Foyez stood at the entrance of a ruined mansion, once clearly the home of a wealthy family. The structure groaned with the echoes of devastation, but one sound cut through it all—a woman's scream, sharp and unnatural, like a prank gone wrong.
He rushed inside.
The scene made his blood freeze.
Three men and a woman lay motionless on the ground, their bodies twisted in death. Across the room, a group of rogue soldiers—Mukti Bahini by their attire—were assaulting two terrified women.
"Your family helped those Pak bastards. And you? You're a Bihari whore," one of the soldiers sneered. "Time to pay with your virtue.You can only Curse your family for all your misfortune chick."
Foyez stood frozen, his breath caught in his throat.Three armed soldiers.Two helpless girls.And he was alone.
Should I run?
The thought flashed through his mind for a moment. But something inside him pushed back.
I've already lived a life full of regrets. Not this time.
His grip tightened on the assault rifle—an AK-47, he assumed. He'd never handled one in his past life, but somehow, his body moved as if it remembered.
He aimed at the soldier forcing himself on a teenage girl.
Bang! Bang!
The first shot missed by an inch. The second buried itself into the man's back.
A loud, guttural scream—and then silence.
The other two soldiers whipped around, finally noticing him.
Foyez ducked behind a cracked pillar just as bullets tore through the air, one grazing a foot from his head.
"You a Mukti too?" one of them yelled. "Why're you shootin' your own comrade?"
"Don't you dare compare me to scum like you!" Foyez shouted, voice trembling with rage.
He surged forward recklessly, trying to finish them off—but a shot ripped through his left arm. He gritted his teeth, falling back behind cover.
"This boy must've learned those dumb morals in school," one soldier scoffed. "War's over, brat. We can do whatever we want now."
They laughed.And that laugh was their mistake.
Foyez pulled out his sidearm, a pistol. While they were distracted, he fired.
One of them dropped instantly.
Now only one remained—desperate, panicked, firing blindly in his direction. Then: a click. Empty magazine.
Foyez didn't wait.
He charged.
Both fired at the same time. A bullet tore past his ear—he could feel the searing heat, the sharp pain.
But his shot struck true.
The man's skull burst open, spraying brain matter across the wall.
Silence returned.
Foyez stood there, bloody, panting, and wounded.
He had won—outnumbered, injured, but alive.
His arm throbbed, his ear rang, his body begged to collapse. But he couldn't.
Because in front of him were two girls—shaking, crying, broken.
And their pain was far worse than his.