The road once used by common people seemed to have turned into a warzone.
Burnt-out shells of vehicles littered the highway while black smoke curled into the sky.
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Shattered glass and debris were scattered across the asphalt, mingling with the smoldering remains of the broken burnt-down convoy.
The air reeked of gunpowder and burnt rubber. Nearby trees and shrubs were scorched, twisted metal and charred pieces of tyres scattered through the area. The chaos had disrupted the once quiet, early evening.
A small crowd of onlookers had gathered at a distance, murmuring nervously among themselves, pointing at the wreckage in disbelief. The terror of the sudden assault was fresh in their minds, and many still seemed shaken, their eyes darting to where the distant convoy had once been. Some clutched their phones, frantically explaining to loved ones what they had witnessed, while others stood in stunned silence.
Sirens echoed in the distance, growing louder as a team of police cars, paramedics, and high-ranking officials approached the scene, their blue and red lights illuminating the smoky haze. The first responders quickly fanned out, examining the devastation and checking for survivors among the wreckage.
As the police secured the area, several reporters arrived, their cameras rolling as they captured the grim scene.
One of the reporters, a tall man in a rumpled suit, hurriedly pushed his way forward, his microphone in hand. His face was a mixture of concern and determination. As soon as he caught sight of a police officer overseeing the scene, he immediately went in for a statement.
"What exactly happened here?" the reporter demanded, his voice rising above the noise of the arriving vehicles. "Was this a terrorist attack? Or was it something else? Were the people targeted directly?"
The officer, a weathered man with sharp features and a badge denoting his senior rank, gave the reporter a steady look before speaking. His voice was calm but carried an unmistakable weight of authority.
The reporter pressed on, his brow furrowing. "Was this an organized attack? Was there a specific individual they were after?"
The officer's lip tightened. "Again, I can't reveal much at this time. But I can tell you that this was a highly operational and planned tactical attack. We are approaching this quite confidentiality, so we can't disclose anything now."
_____
Amit Sharma sat at his desk, his fingers tapping impatiently on the polished wood surface. His brow furrowed while his hand gripped the bridge of his nose as frustration mounted.
"These idiots can't even handle one assassin properly," he muttered, barely concealing his irritation. "If they find out that Mithal's behind all this and then trace it back to me... No, I have to stop this before it spirals out of control."
He leaned back in his chair, thinking quickly. "I need to divert the media's attention. I can—"
Suddenly, the office door burst open and one of his agents rushed in, visibly shaken. "Sir, look at this... This is terrifying!"
Amit scowled, irritated by the interruption. "What now?" he snapped, his tone sharp.
Instead of explaining, the agent handed Amit a tablet, his hand still trembling. Amit grabbed it, his eyes turning cold. But the moment he saw the video playing on the screen, his expression changed, his eyes widened as shock replaced his frustration.
"What is this... thing?" he whispered, staring at the video.
For the first time in years, Amit Sharma felt a deep, unsettling fear creeping into his gut.
Before his eyes was something that he could never think was possible.