her rifle as the helicopter lifted into the stormy sky. Lightning split the clouds as they raced toward the border. Ground forces were pinned down, communication disrupted — and they were the only ones close enough to respond.

“Steady hands, Bela,” Radhika shouted over the roar of the engines. “You fire when I tilt.”

The helicopter swerved low, skimming treetops as enemy fire sparked below. Bela braced herself, heart pounding, eyes locked on her target. With precise bursts, she returned fire, shielding the ground convoy while Radhika maneuvered the aircraft with impossible skill.

For those tense minutes, they were one — pilot and shooter, steel and fire, trust and instinct. When the danger finally cleared, Bela caught her breath, adrenaline still burning. Radhika glanced at her with a rare smile.

“Not bad for a first ride,” she said. “Remember this, Bela. Up here, discipline and trust keep you alive. Never forget that.”

.

.

The jungle at the eastern border was pitch-dark, alive only with the rustle of leaves and the crack of distant gunfire. Bela crouched low, mud streaking her face, as Admiral Rajan Agarwal moved ahead with silent precision. The mission was simple in theory — extract a captured officer before enemy forces closed in. In practice, it was chaos.

They moved like shadows, Rajan’s hand signals guiding her through every step. Bela trusted him without question; he had always been calm in crisis, seeing patterns others missed.

They reached a clearing — too open, too quiet. Instinct prickled in Bela’s veins. And then it came: a single shot rang out.

Rajan barely had time to react before Bela shoved him aside. The bullet tore into her shoulder, spinning her back against a tree. Pain exploded through her body, but her grip on the rifle didn’t falter.

“Bela!” Rajan’s voice cut through the gunfire. He reached for her, but she waved him off, gritting her teeth.

“Go! Get the officer. I’ll cover.”

Rajan didn’t move. For a moment, the man who had commanded fleets stared at her with something rare — fear.

“You’re not my shield,” he said, crouching beside her. “You’re my partner. We both walk out, or neither of us does.”

Bela hissed in pain, eyes locking with his. “Sir, you taught me once — a mission is bigger than the soldier. Don’t make me break that rule.”

Silence hung briefly between them, broken only by the pounding rain. Then Rajan nodded.

They fought back to back that night — Rajan shielding her when her strength faltered, Bela firing through the haze of pain to keep the enemy at bay. Together, they pulled the officer out, staggering into the safe zone as dawn broke.

Later, in the med bay, Rajan stood by her bedside. He didn’t speak much, but when she opened her eyes, she saw it in his expression — gratitude, respect, and something deeper, unspoken.

“You’re reckless,” he muttered. “But if anyone asks, I’ll say you’re the bravest agent I’ve ever served with.”

Bela managed a faint smile. “I’ll take that, Sir.”

.

.

The safehouse in Istanbul was dark, a single bulb flickering above a table littered with maps, coded documents, and surveillance photos. Dharam Singh Rathore sat in silence, his presence heavy, every gesture measured. Across from him, Bela spread out intel files, scanning details most operatives would overlook.

They had worked together countless times — missions that never made it to official reports. She wasn’t just another operative; she was his shadow, his strategist, the one he trusted when life and death blurred.

That night, the target was a weapons broker supplying insurgents along India’s borders. They were to intercept him during a secret exchange at the docks. But Dharam’s instincts told him something was wrong.

“Too easy,” he muttered, lighting a cigarette he didn’t smoke. “They want us there.”

Bela leaned closer to the files. “…Not us. They’re drawing you out. But this one isn’t who he says he is. His walk doesn’t match his cover identity. I think he’s the real broker. He won’t be at the docks — he’ll be at the shipyard warehouse, five minutes east.”

Dharam’s eyes narrowed. “Not in the intel reports.”

Bela smirked. “Reports don’t survive in the field. People do.”

Hours later, under the shroud of night, they moved like ghosts through the shipyard. The official RAW strike team hit the docks — and walked straight into an ambush. Meanwhile, Dharam and Bela slipped into the warehouse, catching the broker mid-deal. It was over in minutes, surgical and clean.

When they emerged, Dharam glanced at her — rare pride glinting in his otherwise steel-hard eyes.

“If I had gone to the docks…”

“You’d have been in a body bag,” Bela finished, holstering her weapon.

For a moment, Dharam allowed himself something he rarely gave anyone — honesty. “Bela, I don’t call many people partners. But you… you’ve earned it. When I can’t trust reports, politicians, or even my instincts… I trust you.”

The words sank deeper than any medal could. For Bela, that was enough.

.

.

Present -Delhi

Bela: Mai thik hu, dawai le li hai. Don’t worry. Just take care of your upcoming missions.

