Ishani Deshpande
Chapter 1: The First Messag
The monsoon clouds hung low over Pune, casting a gray pall over the city. In the bustling suburb of Hinjewadi, the IT hub was winding down for the day. Office lights flickered off one by one, and the usual cacophony of honking horns and chatter began to subside.
Amit Sharma sat alone in his modest apartment, the hum of his ceiling fan the only sound accompanying him. Stacks of coding manuals and project reports cluttered his desk, evidence of his dedication—or perhaps his obsession—with his work as a software engineer.
He rubbed his temples, eyes strained from hours of staring at lines of code. The glow of his laptop screen illuminated his weary face. He glanced at the clock: 11:47 PM.
His phone buzzed, breaking the silence. An unknown number flashed on the screen.
“Probably another spam call,” he muttered, letting it ring out.
Moments later, a voicemail notification appeared. Curious, Amit tapped to listen.
“Amit, you don’t know me, but you have to listen carefully. Tomorrow morning, at exactly 9:15 AM, do not take the Baner Flyover. A red sedan will run a red light. You won’t see it coming. Please, trust me.”
The voice was urgent, tinged with desperation. Amit’s brow furrowed. The timestamp on the voicemail read 11:49 PM—two minutes in the future.
He replayed the message, trying to discern any background noise or clues. The voice sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it.
“Is this some kind of prank?” he wondered aloud. Shaking his head, he dismissed the message and prepared for bed.
The next morning, the city was awash with the aftermath of an early rain. Puddles reflected the overcast sky, and the scent of wet earth permeated the air.
Amit sipped his chai, the warmth contrasting the cool morning breeze. He recalled the strange voicemail but shrugged it off. “Coincidences happen,” he thought.
At 9:10 AM, he set out for work, his usual route taking him over the Baner Flyover. Traffic was moderate, the usual mix of cars, bikes, and the occasional auto-rickshaw.
As he approached the intersection at the end of the flyover, the traffic light turned green. He accelerated, only to slam on the brakes as a red sedan barreled through the intersection, ignoring the red light. The car missed him by mere inches.
Heart pounding, Amit pulled over to the side of the road, hands trembling. The realization hit him like a ton of bricks. The voicemail had been accurate.
He parked his car and sat in silence, replaying the message in his mind. Who was this caller? How did they know?
His phone buzzed again. Another unknown number.
He hesitated before answering.
“Amit, it’s me again. You need to answer your phone at 5:45 PM today. It’s crucial. Please, trust me.”
The line went dead.
Amit stared at his phone, a mix of fear and curiosity churning within him. Determined to uncover the truth, he decided to wait for the 5:45 PM call.
The day dragged on, each hour feeling longer than the last. Amit’s mind was consumed with thoughts of the mysterious caller and the near-accident.
At 5:45 PM sharp, his phone rang. He answered immediately.
“Amit, tomorrow morning, avoid the Paud Road shortcut at 7:00 AM. There’s going to be a gas leak. It’s dangerous. Please, listen to me.”
The voice was clearer this time, and Amit felt a chill run down his spine.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
But the line had already disconnected.
Determined to get to the bottom of this, Amit decided to follow the caller’s advice once more.
The next morning, he took an alternate route to work, avoiding Paud Road. Later, he learned that a gas leak had indeed occurred on that very road, leading to an explosion that injured several people.
Amit’s skepticism turned to belief. Someone—or something—was trying to protect him.
He knew he couldn’t face this mystery alone. He reached out to his childhood friend, Meera, a journalist known for her investigative prowess.
Over coffee, he recounted the events of the past two days.
Meera listened intently, her expression a mix of concern and intrigue.
“This is beyond coincidence,” she said. “We need to find out who’s behind these calls.”
Amit nodded, grateful for her support. Together, they embarked on a journey to uncover the truth behind the mysterious voicemails from the future.
Chapter 2: The Second Warning
The early morning drizzle had faded by the time Amit Sharma reached the office, but the dampness in the air lingered, clinging to his skin like an unshakable presence. The events of the previous day replayed in his mind like an endless loop: the near-miss on Baner Flyover, the red sedan screeching past him, and that chilling voicemail that had—somehow—saved his life.
He couldn’t focus on his work at the IT firm that morning. Every time he tried to type, his mind drifted back to that voice—calm, urgent, inexplicably familiar—and the way it had warned him with such precision. Who was it? How did they know?
His phone vibrated at 11:15 AM. It was Meera.
“Hey, Amit,” she said, her voice brimming with concern. “I’ve been thinking about what you told me. Are you sure you’re okay?”
Amit glanced around to make sure no one was eavesdropping. “No, I’m not sure about anything right now. Meera, the message was too accurate. It’s not a prank.”
Meera sighed. “Listen, I did some digging last night. I searched for any reported scams or pranks involving these kinds of calls—nothing turned up. But this feels serious, Amit. I think you should go to the police.”
Amit leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling tiles. “The police? Meera, they’ll think I’m crazy. ‘Hello, Inspector, I got a voicemail from the future warning me not to take a bridge’? They’ll laugh me out of the station.”
She didn’t respond for a moment. Then, quietly, she said, “Okay, then. Let’s figure this out together. After work, let’s meet at Vaishali. Seven o’clock? We’ll talk over coffee.”
“Thanks, Meera,” he said, feeling a sense of relief. “Seven o’clock. See you then.”
The day crept by in a haze. Amit tried to focus on debugging lines of code, but his mind kept drifting to that voice. Was it real? Could it be his own voice—altered by some technology—or someone from the future trying to save him?
At exactly 5:35 PM, his phone buzzed again. Unknown number.
