My phone wouldn't stop buzzing.
Not vibrating—buzzing, sharp and insistent, like it was angry with me for ignoring it. The screen lit up again and again with names I didn't want to see yet.
Unknown.
Media desk.
Secure line.
Military routing.
Blocked ID.
Around me, Apoorv, Arpit, and Neha's phones were doing the same thing. Different tones, same urgency. The forest felt suddenly smaller, like the world had remembered we existed and was trying to squeeze us from every direction at once.
I raised a hand.
"Don't answer, call home." I said quietly.
Apoorv looked at me and nodded, already dialing. Arpit turned away a little, voice tight but controlled as he spoke to his parents. Neha had her back to us entirely, one hand pressed to her forehead, breathing slowly while she reassured someone on the other end.
I tapped one name.
Mom.
The call connected instantly.
"Aakash—?"
Her voice broke on my name.
Behind it, I could hear chaos. Chairs scraping. Someone talking too fast. Someone else—Dad—trying and failing to keep his voice calm.
"You're hurt," she said immediately. "They—on the stream—blood—Aakash where are you?"
"I'm okay," I said firmly. "Mom, listen to me. I'm okay."
"You were shot—!"
"I wasn't," I interrupted, sharper than I meant to. I softened immediately. "I wasn't hit. I promise."
There was a pause.
Then a sob.
Dad's voice came through, low and strained. "Put him on speaker."
"I am on speaker," Mom snapped back.
I closed my eyes.
"Mom," I said slowly, grounding my voice the way she'd taught me when I was younger. "I need you to breathe. I need you to listen."
She tried.
It took time.
Five full minutes of repeating the same things—where I was, who was with me, that I was alive, that I was walking, that I was not bleeding, that I would be home today.
Dad took over halfway through, his voice steadier, anchoring hers when she spiraled again.
"Are you sure you're not hurt?" he asked quietly.
"I'm sure," I replied. "I wouldn't lie to you."
Another pause.
"…Come home," Mom whispered. Not a demand. A plea.
"I am," I said. "Today."
That finally did it.
When the call ended, my hand shook slightly as I lowered the phone.
I wiped my face once, steadying myself.
Next call.
Colonel Rawat.
Before I could even bring the phone up—
The air shifted.
A deep sound rolled through the trees.
Not sharp.
Not sudden.
Heavy.
A roar.
Every muscle in my body locked instantly. Apoorv spun, hand already reaching for his Pokéball. Arpit stepped half a pace forward. Pikachu bristled, electricity snapping reflexively.
Then—
Recognition hit.
The roar wasn't hostile.
It was… familiar.
The canopy parted violently as a massive shadow descended, branches snapping and leaves spiraling downward in a storm.
"Gyarados," Neha breathed.
Tension snapped—not gone, but redirected.
We moved quickly toward a nearby clearing where the trees opened enough for something that size to land. The ground trembled as Gyarados lowered himself, coils settling with controlled weight, eyes sharp but calm.
Two figures stood on his back.
Grandma.
Grandpa.
They dismounted without haste.
Grandma's feet touched the ground first. She looked around once, took in the scorched earth, broken branches, the metallic scent in the air.
Then her eyes found me.
She crossed the distance faster than I expected.
Her hand came up—
And smacked the back of my head.
Hard.
"Ow—!" I hissed, instinctively ducking. "Ajji—!"
"What were you thinking?" she snapped. "Streaming nonsense like this and giving your mother a heart attack?"
"I—"
She grabbed my face with both hands, turning my head side to side, inspecting me like she was checking for cracked pottery.
"No holes," she muttered. "Good."
Then she pulled me into a tight, bone-crushing hug.
For a second, I forgot everything else.
Grandpa approached more slowly. His gaze flicked past me—taking in the clearing, the signs of violence, the way everyone stood just a little too rigid.
His jaw tightened.
"So," he said quietly, "someone thought they could hunt you."
I nodded once.
He exhaled through his nose.
"Idiots," he muttered.
Gyarados shifted behind him, tail scraping the earth with a low, dangerous sound.
Grandma released me just enough to look me in the eyes.
"You're coming home," she said firmly. Not a question.
"Yes," I replied.
"Good," she said. "Because after that—"
Her eyes hardened, sharp as steel.
"—we talk about what kind of world makes children take bullets."
I looked past her.
Toward the place where Primeape now rested inside his Pokéball.
Toward the broken clearing.
Toward the future that had just accelerated violently forward.
"Yeah," I said quietly.
"We do."
After that, we went back with Grandma and Grandpa—no arguments, no delays.
Just a quiet, collective understanding that everyone needed a moment to breathe.
Pidgeot waited patiently, wings folded, eyes alert. She'd calmed since the forest, but there was still an edge to her posture—like a blade she hadn't fully sheathed yet.
As I mounted her back, I finally made the call I'd been putting off.
"Colonel Rawat," I said the moment the line connected.
"I was expecting your call," he replied. His voice was steady—but I could hear the pressure behind it.
"I want you to take full charge of the investigation," I said. "No delays. No leaks. Treat this as a national-level threat."
"Already in motion," he replied. "Intelligence, internal security, counter-extremism—all looped in."
"Good," I said. "Prepare a plane. I'm returning to Mumbai immediately."
There was a brief pause. "Understood. ETA?"
"Within the hour," I replied. "I'll land at the nearest secure strip."
"Done."
I ended the call as Pidgeot lifted smoothly into the air,
At the house, things moved quickly. Grandma handed out fresh clothes like this was any other day someone came home covered in blood and dirt. No dramatics. No questions. Just efficiency. I washed up, changed, and sat on the edge of the bed for a moment longer than necessary, grounding myself in the familiar creak of the floorboards and the distant sound of waves.
Normal sounds.
Important sounds.
Grandpa stood near the edge of the clearing, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the horizon. He hadn't said much since arriving—too much restraint packed into too little time.
That worried me more than anger.
I walked over.
"Ajoba," I said quietly.
He didn't turn.
"You know," he said slowly, "I fought for this country when men bled for survival and also false promises. I've seen what propaganda can do when it finds a slogan. The way they did with partition."
His hands clenched.
"If your grandmother wasn't here," he continued, "I'd already be at sea looking for whoever dared to raise a hand against you."
Grandma, standing a few steps away, cleared her throat pointedly.
He exhaled.
I met his gaze. "I can take care of myself. And Mom and Dad."
His eyes sharpened.
"But I need you here," I continued. "The coast needs you. The balance you've built here—if you leave, it breaks."
Silence stretched between us.
Then he nodded once.
Slow. Reluctant. Final.
"You're right," he said. "Someone has to stand here."
Grandma stepped in then, adjusting his collar like she always did. "And you," she said to me, "will stop trying to shoulder the whole country alone."
I smiled faintly. "I'll try."
That was as close to a promise as I could give.
The flight back to Mumbai was quiet.
I dropped Apoorv, Arpit, and Neha off first—each of them exhausted, shaken, but standing. No speeches. Just firm grips on shoulders. Shared understanding.
We'd crossed something together.
Then I went home.
The gate opened. The house lights were on.
Mom was already at the door before I rang the bell.
She didn't say anything.
She just hugged me—hard, tight, like she was afraid I'd vanish again if she let go.
Dad stood behind her, one hand on her shoulder, relief and anger tangled in his expression.
I closed my eyes.
For tonight, at least—
I was home.
Tomorrow, the world would demand answers.
But not tonight.