Rajan: Haan, tum bhi. All the best. It’s not going to be easy.

Dharam Singh: Mine one is still the queen of lazy, I see.

Radhika: And mine is so stubborn — almost impossible to take for training.

Bela: Don’t worry, I am Bela. But… why am I not part of this mission?

Rajan: Health dekhi hai?

Radhika: You just came back from a big mission after six months.

Dharam Singh: And all the treatment you went through… you need rest. This is the best thing — you get to be a normal trainer, and at the same time, our kids will learn something from you.

Rajan: Their lives are at risk too. With you watching over them, at least they’ll stay safe.

Radhika: Discipline will be maintained. And most importantly, we suspect there’s an insider at that school trying to sell our information. You need to be there to find out who it is.

Bela - hmm

Bela zipped her bag shut, slipping her phone into her pocket. Memories of storms, bullets, and shadows lingered — Radhika’s steady hand, Rajan’s unspoken gratitude, Dharam’s unwavering trust.

She glanced again at the group chat, letting a rare, soft laugh escape. Yes, this was family. Not by blood, but by trust. And now, their children — three unshaped fires — would be under her protection.

Rising, she slung the duffel bag onto her shoulder. The mission ahead would demand silence, subtlety, and patience. The girls could never know who watched over them, or why.

And with that, Bela stepped into the night — toward Dehradun, toward the academy, toward three girls whose lives were about to change forever.

.

.

Kridha’s Departure

Kridha’s room was unusually quiet, the morning light filtering softly through the curtains. Her CA books were stacked neatly, and beside them, a set of school textbooks for the 9th-grade syllabus had been placed carefully —
English (Core),
Hindi,
Sanskrit,
Mathematics,
Science (Physics, Chemistry, Biology),
Social (History, Civics, Geography, Economics) 
Information Technology,
Physical & Health Education.
Officer Arjun had already brought them, and Kridha made sure every book was arranged perfectly inside her travel bag, ready for the journey ahead.

Her fingers lingered over the bag as she glanced at the syllabus once more. The realization hit her — this wasn’t just about leaving home, it was about stepping into a world she had never chosen. Nervousness stirred in her chest, but she knew she had no choice but to go.

She picked up her phone and typed quickly.

Kridha: Hey… I’m leaving today. Just wanted to see you before I go.

Within minutes, her best friend replied with a flurry of messages, worried and excited at once. They met quickly near her building, sharing a short, heartfelt hug.

“I can’t believe you’re leaving,” her friend said softly. “Army school… are you sure you’ll manage everything?”

Kridha smiled faintly, trying to mask the flutter of nerves. “I’ll manage. I have to. It’s… for my safety too.”

After the quick farewell, she returned home, her bag now fully packed with CA books, textbooks, and stationery — everything meticulously organized. She took a moment to message her two sisters, who were more like friends, her constant support.

Kridha: I’m leaving today. Take care of each other while I’m gone. Love you both.

Responses came instantly, filled with emojis, laughter, and encouragement, yet Kridha felt a bittersweet pang in her chest. Leaving her home, her city, and her friends behind was harder than she had imagined.

Finally, she slung the heavy duffel bag over her shoulder, checked the books one last time, and took a deep, steadying breath. The cab was waiting at the curb, engine humming softly.

Before stepping out, she paused for one last look around her apartment — the rooftop where she practiced yoga, the windowsill of little plants she had tended, the streets below she had walked countless times. Then, with quiet determination, she stepped out.

The city moved around her — the scent of wet earth from last night’s rain, the honking of cars, the chatter of vendors — but all of it felt distant now, a life she was leaving behind.

Climbing into the cab, she sent one final message:

Kridha: I’m on my way… keep me in your prayers. I’ll make it back soon.

The cab pulled away, weaving through the bustling streets of Kolkata. Kridha stared out the window, mind racing — CA studies, school textbooks, army training, friends she would miss, and the uncertainty of Dehradun.

Her heart pounded with fear and determination, but she whispered to herself, steadying her nerves:

“Dehradun… here I come. I’ll survive… and I’ll come back stronger.”

.

.

Aadhya’s Departure

Aadhya’s room was a chaotic reflection of her life — laptop open, tablet buzzing softly with unfinished edits, a stylus lying across her power bank, chargers coiled messily beside her. She meticulously packed her school bag, stacking her devices: laptop, tablet, stylus, power bank, pen tablet, all her editing essentials. Books she loved, a mini guitar, a badminton racket, her daily journal, and a few other personal favorites found their place among the gadgets.

Everything she valued, everything that made her feel like herself, had to fit into one bag — neat, compact, ready for a life she hadn’t chosen.

Her phone buzzed suddenly, pulling her attention. A notification popped up: the school timetable.