His heart leapt. He glanced at the clock. Ten minutes until Meera’s meeting. His hand trembled as he answered.
“Amit,” the same voice whispered, urgent and clear. “This is critical. At 7:00 AM tomorrow, do NOT take the Paud Road shortcut. A gas leak will cause an explosion. I’m trying to keep you safe. You must trust me.”
His pulse raced. “Who ARE you?” he demanded, but the line had already gone dead. He stared at his phone, the seconds ticking by on the screen, mocking him.
He forced himself to breathe. The Paud Road shortcut. A gas leak. Another disaster avoided—if he listened.
He drove to Vaishali in a daze, the streets of Pune blurring past. Familiar landmarks—a temple, a paan shop, a fruit vendor—felt foreign, like images in someone else’s dream. He parked his bike and walked to the café’s outdoor seating, where Meera was waiting, a half-empty cup of cutting chai in front of her.
“Hey,” she said, eyes scanning his face. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
He sat down heavily. “Another call,” he said. “It said tomorrow morning—Paud Road shortcut. Gas leak. Explosion.”
She went pale. “Amit, this is serious. If that’s true, we need to warn the authorities.”
He shook his head. “And say what? ‘A voice from the future told me’? They’ll think I’m mad.” He took a deep breath. “Meera, the voice said it was trying to keep me safe. But how does it know? And why me?”
Meera’s eyes narrowed. She pulled out her phone and started typing furiously. “I’ll see what I can find—news about gas leaks, accidents, construction. Maybe there’s a pattern.” She paused and looked up. “Amit, what if it’s someone close to you? Someone who’s monitoring you, hacking into your phone, using some kind of voice distortion software? Maybe they know your schedule—”
Amit shook his head. “No. The voice—there’s something about it. It feels like… me, but not me. Like an echo, or a memory. I know that sounds insane.”
She put a hand on his. “Hey. We’ll figure this out. Let’s stay rational. First, we test this warning. Don’t take Paud Road tomorrow morning. Take another route. If there’s an accident—”
“Then the voice is real,” he finished.
“And if there’s no accident, then we have to consider other possibilities,” Meera said. “Either way, we’ll be cautious.”
That night, Amit barely slept. The monsoon rain drummed on his window like an accusing finger. He lay awake, staring at the ceiling fan spinning shadows across the walls. Over and over, he heard the voice. His own voice, but older, wearier—like someone who had lived through too much.
At 5:30 AM, he rose, made a quick cup of chai, and checked the news on his phone. Nothing yet about Paud Road. No reports of gas leaks. He dressed hurriedly, telling himself he would take the longer route through Kothrud, avoiding Paud Road entirely.
But as he stepped out of his building, he hesitated. What if the voice was lying? What if it was some elaborate hoax to control him? He shook his head. “No,” he muttered. “I’m not taking that chance.”
He swung his leg over his bike and rode through the waking city, the streets still slick with rain. The air smelled of wet earth and exhaust fumes. He passed small temples, street vendors opening their stalls, rickshaw drivers sipping chai at roadside stands.
As he neared the junction where Paud Road branched off, he saw the barricades. A group of people had gathered, police and fire trucks flashing their lights. His heart thudded in his chest as he slowed down and parked his bike.
He approached a uniformed officer. “Sir, what happened?”
The officer glanced at him, sweat beading his forehead despite the morning chill. “Gas leak from an underground pipeline. There was a small explosion around seven. Some injuries, but no fatalities, thank God.”
Amit felt a wave of nausea wash over him. The voice had been right. Again.
He turned away, his legs trembling. People bustled around him—ambulances, news reporters, curious onlookers. Amit felt like a ghost drifting through the scene, his mind spinning.
He found a quiet corner near a closed tea stall and called Meera.
“It happened,” he said, his voice hollow. “Exactly like the voice said.”
Meera’s breath caught. “Amit—this is no coincidence. Whoever is sending these messages… they’re trying to help you. But why? And how?”
Amit’s mind reeled. “It said it was me. My voice. What if—what if it really is me? From the future?”
Meera was silent for a long moment. “Amit… that’s a huge leap. But given what’s happened… maybe we should consider every possibility. We need to trace that call. Let’s meet after work. I’ll bring my laptop and my contacts at the telecom company. We’ll figure this out.”
Amit nodded, even though she couldn’t see him. “Okay. Tonight. Thank you, Meera.”
The day crawled by. Amit tried to concentrate on work—finishing a module for a critical client presentation—but the images of the gas leak site, the flashing lights, and the urgent voice haunted him.
At 7:00 PM sharp, Amit met Meera at her small apartment near Shaniwar Wada. The place smelled of coffee and old books. Meera’s laptop sat open on the dining table, a tangle of charging cables and sticky notes around it.
“I pulled the call logs from your phone,” she said, tapping the keyboard. “Every unknown number that’s left you a voicemail so far. They’re all marked as ‘private’—no originating number. That’s unusual. Usually, even spam calls have a traceable ID, but this one… it’s like it’s coming from nowhere.”
Amit stared at the screen. “So what does that mean? Is it… a spoofed call? Or something else?”
Meera’s brow furrowed. “It’s like it’s not routed through any known network. Like… quantum entanglement or something.” She laughed nervously. “Sorry, that’s sci-fi nonsense.”
Amit shook his head. “But what if it’s not nonsense? Meera, what if someone is sending these messages from the future? Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m trying to save myself from—”
He stopped, his throat tight.
“From what?” Meera whispered.
Amit’s phone buzzed again. Unknown number.
His hand shook as he answered. “Hello?”
