Year: 2200 | Location: Classified Military Facility, Somewhere in the Thar Desert
They didn't call it a camp.They called it a factory.
The place was dead silent — not from peace, but from fear. Barbed wire curled like snakes around rusted fences. Dust storms swept across cracked concrete. Cameras watched everything. Even the birds didn't fly here.
Inside, boys and girls stood in lines. Same shaved heads. Same blank stares. Age: between 10 to 15. All dressed in grey. No names. Only numbers.
Shoorya was 227.
He didn't cry. He didn't look around. He didn't ask where his parents were. He already knew. Dead. Like most others here. Or worse — forgotten.
First day, they broke bones.Second day, they broke names.Third day, they broke emotions.
"Feel nothing," the instructor had barked."Emotion is error. You show weakness, you die. You ask why, you die. You look back, you die."
Simple rules.
227 didn't break.He learned fast. Too fast.
They trained them with knives before spoons. Firing range came before math. Every week, one trainee vanished. The others didn't ask. No one asked. That was another rule.
Training Session #172Scenario: Night Ambush | Live Ammo
"You are asleep. The enemy is not."
They dropped smoke bombs in the sleeping quarters at 3 AM. Real bullets followed. Two kids got shot. No screams. No medics. Shoorya rolled under a bed, grabbed a baton from a dead kid, and bashed the attacker's skull open.
The next day, they promoted him to Section Ghost.
Ghosts got better food. Not tastier — just less moldy. They also got new orders. Solo missions. Simulations. Mental torture drills.
In one test, they locked Shoorya in a dark box for 9 days.No sound. No food. Just a speaker repeating the same sentence:
"You are not real. You are a weapon."
He believed it by Day 4.
The DoctrineThey carved it on the wall of the barracks, written in blood and dirt:
Emotion is error.
Loyalty is earned, not owed.
Pain is part of the upgrade.
Questions are bullets — only ask if you're ready to shoot.
Never stop the mission. Even if the mission is you.
Shoorya memorized it. Not like a poem. Like a religion.
Age 17Graduation.
Only 12 survived out of 500. No applause. No family waiting. Just a patch. Black, stitched with one word:
SHOONYA — zero.
"You're not a man," the general had said. "You're a ghost with a knife and a purpose."
Shoorya didn't salute.
He didn't need to.
He just walked out, quiet as smoke, into a world already on fire — and started doing what he was made for.
Killing. Planning. Winning.
No regrets. No rules. No name.
Just Shoonya.