4:30 – 5:30: Get up, get ready, morning routines
5:30 – 7:30: Training, warm-up, and exercises
7:30 – 8:00: Breakfast
8:00 – 13:00: School (Lectures, 7 subjects per day, 15 min break)
13:00 – 14:00: Lunch
14:00 – 16:00: Training (mind exercises, gun aim, strategy planning)
16:00 – 16:30: Break
16:30 – 19:30: Training
19:30 – 20:00: Dinner
20:00 – 22:00: Self-study
22:00: Lights out

Aadhya stared at it. Her jaw tightened. Her eyes narrowed.

She didn’t even make it five seconds before she collapsed onto her bed with a heavy thud, the crisp schedule staring back at her like a judge’s sentence. She had always lived on her own clock — editing videos till 2 a.m., sleeping past nine, waking when she felt like it. Now? Waking at 4:30, training twice a day, classes back-to-back, strict bedtimes, regimented study hours… it felt like an arrest warrant for her freedom.

She pulled at her hair in frustration, tossing her pillow across the room. Nothing felt right. Every boundary, every rule felt suffocating, like chains she had never agreed to wear.

Her room — her sanctuary — suddenly felt like a cage. Aadhya’s gaze roamed over her neatly packed bag, her gadgets, her books, her guitar. She had no idea how she was going to fit her life into this new rigid structure.

Anger bubbled up. Frustration gnawed at her chest. She didn’t know where to start, what to do, or how to accept it. But deep down, a stubborn spark refused to die.

She sat up, tugged at her hair once more, and muttered to herself through gritted teeth:

“Rules, schedules, drills… I’ll figure this out. But they’re not going to break me.”

The bed creaked under her as she leaned back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, the timetable still glowing on her phone. Aadhya Rathore might be forced into discipline, but she wasn’t about to surrender her spirit — not without a fight.

.

.

Vrishti’s Goodbye

The house felt quieter than ever, though every corner pulsed with memories. Vrishti stood in the middle of her room, suitcase half-packed, her gaze stuck on the empty chair near the window. That was where her mother usually sat in the evenings, sipping tea after training, asking her about school, about friends, about life.

But tonight, the chair was empty. Her mother was away on a mission. No final hug, no reassuring words, no goodbye. Just silence.

Vrishti’s fingers trembled as she folded her clothes and slid them into the bag. At the bottom lay the books. She placed them carefully, almost too carefully, as if doing it gently could make her heart feel lighter.

Her phone buzzed with the new school timetable notification. She glanced at it but quickly turned the screen off. Strict routines, endless training, lectures — all of it felt so far from this room, from the comfort of home.

She walked over to her bedside table and picked up a framed picture — her with her mother, both laughing at some forgotten joke. Her throat tightened. Slowly, she slipped the frame into her bag, hidden between clothes, carrying a piece of home with her.

She took one last look around her room: the fairy lights draped near her window, the half-read novel on her desk, the faint smell of incense from the evening prayers. It wasn’t just a room. It was safety. It was belonging.

Dragging her suitcase to the door, Vrishti paused. For a moment, she thought about turning back, about waiting for her mother to return, just for a chance at one goodbye. But missions never waited. And neither did time.

Her hand brushed the doorframe as she whispered under her breath,

“I’ll make you proud, Maa. Even if I have to do this alone.”

With that, she stepped out into the night, her suitcase wheels echoing against the quiet street. The station awaited. Ahead lay Dehradun — a place of rules, danger, and strangers who would someday change her life. But for now, she was just a daughter leaving her home behind, holding on to the weight of memories.

Dehradun Station

The Dehradun station buzzed with the usual clamor — announcements echoing over the PA system, the hiss of train brakes, vendors calling out for chai and snacks. Aadhya sat cross-legged on a bench near one of the food stalls, her eyes glued to the wafer packet in her hands. She had managed to snag a few coins from her travel money and now, finally, she was savoring them — the crisp wafers melting into sweet, buttery perfection with every bite.

She closed her eyes for a moment, enjoying the rare indulgence. This was her moment of rebellion, a tiny taste of freedom before the regimented life of the academy swallowed her whole.

From behind, a sudden motion broke her peace.

Vrishti, in a flurry of energy, darted toward the biscuit stand. Her hand shot out, snagging a packet of cookies from the display. In her rush, she collided with someone.

Aadhya jerked upright, the wafer packet slipping from her fingers and tumbling to the ground. Wafers scattered like tiny golden coins across the grimy floor. Her face turned red — part from the heat of embarrassment, part from sheer fury.

"What the—!" she shrieked, snatching the wafer packet. "Watch where you're going!"