The voice crackled with static but was unmistakably his own. Older. Tired. “Amit, listen carefully. They’re coming for you. The Directorate. They know about the experiment. Don’t trust anyone. Not even—”
The line went dead.
Amit’s eyes widened. “The Directorate? What—”
Meera’s face had gone pale. “Amit… what did it say?”
He turned to her, his heart pounding. “It said they’re coming for me. That they know about an experiment. And that I shouldn’t trust anyone.”
Meera swallowed hard. “Amit… what the hell have you gotten into?”
Amit stared at the darkened window, the night pressing in like a weight. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “But I think we’re about to find out.”
Chapter 3: Shadows in the Rain
The sky over Pune wore a cloak of thick, charcoal clouds, promising another downpour. Amit stood at Meera’s apartment window, staring at the busy street below where rickshaws honked and pedestrians hurried under umbrellas. He felt like a ghost watching a world he no longer belonged to—a world that had suddenly turned alien.
Meera had made coffee, the aroma fighting a losing battle against the scent of damp earth. She placed a steaming mug on the table and sat down, her brow furrowed.
“Amit,” she said, “this Directorate—have you ever heard of it before? Could it be some secret government agency or corporate group?”
Amit shook his head. “No. But the way the voice said it… it felt personal. Like I should know what it meant.”
Meera clicked on her laptop, her fingers dancing over the keyboard. “I’m going to do a deep dive. Even if it’s some underground agency, there should be something—a rumor, a leak, a classified file that’s not so classified anymore.”
Amit sipped the coffee absently. The bitterness clung to his tongue. His thoughts were elsewhere—on the voice that had sounded so much like his own.
He remembered the tone. The urgency. And the final words: “Don’t trust anyone.”
He looked at Meera, her determined expression glowing in the laptop’s light. Could he trust her?
He shook the thought away. No. She’s my friend.
But the voice’s warning echoed.
“Meera,” he said, his voice trembling, “what if this is bigger than us? What if it’s not just about saving me from accidents—but something much worse?”
Meera looked up, her eyes intense. “You mean—like a conspiracy? Some secret experiment?”
Amit nodded. “Maybe. I keep thinking about that last voicemail. ‘They’re coming for you.’ ‘The Directorate.’ ‘The experiment.’ What if I’m part of something I don’t even remember?”
Meera’s fingers froze on the keyboard. “Like what? Mind control? Genetic testing?”
Amit ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. But—”
A knock at the door interrupted him.
They both jumped.
Meera looked at Amit, then at the door. “It’s probably just the neighbor.”
But Amit’s gut twisted.
“Don’t open it,” he whispered.
The knock came again. Louder.
Meera glanced through the peephole, then turned back, her eyes wide. “It’s two men. Dark suits. They look—official.”
Amit’s heart slammed against his ribs. “The Directorate.”
Meera’s face paled. “What do we do?”
Amit grabbed her arm. “We can’t stay here. They might have surveillance. We need to leave—now.”
The knock turned into a pounding.
“Miss Sen! Open up. We just want to talk,” a voice called, too smooth, too controlled.
Meera’s eyes darted to her balcony. “We can jump down. It’s only one floor.”
Amit nodded. His legs felt like jelly, but he forced them to move. He grabbed Meera’s laptop—it has all the research, he thought—and followed her to the balcony.
Rain had started again, slicking the railings. Meera swung one leg over, then the other, and dropped lightly to the ground. Amit followed, landing awkwardly but managing to stay upright.
They sprinted through the narrow alley that ran behind her building, the rain soaking them instantly. Motorbikes lined the walls, their covers flapping like ghostly shrouds. The air smelled of wet garbage and exhaust.
“Where now?” Meera shouted over the downpour.
Amit’s mind raced. “We need somewhere safe—somewhere they won’t think to look.”
Meera’s eyes widened. “My uncle’s old farmhouse in Mulshi! No one goes there anymore. It’s abandoned, but it’s dry and has power.”
Amit nodded. “Let’s go.”
They ran, splashing through puddles, their clothes clinging to them. The rain blurred the city lights, transforming Pune into a shifting, shimmering labyrinth.
They reached Meera’s car, a battered Maruti Swift she’d inherited from her father. Meera gunned the engine, and they sped through the flooded streets, wipers slashing at the torrent.
Amit couldn’t stop looking over his shoulder, half-expecting dark sedans to appear from nowhere, headlights slicing through the rain. But there was nothing. Only the rhythmic swish of the wipers and the dull hum of the engine.
Meera glanced at him. “Amit, I’m scared.”
He swallowed hard. “Me too.”
They drove in silence for a while, the city giving way to winding roads lined with trees. The air smelled cleaner out here, the rain softer, but the darkness felt heavier somehow.
“Meera,” Amit said, breaking the silence, “what if I’m not the only one? What if there are others like me—other test subjects?”
Meera gripped the wheel tighter. “Then we have to find them.”
The farmhouse loomed out of the darkness like a memory from a different life. A broken gate hung at an angle, and weeds claimed the driveway. Meera parked the car and killed the engine.
They sat for a moment, listening to the rain patter on the roof.
Amit’s phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
His breath caught.
He answered, heart hammering.
The voice came through—his own voice, older, strained.
“Amit, listen. You have to remember. The Directorate—they’re watching you. You were part of Project Shunya—an experiment to manipulate time itself. They’re trying to erase your memory. That’s why you can’t remember.”
Amit’s mind spun. “Project Shunya? Time manipulation?”
But the voice had already faded into static.
Meera stared at him, eyes wide. “What did it say?”
Amit looked at her, his lips trembling. “It said I’m part of an experiment. That the Directorate is trying to erase my memory. That I can’t remember—because they did something to me.”
