They say when we die, our brain lives for seven minutes. I think I’m in that moment now, caught somewhere between breath and blackout, where time stretches like a dying heartbeat, seven minutes to relive your entire life.

But my mind doesn’t give me memories.

No first steps. No birthdays. No laughter. Just silence.

I wait for something to surface, something strong enough to pull me back, to prove the theory right. But nothing comes. Only the cold weight of truth settles in: living two lives, one in shadows and one in lies, has finally cracked me open.

Then the sound returns.

Not memories. Not peace. Screams. Girls. Gunshots.

Chaos crashes in, shattering whatever illusion those seven minutes were supposed to hold. This isn’t death. It feels like something unfinished.

The screams grow sharper, layered with fear, desperation, and commands. Beneath it all, a faint, steady beep echoes in the background, mechanical and distant. A monitor, maybe. Proof that my life is slipping away.

And then I hear her.

The voice of my fourteen-year-old self, distant but unyielding.

“You didn’t come this far to die like this. Get up. Fight.”

With whatever strength I have left, I force my eyes open and meet a pair of panicked brown eyes staring back at me.

“Are you okay?” I try to sit up, but pain tears through my shoulder, sharp and immediate. My hand presses against it and comes away wet.

Blood.

“I’m fine,” I manage, even though I’m not.

He doesn’t argue. He presses a knife into my palm, small, sharp, smeared with grime.

“Can you still fight?”

I tighten my grip around it. “I didn’t crawl back from death just to lie down again.”

Gunfire echoes through the broken walls, followed by a girl’s raw, ragged scream. The sound drags me upright, even as my knees threaten to give out. He catches me before I fall.

“Lean on me. Let’s move.”

We push through a narrow corridor, communicating in glances. Lights flicker overhead, throwing shifting shadows across the walls. The air is thick with smoke and the metallic tang of blood.

Then I see them.

Ten girls, huddled together behind metal bars, their faces streaked with tears, their eyes wide with fear. A guard stands nearby, shouting into a walkie-talkie, his back turned.

I don’t hesitate.

I move.

The blade connects before the pain can catch up. The guard chokes and collapses. My partner grabs the keys from his belt and unlocks the cage.

“Go,” he orders. “Find the exit we came through. Run until you see someone in uniform.”

The girls hesitate for a fraction of a second, then bolt. One pauses, her voice barely a whisper. “Thank you.”

I nod, too breathless to respond.

Then the real fight begins.

Two more men rush in, guns raised. We dive behind an overturned table as shots ring out. One bullet grazes flesh, another hits the wall.

“They’re cornering us!” he snaps.

My eyes flick upward. A red gas pipe runs along the ceiling.

“Shoot that.”

He hesitates for a split second, then fires.

The explosion rips through the corridor, fire surging outward. The men stagger, coughing, disoriented.

“Now!” I shout, already moving.

There’s no strategy left—just instinct. We fight with whatever we have—fists, elbows, momentum—until they finally go down.

My knees give out again. This time, he catches me with both arms.

“You’re bleeding too much,” he says, his voice breaking. “Stay with me. The ambulance is outside. You did it. We did it.”

Sirens cut through the noise, distant but growing louder. Relief spreads through me, heavy and overwhelming.

Then everything goes dark.

******

The steady beep of a monitor pulls me back, slower this time.

White walls. Sterile air. A dull ache running through my body, softened slightly by morphine. Bandages wrap tightly around my shoulder.

“She’s awake,” someone says, the voice distant but familiar.

I turn my head.

He’s still there. The same brown eyes, softer now, rimmed with exhaustion. A bruise darkens his jaw, and dried blood marks his knuckles.

“You saved them,” he says quietly. “You saved yourself.”

Heavy footsteps echo across the floor. The door creaks open, and we both look up.

Commissioner Rawat stands at the entrance.

“I’m proud of you,” he says, his voice warm.

He’s my father’s best friend. My boss. The one man I trust completely.

“It’s time for your promotion,” he continues. “A new mission. Mission Phantom.”

A rush of pride fills my chest. A promotion means independence now, bigger cases, more dangerous ones.

I wish I could tell my parents. But the contract I signed with the Special Covert Operations Bureau forbids it. No one can know.

Still, a quiet sense of accomplishment settles in. I’ve done what I set out to do.

For a moment, I feel something close to peace.

But it doesn’t last. Because I know this much—

This is only the beginning.

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