Vrishti froze mid-step, the stolen biscuit packet clutched awkwardly against her chest. She had not meant to push anyone — the thrill of grabbing a snack before boarding had clouded her awareness.

"I— I'm sorry! I didn't see— why are you even eating in front of the shop anyway?!" Vrishti shot back, defensively, her voice sharp with frustration.

"I'm eating because I'm hungry, and now you've ruined it!" Aadhya snapped, her hands trembling, cheeks flushed. "Do you have any idea how much I was looking forward to this?"

Vrishti's brows furrowed, her own temper flaring. "Well maybe you should have been paying attention! Not everyone can sit quietly nibbling wafers like some perfect angel!"

Aadhya's voice rose an octave, attracting a few curious glances from the vendors and passengers nearby. "Perfect angel? Are you kidding me? You just shoved me — shoving people is not a hobby!"

"Shoved? I barely touched you!" Vrishti yelled back, her grip tightening on her packet. "Why are you making such a big deal over some wafers?!"

The argument escalated, each girl's voice cutting sharper than the last. Aadhya stomped her foot, sending a few more stray wafers skittering across the tile. Vrishti matched her with a glare, lips pressed tight in stubborn defiance.

Beside them, Kridha hovered, water bottle in hand, wide-eyed and frozen. She took a small step forward, then stopped, unsure what to do. Should she intervene? Calm them down? Or quietly retreat before either of them threw the other onto the ground?

"Um... hey... maybe—" Kridha started, her voice meek, the bottle clutched like a lifeline.

"Don't tell me what to do, Aadhya barked without turning.

"I am not asking you!" Vrishti hissed, glaring at Kridha like she'd just walked into enemy territory.

Kridha's throat went dry. Her eyes darted between the two girls, wishing for some invisible adult to swoop in and restore order. Instead, all she could do was stand there, frozen, bottle trembling slightly in her hand as wafers crunched under the shoes of rushing commuters.

The argument between Aadhya and Vrishti had reached a crescendo — wafers and cookies scattered, voices sharp enough to make nearby vendors flinch. Kridha stood frozen, water bottle clutched tightly, unsure whether to intervene or just back away.

From the edge of the platform, a shadow fell over the three girls. Bela had arrived quietly, having spotted the commotion from a distance. Her eyes, sharp and unyielding, scanned the scene.

"Stop this immediately!" Bela's voice cut through the din like a whip.

Aadhya and Vrishti spun around, startled, but instead of calming down, both straightened defensively.

"What's your problem?!" Aadhya snapped, her fists still gripping her wafer packet.

"Mind your own business!" Vrishti shot back, glaring fiercely.

Bela's eyes flicked to Kridha, who had instinctively taken a small step forward, bottle in hand, her wide eyes locked on Bela.

"And you," Bela said, voice cold, "you think standing there like that makes you better? You're all responsible for this chaos!"

Kridha's mouth opened in protest, but no sound came out. She shook her head frantically, trying to explain, "N-No, I didn't— I'm not—"

But Bela didn't wait. Her gaze was steel — sharp, precise, and unrelenting. In that instant, she assumed Kridha was siding with one of the others.

"Enough!" Bela barked, stepping closer. Her presence alone made Aadhya and Vrishti pause — but their defiance flared one last time.

"We weren't doing anything wrong!" Aadhya shot back, voice trembling with both anger and pride.

"Yeah! You don't even know what happened!" Vrishti added, crossing her arms, chin high.

Bela's eyes locked onto them — cold, piercing, and impossibly steady. Every fiber of her posture radiated authority. The intensity of her gaze was suffocating, like being scanned and measured by someone who could see every lie, every hesitation. The noise of the station seemed to fade, leaving only the weight of her presence.

Instantly, the fire in Aadhya's and Vrishti's voices died. Their mouths opened, then closed again. Words that had been ready to fly out dissolved into silence. They shifted awkwardly, eyes lowering, cheeks burning. Even Kridha, still clutching her bottle, felt herself shrink under that unwavering stare.

Without another word, all three girls bent down, picked up their scattered belongings, and slung their bags over their shoulders. The wafers, the cookies, even the small water bottle — everything was gathered with careful, nervous movements.

They stepped aside, letting the crowd flow around them, heads lowered, minds sharp with the memory of the silent lesson they had just received.

Bela watched them for a moment, ensuring they understood — not through threats, not through yelling, but simply through the unspoken weight of her authority. Then, satisfied, she turned and melted back into the station crowd, leaving the girls to carry on, chastened but silently bristling.

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That's it for today's chapter! ✨
If you enjoyed reading, don't forget to vote, share, and leave your thoughts in the comments — your support means the world and keeps the story alive.

Thank you for being part of this journey. 💙

— Author, Akshika Thakkar