Meera’s eyes darted around the car. “Amit… if that’s true, maybe that’s why you’re getting these voicemails. Maybe it’s you—sending them back from the future, trying to help yourself remember.”
Amit’s head throbbed. “But why? Why me?”
Meera opened the laptop. “Let’s see if there’s anything about Project Shunya.”
The screen glowed in the darkness, lines of code and news articles flickering past. Finally, she found something—a fragment of a news report from five years ago:
“Top-secret government experiment Project Shunya rumored to involve time-based communication technology. Sources suggest a prototype device capable of transmitting messages across temporal boundaries.”
She looked at Amit, her face pale. “Amit… this is real.”
Amit slumped in the seat, the weight of the revelation crushing him.
Project Shunya. Time communication. Memory erasure.
His own voice—sending messages from the future.
The rain lashed the windows as if trying to drown out the truth.
Meera took a deep breath. “Amit, if what that voicemail said is true, then the Directorate is trying to erase your memories to control you. That means every accident you’ve avoided—they planned those to kill you, but your future self is trying to stop them.”
Amit’s mind was a storm. “So… every near-miss, every warning—it’s me trying to survive. But why me? What do I know that they want to erase so badly?”
Meera shook her head. “We need to find out. And fast.”
Amit’s phone buzzed again. Unknown number.
He answered.
The voice—his voice—rushed out, urgent and ragged.
“Amit, they’re close. They’ll find you at the farmhouse. You have to leave. Find the old train yard near Shivajinagar. There’s a man there—his name is Vikram Deshmukh. He can help. Trust no one else. Go—now!”
Amit’s heart nearly stopped.
Meera’s eyes widened. “What did it say?”
Amit looked at her, his voice a whisper. “They’re coming here. We have to go. Now.”
They jumped out of the car and ran through the rain. The farmhouse loomed like a skeleton in the darkness, but they didn’t stop. They tore down the driveway, the rain drumming on their heads.
Behind them, a pair of headlights flickered on.
A black SUV rumbled to life, its engine a low growl in the storm.
Amit’s breath caught. “Go, go, go!”
They sprinted to the Maruti, Meera fumbling with the keys. The engine sputtered, then roared to life. She jammed the accelerator, and the car lurched forward, spraying mud behind them.
The SUV’s headlights swung around, chasing them down the narrow road.
Amit looked back, his heart pounding. The Directorate was real. Project Shunya was real. And now—so was the threat.
He turned to Meera. “Shivajinagar train yard. Vikram Deshmukh. That’s our only shot.”
Meera nodded, her face set. “Hold on.”
The rain lashed at the windshield as they sped into the night, the city’s glow on the horizon like a promise—and a threat.
Chapter 4: The Train Yard and the Stranger
The rain had eased to a drizzle, leaving the air thick with humidity and the faint smell of wet asphalt and diesel. Amit’s heart pounded as Meera’s battered Maruti cut through the darkened streets of Pune, the city’s neon signs and street lamps casting distorted reflections on the wet roads.
The black SUV that had chased them was no longer in sight, but the danger was far from over. Every shadow felt like a threat, every honking vehicle a warning. The words from the last voicemail echoed relentlessly in Amit’s mind: “Find the old train yard near Shivajinagar. There’s a man—Vikram Deshmukh. He can help.”
The train yard was a forgotten corner of the city, a maze of rusted tracks, empty freight cars, and broken-down machinery. It sat at the edge of Shivajinagar, away from the bustle of Pune’s busy commercial centers, a place where time seemed to stand still.
As they approached the entrance, Amit felt a wave of unease. The gate was half-open, swinging in the wind with a creak that sounded like a warning. Meera slowed the car and parked just outside.
“Are you sure about this place?” she asked, voice low.
“I have to trust the voice,” Amit replied, swallowing hard. “If this Vikram Deshmukh is real, he’s our only chance.”
They stepped out, the cold night air biting through their soaked clothes. The ground beneath them was muddy, and broken glass crunched underfoot. The place was eerie, illuminated only by distant streetlights and the occasional flicker of a malfunctioning bulb attached to a rusted pole.
A figure appeared at the far end of the yard—a tall man in his late forties, wearing a weathered leather jacket and thick glasses. His hair was peppered with gray, and he moved with a deliberate calmness that suggested he was expecting them.
“You Amit Sharma?” the man called out in a deep, measured voice.
Amit nodded cautiously. “Yes. And this is Meera. We were told you could help.”
The man gestured them forward. “I’m Vikram Deshmukh. Let’s get out of this rain.”
They followed Vikram to an old shipping container that had been converted into a makeshift office. Inside, the smell of dust, old paper, and machine oil was overpowering.
Vikram shut the door behind them and switched on a battered desk lamp. On the wall hung a large whiteboard filled with scribbles, timelines, and cryptic notes.
Vikram looked at Amit carefully. “I’ve been expecting you. The voice—you hear it because you were part of Project Shunya.”
Amit’s eyes widened. “You know about it?”
Vikram nodded grimly. “I helped develop parts of it before I left. Time communication experiments, aimed at sending messages across different points in time. But the project went dark after some… incidents.”
He paused, then continued, “You’re lucky to have those voicemails. They’re your future self trying to prevent what’s coming.”
“Who’s coming?” Amit asked, anxiety rising.
“The Directorate,” Vikram replied, voice dropping. “A government agency that wants to control the technology. They don’t want anyone to know the truth.”
Meera leaned forward. “What truth?”
Vikram sighed. “That time is not linear. That messages can be sent backward. That the future can be changed—but only at a cost.”
