Arrival in Delhi
The golden vortex sputtered, its radiance receding into silence. The teleportation chamber of the Indian Paranormal Council headquarters exhaled, leaving Moksh standing on a floor of flawless marble. The air was thicker here—densely woven with incense, faint with sandalwood, and vibrating with the hum of wards etched into the walls.
His boots echoed like verdicts in the hushed chamber. For the first time in years, Moksh was home. But home did not always mean welcome.
He moved quickly through the IPC headquarters. He allowed only the barest flicker of acknowledgement for the portraits, including the empty frame whose tarnished brass spoke of a silence never filled. He bypassed the assembled staff and the waiting Council. His priority, for this singular moment, was not command.
Home and Heartbreak
Moksh didn't take an IPC car. He took a rickshaw, blending into the frantic evening pulse of Delhi. The scent of streetlamps burning gold in monsoon mist, the rattling of metal on uneven roads, the sharp cardamom of chai stalls—it was a sensory overload of home.
The rickshaw stopped. The façade of his family's old home was weathered, plaster streaked by monsoons long past, yet it stood—indomitable, stubborn. Above the door, a brass lamp flickered, dim but steady.
He unlocked the door and stepped into the darkness, the familiar scent of sandalwood and ink wrapping around him like an embrace.
"Moksh?"
The light flicked on, and Tara stood there, a bowl of half-eaten kheer forgotten in her hand. Tara, a mirror image of their late mother in her quiet intensity, but with eyes that held the stubborn fire of their father.
She didn't run. She simply dropped the bowl, the porcelain clattering harmlessly on the rug, and closed the distance between them with a single, sharp intake of breath.
"You idiot," she whispered, her arms locking around his neck with a fierce, almost painful strength. "One and a half months. No message. No signal. Just a ghost call from Albert saying you were 'on assignment in the Asian sector.'"
Moksh inhaled the familiar scent of her hair—jasmine and book dust. He held her tight, the armor he wore at the IPC headquarters dissolving into simple cotton and skin. He remembered Albert's voice chasing him through the portal: "Give Tara a hug from me." He tightened his grip, a silent promise kept.
"I missed you," he murmured into her hair. "The signal jam in Singapore was worse than the anomalies."
Tara pulled back, her eyes red-rimmed but her expression hardening. She hit his chest lightly. "Don't lie. I'm not a junior IPC recruit. I know when you're being vague to protect me." She gestured toward the room, filled with books and maps. "Did they keep you prisoner? Was it the Syndicate? Why were you so late, Moksh? You know the Council protocols—even the Grandmaster's assignments have check-ins."
Moksh walked over to their father's old desk, the wood worn smooth by years of plans. "It was the Grandmaster's priority. A deep dive. Off the grid. I couldn't risk revealing the location with a compromised signal."
"And the Council believes that?" Tara countered, her voice laced with familiar protectiveness. "Rao and Kavitha have been waiting for you, sharpening their knives. The only thing that kept them from declaring you AWOL was Albert's insistence that you were the Elite (9th). That word... it's a curse and a shield, Moksh. Don't rely on it."
Moksh brushed his hand against the desk. "I don't rely on myths, Tara. I rely on results." He looked at her, his composure steel once more, but softened only for her. "I'm back. I'll take the political heat. You don't have to carry that weight anymore."
"I'll always carry it," she said, her tone absolute. She picked up the discarded bowl. "Now, I'm making tea. You look like you've been fighting in three dimensions. Tell me everything—the bits they won't put in the official file."
For the next hour, Moksh sat in the kitchen, sipping sharp, warm chai. He spoke of the Asian Council's efficient coldness, of Pragya's silent support, and of the sheer, terrifying power of the obsidian Glider. He kept the darkest parts—the true nature of the mission and the deep isolation—buried. He let her patch him back together with home truths and cardamom.
The Unexpected Alliance
When the formality broke and officers dispersed to whispers, Moksh stepped back into the Delhi night. He had one more call to make before he could let himself be just 'Moksh' for the night.
He walked to the door and pulled it open without fanfare.