He picked up a dusty notebook from the table and handed it to Amit. “This contains everything you need to know.”
Amit flipped through the worn pages, filled with diagrams of quantum devices, notes about temporal experiments, and warnings about the dangers of tampering with time.
One entry caught his eye:
“Experiment 7: Subject Amit Sharma. Memory wipe protocols initiated. Potential temporal displacement detected. Objective: Erase subject’s memory to prevent timeline contamination.”
A cold shiver ran down Amit’s spine.
“So they’ve been experimenting on me?” he whispered.
Vikram nodded. “Yes. They wanted to erase your memories to keep the experiment secret. But you’ve somehow become aware—probably due to temporal feedback.”
Meera’s eyes were wide with disbelief. “How do we stop them?”
Vikram looked out the grimy window. “First, you have to understand the timeline. Every message you receive is a thread in a web. Changing one event could unravel everything.”
They spent hours discussing the project, the Directorate, and Amit’s strange connection to time. Vikram explained that while time communication was possible, changing the past was unpredictable. The future Amit was trying to send messages to the present Amit to save him from fatal events, but every alteration risked creating paradoxes.
“The Directorate doesn’t want you to remember because you could undo their control,” Vikram said. “But if you don’t act carefully, you might cause more harm than good.”
Meera asked, “So what now?”
Vikram stood, moving to a metal cabinet and pulling out a small black device. “This is a temporal decoder. It can help you access memories that were erased. But it’s risky.”
Amit looked at the device, a mix of fear and hope swirling inside him. “What happens if I use it?”
“You could remember everything,” Vikram said. “The truth about Project Shunya. The truth about yourself. But you might also attract the Directorate’s attention faster.”
Amit swallowed. “I have to try.”
Vikram helped Amit strap on the device, a helmet-like contraption with wires and blinking lights. The room hummed as the machine powered up.
“Close your eyes,” Vikram instructed. “Let your mind drift.”
Amit felt a strange pressure in his head, like static electricity crackling beneath his skull. Then images flooded his mind: flashes of a laboratory, men in white coats, a younger version of himself hooked up to machines.
Voices echoed—scientists discussing “temporal displacement,” “memory suppression,” and “project success.”
Amit saw himself strapped to a chair, lights blinding his eyes, a sensation of falling—then darkness.
He gasped, eyes snapping open. Sweat drenched his face.
“I remember,” he whispered. “I was a test subject. They erased my memories to hide what they did. But I—I was trying to send messages back to myself.”
Meera reached out, steadying him. “What else?”
Amit closed his eyes again, struggling to hold onto the memories. “There was… a failure. The Directorate wants to erase me because I might expose them.”
Vikram nodded. “You’re in danger, Amit. But now you have a chance.”
As dawn crept over Pune, Amit felt the weight of his past lift slightly. He wasn’t just a victim anymore; he was part of something bigger. And with Meera and Vikram’s help, maybe he could fight back.
“We need to find others,” Vikram said. “Others like you. The Directorate can’t control everyone.”
Amit nodded, determination blazing in his eyes. “Let’s start with the train yard. Then, we fight.”
The rain stopped. The sky lightened. The future was uncertain—but for the first time, Amit felt hope.
Chapter 5: Echoes of the Past
The first rays of dawn spilled over Pune’s skyline as Amit, Meera, and Vikram sat huddled inside the shipping container at the old train yard. The previous night’s revelations weighed heavily on Amit’s mind. He was no longer just a man running from shadowy pursuers — he was a piece on a dangerous chessboard, a subject of a sinister experiment, and a man desperate to reclaim the memories and the truth stolen from him.
Vikram spread out a worn map of Pune on the metal table. The map was peppered with pins, scribbles, and faded markings that looked like they had been added over several years.
“The Directorate isn’t the only group involved,” Vikram said quietly. “There are factions — people who were once part of Project Shunya but have since gone underground.”
Meera leaned in, squinting at the map. “You mean there are others like Amit?”
“Yes. Subjects whose memories weren’t fully erased, or who broke free before they could be controlled,” Vikram replied. “Some have valuable information, and some… have become targets.”
Amit rubbed his face. “Where do we start?”
Vikram tapped a red pin near Kothrud, a suburb with narrow lanes and old textile mills. “This is one place. A former scientist who defected years ago lives there. If anyone can help us understand the extent of the project, it’s him.”
The journey to Kothrud was tense. Amit’s mind circled around the possibility of meeting someone who might have answers — or might be a trap. The streets of Pune were waking up slowly, vendors setting up their stalls, and the distant call of morning prayers floated in the air.
Vikram drove with a practiced ease through narrow lanes lined with crumbling buildings, their facades covered in peeling paint and colorful posters advertising local events.
They stopped outside a two-story house tucked behind a small garden. The walls were cracked, and the windows were dusty, but a faint light flickered inside.
Vikram knocked on the door with a cautious rhythm. After a moment, it creaked open, revealing an elderly man with thinning silver hair and a pair of sharp, intelligent eyes.
“Vikram Deshmukh,” the man said, voice soft but firm. “I’ve been expecting you.”
Inside the dimly lit room, the man introduced himself as Dr. Raghunath Kulkarni. A retired neuroscientist and former lead researcher on Project Shunya, he had fled the Directorate’s control years ago.
“I worked on the temporal messaging device,” Raghunath confessed, “but I opposed the memory wipe protocols. Erasing someone’s past… it’s playing God.”
Amit listened intently as Raghunath detailed the origins of the project. It began as a government initiative to develop technology capable of sending warnings back in time — to prevent disasters, save lives. But the technology’s potential was terrifying.
“When the Directorate took control, they weaponized the project,” Raghunath said bitterly. “They started using it to manipulate outcomes, erase inconvenient individuals, and rewrite history to suit their agenda.”
Meera’s eyes narrowed. “So Amit’s memories were erased because he knew too much?”
Raghunath nodded. “Exactly. But his ability to receive messages is unique. It’s called temporal resonance — a rare anomaly that makes him a beacon across timelines.”
Amit’s mind reeled. “But every message I get, every warning… it’s me trying to save myself from the Directorate?”
“Yes,” Vikram said, “but the more you change the timeline, the more unstable it becomes.”
Raghunath agreed. “The future isn’t fixed, but it’s delicate. Each change creates ripples that can have unintended consequences.”
Amit clenched his fists. “I have to keep trying. I can’t just sit back and wait to be erased.”
Meera added, “Then we need to be careful. We need to understand what the Directorate wants to erase and why.”
Suddenly, a sharp knock startled them. Amit instinctively looked toward the door.
Raghunath motioned for silence. “Stay calm.”
The door opened slightly, and a young woman peeked inside. Her eyes darted nervously as she looked at each of them.
“Are you… Amit Sharma?” she whispered.
Amit nodded slowly.
“My name is Anjali. I’ve been looking for you. I think I can help.”
Meera exchanged a quick glance with Vikram, but the tension didn’t ease.
“Who sent you?” Vikram asked, voice cautious.
Anjali hesitated. “I’m part of a resistance group — former subjects of Project Shunya who want to stop the Directorate.”
Anjali explained that the resistance had been tracking the Directorate’s movements, gathering evidence and protecting targets. Amit was one of their highest priorities because of his temporal abilities.
“We believe the Directorate plans something big,” she said. “An operation to erase multiple timelines — starting with people like you.”
Amit’s heart raced. “What can I do?”
Anjali looked around. “You need to access the central data servers where all project files are stored. There’s evidence there — proof that can expose the Directorate to the world.”
Vikram frowned. “That place is heavily guarded. It’s in the heart of Pune, inside a government research complex.”
Meera bit her lip. “We’ll need a plan.”
The small group gathered around Raghunath’s battered desk, sketching out the layout of the government compound on scraps of paper.
Vikram spoke softly but firmly. “There are cameras everywhere, armed guards, biometric locks. But there’s a blind spot in the underground maintenance tunnels.”
Anjali nodded. “If we can get in through there, we can avoid detection.”
Amit felt a surge of adrenaline. “How do we get the data once inside?”
Raghunath produced a small device — a prototype temporal key designed to interface with the Directorate’s servers.
“It can unlock files encrypted with future tech,” he explained. “But it only works briefly.”
Meera looked at Amit. “This is risky, but it’s our best shot.”
That evening, Amit sat on the rooftop of Raghunath’s house, staring at the glowing city below. The stakes were higher than ever. Every choice could change everything.
He thought of the voicemails, the warnings, the mysterious messages from his future self. A question haunted him: If he succeeded in changing the past, would his future self still exist? Would the messages stop?
Meera joined him silently, offering a steady presence. “Whatever happens, you’re not alone.”
Amit nodded, drawing strength from her words.
The sun had fully set, and the night deepened. The plan was set. They would infiltrate the Directorate’s facility at first light.
Amit’s phone buzzed softly in his pocket — an unknown number.
He answered with trembling fingers.
The voice was calm but grave — his own voice, from the future.
“Prepare yourself, Amit. This will be the hardest fight yet.”
Chapter 6: The Heist at Dawn
The air was thick with tension as the first faint light of dawn barely illuminated the sprawling government research complex nestled in the heart of Pune. The building was imposing, fortified with razor wire fences, security cameras that seemed to watch every inch, and guards patrolling with practiced vigilance.
Amit, Meera, Vikram, and Anjali crouched behind a row of shrubs in the shadow of a nearby building, their breath visible in the early morning chill.
“Remember,” Vikram whispered, checking the small black temporal key device strapped to his belt. “This is no ordinary data hack. The Directorate’s system uses quantum encryption linked to temporal signals. The key only gives us a narrow window to access the files.”
Meera tightened the strap on her bag, where she kept a small EMP device and some lockpicks. “How long do we have?”
“A few minutes, if that,” Vikram replied grimly. “Once the system detects an anomaly, alarms will trigger.”
Amit swallowed the lump in his throat. The stakes were clear. If they failed, the Directorate would hunt them down, erasing their existence like shadows swallowed by darkness.
Anjali gave Amit a determined look. “We stick to the plan. We get in, retrieve the data, and get out fast.”
The team moved silently through the underground maintenance tunnels, their footsteps muffled by damp concrete. The faint hum of electrical wires and distant machinery echoed around them.
“This is the blind spot Vikram mentioned,” Anjali whispered. “No cameras, minimal patrol.”
Amit’s heart pounded as they approached a heavy metal door, secured by biometric locks. Vikram stepped forward, pulling out a small gadget resembling a futuristic keycard scanner.
“I’ll hack this,” he muttered, sliding the device onto the panel.
Seconds stretched painfully. Then the lock clicked open. They slipped inside.
The corridor was sterile and cold, fluorescent lights flickering overhead. The sterile silence was broken only by the soft tapping of their footsteps and the faint buzzing of computers.
Vikram consulted a worn blueprint on his tablet. “The server room is two floors down. We’ll have to avoid the security patrols.”
Meera pointed ahead. “There’s a guard coming.”
They ducked into a side room as a uniformed man passed, flashlight scanning the corridor.
Amit’s hands shook as he adjusted the temporal key device, strapped to his wrist like a watch. The device was designed to interface with the Directorate’s advanced servers, unlocking data that should have been erased from all records.