Standing on the threshold, framed by the faint amber of the brass lamp, were Captain Aarav Sen and Scholar Meera Kulkarni.
Aarav, the soldier, was a man of quiet, structured power. He was now in his full, crisp grey IPC uniform, the gold buttons gleaming, the trousers pressed so sharp they looked metallic. His posture was ramrod straight, his expression an exercise in controlled neutrality. The faint, clean scar tracing the line of his jaw was his only visible concession to chaos.
Meera, the scholar, was less imposing but held an intense gravity. She clutched a leather-bound journal, her dark hair pulled back in a severe braid. Her gaze, sharp and analytical, took in Moksh with a speed that felt like a full neurological scan.
They didn't salute—they stood at professional ease, their presence a quiet weight.
Aarav spoke first, his voice low and steady, a field commander's voice used to being heard over chaos. "Commander Moksh Bose. We did not receive orders to approach your private residence. We returned from the Southern Anomaly Sector when we confirmed the Grandmaster had executed your transfer."
Meera tightened her grip on her journal. "The Council believes you abandoned your post. They believe the Grandmaster is either compromised or playing a dangerous long game. They believe your return is an unacceptable risk to institutional stability." Her tone was purely informational, devoid of judgment.
Moksh stepped back, opening the door wider. "Come in. The porch is unsuitable for a professional brief."
They walked past him, their movements economical. Aarav immediately executed a subtle, practiced visual sweep of the room's access points and potential threats. Meera's eyes went straight to the bookshelves, cataloging the titles with a swift, silent efficiency.
"The aide was correct," Moksh said, leaning against the door jamb, observing their synchronized precision. "You two stabilized the Council's command structure. Thank you."
Aarav finally met his gaze, his expression unyielding. "We stabilized the Council. We kept the seat warm for the eventual return of a strategic resource." He didn't use the full title, but the implication hung heavy. "We require confirmation, Commander. Your methods—your 'survival'—the files are incomplete. Can you operate within established IPC operational guidelines? Chief Rao and Investigator Kavitha will not grant you the latitude Albert afforded you."
Meera stepped forward, her gaze even sharper now. "We did not initiate this meeting to revisit your history. We came to offer a strategic alliance. You are a legend to the old guard and a liability to the current one. But you are the only individual with the strategic depth capable of navigating the documented and predicted anomaly shift in the northern territories."
She opened her journal, flipping past pages covered in meticulous, tiny script. "You require an operational base and field intelligence. We require decisive command. Aarav and I possess the trust of the field officers and the most comprehensive, current knowledge of all active anomalies. We can be your shields against political obstruction and your essential eyes on the ground. But in return..."
Moksh waited, his silence a perfect vacuum for their terms.
"In return," Aarav finished, his military composure absolute, "you grant us full operational visibility. No improvisational gambits that leave the command structure blind. We pledge our complete tactical support, Commander. But you must, in turn, provide complete strategic transparency."
Moksh walked across the room and stood between them, the faint scent of sandalwood mingling with the crisp, clean starch of Aarav's uniform and the ink-and-paper smell of Meera's research. He looked from the soldier to the scholar, seeing the fierce, earned loyalty they shared, the exhaustion of carrying a burden too long, and the pragmatic willingness to bet everything on his return.
He extended a hand to Aarav, then to Meera.
"You call it an alliance," Moksh said, his voice regaining the smooth, dangerous edge he had used in the Council Chamber. "I call it a necessary deployment. From this moment, your intelligence is my primary source, your command decisions in the field are my authority, and your trust is the critical metric for every action I take."
He paused, a flicker of something ancient and powerful crossing his face.
"Welcome home, Captain. Welcome back, Scholar. The game has just begun."
The Next Move
What does Moksh's new team, Aarav and Meera, need to tackle first to solidify their position and prepare for the coming 'anomaly shift in the north'?
They've established an alliance, but now they must act. They need a quick, decisive move that satisfies both political necessity (Rao's and Kavitha's scrutiny) and operational reality (the Northern threat). What would be their best opening play?