They reached the door to the server room, an imposing slab of reinforced steel. Vikram attached the temporal key device to the door’s digital panel. A faint blue light pulsed as the device synced.
Suddenly, an alarm blared.
“Security breach!” a mechanical voice echoed through the halls.
“Move! Move!” Vikram shouted.
Inside the server room, rows of humming machines held terabytes of data. Vikram rushed to a console and plugged in the key device.
The screen flickered, encrypted files scrolling rapidly.
“Almost there…” Vikram murmured.
Amit’s phone buzzed silently in his pocket. He glanced — an unknown number.
He ignored it, focusing on the pressing danger.
Suddenly, the door slammed shut with a heavy thud.
“We’re trapped!” Meera yelled, banging on the metal.
Outside, footsteps multiplied, voices shouting commands.
“The Directorate’s reinforcements,” Anjali said, eyes wide.
Vikram’s fingers flew over the keyboard. “The temporal key is unlocking files, but I can only hold it open for two more minutes.”
Amit’s phone buzzed again. This time he answered.
It was his future voice, calm but urgent.
“Trust no one. There’s a mole.”
The call ended abruptly.
“Who could it be?” Meera whispered, fear creeping into her voice.
Amit’s mind raced. “We have to get out—now!”
The lights flickered, and suddenly the console powered down.
“No!” Vikram shouted. “They’ve cut the power.”
In the dark, panic set in.
Footsteps approached rapidly.
A shadow appeared in the doorway.
It was a man in a Directorate uniform — but Vikram’s face paled.
“Raghav?” Amit gasped. “He was with us.”
Raghav smiled coldly. “Not anymore. Orders from above — no one gets out with that data.”
Chaos erupted. Meera grabbed a metal pipe, swinging it at Raghav, who dodged with ease.
Amit and Vikram struggled to reboot the system.
“Two minutes left!” Vikram shouted.
Raghav lunged, pinning Vikram against the console.
“Finish this!” he snarled.
Amit rushed forward, tackling Raghav.
The pipe swung wildly, cracking against metal and flesh.
Meera’s yell echoed as she fought off another guard.
Suddenly, the emergency lights flashed red. The power surged back on.
Vikram seized the moment, reactivating the console.
“Download starting!” he cried.
The screen showed files transferring — documents, videos, and audio logs exposing Project Shunya’s darkest secrets.
“We have to go!” Anjali urged.
Amit looked at the screen, the truth flashing before him — experiments, cover-ups, erased lives.
The download completed just as more guards stormed in.
“Time’s up!” Vikram said, grabbing the device.
The group sprinted through the maze-like corridors, chased by shouts and gunfire.
They reached the maintenance tunnel, ducking into the rain-soaked streets.
The city’s early morning bustle swallowed them as they vanished into the shadows.
Back at Raghunath’s house, the group pored over the stolen data.
Videos showed terrified test subjects, erased memories, and the Directorate’s plan to rewrite history to maintain control.
Amit stared at the files, understanding the magnitude of what they now possessed.
“We can expose them,” he said quietly.
Meera nodded. “But they’ll come after us harder than ever.”
Vikram looked at Amit. “Your future self warned you about a mole. We have to be careful who we trust.”
Amit’s phone buzzed once more.
The caller ID read: Unknown.
He answered with a steady voice.
“Good job,” his future self said. “But this is only the beginning.”
Chapter 7: Shadows Within
The data they had stolen was a treasure trove of secrets — enough to dismantle the Directorate’s entire operation. Yet, as Amit stared at the encrypted files glowing on his laptop screen, a creeping doubt gnawed at him: could they truly trust everyone in their circle?
The warning from his future self echoed louder than ever: “Trust no one. There’s a mole.”
Days had passed since the daring heist. Amit, Meera, Vikram, and Anjali were holed up in a safe house on the outskirts of Pune, trying to decrypt the stolen files and plan their next move. The city outside was indifferent, humming with life as if nothing had happened.
Amit found himself wandering the rooftop one evening, the cool night breeze brushing against his face. The familiar skyline was a comforting constant amid the chaos engulfing his life.
Meera joined him silently, holding two cups of steaming chai.
“Still thinking about that warning?” she asked softly.
Amit nodded. “If there’s a mole, we need to find out who.”
Meera sighed. “We don’t have many options. But we can start by reviewing everyone who’s been involved.”
They sat around the table, the dim light flickering over a map of their network — friends, allies, even former colleagues who had helped them so far.
Vikram spoke first. “Raghav’s betrayal was obvious. But there might be others. The Directorate is ruthless. They use people’s fears and weaknesses to infiltrate resistance groups.”
Anjali leaned forward. “We also need to consider if someone close to Amit is compromised. Someone who knows his patterns, his routines.”
Amit clenched his fists. “But who?”
Meera added quietly, “We should review the communication logs. Any unusual contact, unexplained meetings.”
Vikram nodded. “Agreed. I’ve been monitoring encrypted channels — something slipped through.”
Amit dove into the data, scanning emails, texts, and voice logs with the help of Vikram’s tech skills. Hours passed with mounting frustration. Then suddenly, a strange pattern emerged.
“There,” Vikram said, pointing at a message timestamped late last week.
The message was brief, encrypted, and sent from an anonymous number — but the metadata indicated it came from within their safe house’s vicinity.
Anjali’s face paled. “Someone is inside our circle.”
Amit’s phone buzzed again. The caller ID read Unknown.
He answered cautiously.
A distorted voice spoke through the static: “You’re running out of time, Amit. They’re closer than you think.”
The line went dead.
Fear crept into their ranks like a silent poison. The group grew wary, eyes darting at every creak or unexpected knock.
Meera suggested they split up temporarily, to limit risk and gather information independently.
Amit protested. “We need to stay united.”
But the tension was too high. They agreed to keep surveillance on one another — a painful but necessary measure.
Late at night, a soft knock startled Amit. He opened the door cautiously to find an old friend — Sanjay, a journalist known for exposing government corruption.
“I heard about what happened,” Sanjay said urgently. “And I want to help.”
Amit hesitated, memories of past betrayals flashing through his mind.
“Can I trust you?” he asked bluntly.
Sanjay met his gaze steadily. “You can trust me to tell the truth.”
With Sanjay on board, the group’s hope flickered anew. Sanjay promised to use his network to leak the Directorate’s secrets to the public.
But the Directorate was already tightening its noose. Anonymous threats arrived, vehicles followed them, and digital surveillance intensified.
One night, while Amit was alone, his phone buzzed. The caller ID read Future Amit again.
“This is your last chance,” the voice warned. “The Directorate plans a massive operation tomorrow night — code-named Eclipse. They intend to erase all resistance members simultaneously.”
Amit’s blood ran cold.
The group sprang into action. Plans were made to protect themselves and warn others.
Vikram worked to scramble their digital footprints. Meera coordinated with underground safe houses. Sanjay prepared his exposé, ready to go live at the first sign of danger.
Amit sat alone in the dim light, the weight of responsibility pressing down.
“If I fail, everyone dies,” he whispered.
In the early hours, an urgent message arrived — a clue pointing to the mole’s identity.
It was Anjali.
She confessed.
“I was compromised months ago,” she said, voice trembling. “They threatened my family.”
Shock rippled through the group.
“But I stayed to protect you,” she added. “To find a way to stop them from within.”
Amit felt a bitter mix of betrayal and sympathy.
Despite the betrayal, Anjali’s information became vital.
She revealed the Directorate’s planned operation site — a remote data center on the outskirts of Pune, where they would initiate Eclipse.
“We need to stop them before they activate it,” Anjali urged.
Vikram nodded. “It’s our only chance.”
Under the cover of darkness, the group prepared to infiltrate the data center.
Amit’s heart pounded, the lines between past, present, and future blurring. The fight wasn’t just for survival — it was for the very fabric of time itself.
As they moved out, Amit’s phone buzzed once more.
His own voice came through again, steady and resolute.
“This is the final fight.”
Chapter 8: Eclipse
The night was heavy, the sky a thick blanket of dark clouds threatening rain. The streets of Pune lay quiet, the usual hum of the city replaced by an eerie stillness. Amit’s heart raced, each beat echoing the urgency that had gripped him since the warning call.
This was it — the final battle to stop Operation Eclipse.
In the dim light of the safe house, the group made final preparations. Weapons were checked, devices secured, and roles assigned.
Vikram studied the floor plans of the remote data center on his tablet. “The facility is heavily guarded. Armed patrols, motion sensors, and a central control room where Eclipse will be triggered.”
Meera tightened her gloves. “We’ll split into two teams. Amit and I will disable the control systems. Vikram, you and Sanjay cover our escape route.”
Anjali, despite her past betrayal, stood firm. “I’m coming with you. I know the layout.”
Amit hesitated, then nodded. “No one gets left behind.”
The journey to the data center was tense and silent. They slipped through narrow alleys, avoiding main roads to remain unseen.
As they neared the facility, they paused behind a dense thicket.
Vikram pointed toward floodlights scanning the perimeter. “We’ll need to time our movements between the sweeps.”
Amit felt the weight of every second. If they were caught, the Directorate would erase them from existence without hesitation.
Using a combination of stealth and technical skill, the team bypassed the outer defenses. Vikram hacked a security terminal, creating a temporary blackout in the sensors.
Inside the facility, the sterile cold air filled Amit’s lungs as they moved cautiously through narrow corridors lined with servers humming with hidden power.
Meera checked her watch. “We have less than thirty minutes before Eclipse starts.”
At last, they reached the control room — a high-tech chamber filled with blinking panels and massive screens displaying streams of data.
Amit approached the main console, his fingers trembling as he connected the temporal key device.
Suddenly, alarms blared.
“We’ve been detected!” Anjali shouted.
Guards poured in from every entrance, weapons raised.
Meera fired warning shots, creating a path for Amit to work.
Amit’s hands flew over the keyboard, fighting against the countdown timer ticking relentlessly on the screen.
“Just a few more seconds…” he muttered.
Vikram and Sanjay covered their backs, taking down attackers with precise shots.
Anjali fought fiercely alongside Meera, her earlier betrayal forgotten in the heat of battle.
With a final keystroke, Amit severed the connection to the temporal servers.
The countdown stopped.
Silence fell, broken only by the ragged breaths of the survivors.
“We did it,” Amit whispered.
As dawn broke, the team slipped out of the facility, disappearing into the waking city.
Sanjay had already sent the exposé live, streaming videos and documents exposing Project Shunya and the Directorate’s plans to the world.
The public outcry was immediate and fierce. The government was forced to launch investigations, and the Directorate’s power crumbled.
Weeks later, Amit sat on the same rooftop where he had once found solace. Meera joined him, handing over a cup of chai.
“We changed the future,” she said softly.
Amit smiled, the weight finally lifting from his shoulders. “And maybe, just maybe, the future is ours to write.”
His phone buzzed again, an unknown number flashing.
He answered cautiously.
“Good job,” the calm, familiar voice said. “This is only the beginning.”
Amit chuckled softly. “Then I guess I better be ready.”
THE END
