𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙷𝙾𝙻𝙻𝙾𝚆 𝚁𝙾𝙾𝙼

The room was dark, save for the sliver of moonlight slipping through the heavy curtains, casting pale streaks across the wooden floor. Shadows stretched long and restless, flickering with the slow, steady creak of a rocking chair.

A man sat in it—broad, still, carved from old battle scars and memories that refused to fade. His hands, rough and calloused, rested loosely on the armrests, though his fingers twitched now and then, as if caught in some half-remembered motion.

In front of him, on a low wooden table, a bottle of whiskey stood uncorked, its amber depths catching the dim light. A single glass beside it, half-filled, untouched for some time. The air smelled of oak and something bitter, something aged—not just in the drink, but in the man himself.

Silence lay thick in the room, yet it was not empty. It was crowded—with echoes of the battlefield, the distant thunder of gunfire, the weight of voices calling out orders, prayers, names that no longer belonged to the living.

His shoulders tensed, just slightly, as if the ghosts pressed against his skin. He closed his eyes, but it did nothing to keep them away. The memory of blood in the dirt, of smoke rising into the sky, of the ones left behind—it was all still there, waiting in the dark.

He exhaled, slow and tired. The chair rocked, the wood groaning beneath him

Another night.

Another war that refused to end.

The room was silent, save for the rhythmic creak of the rocking chair and the faint clink of ice melting in his untouched glass. Shadows stretched long across the wooden floor, the dim glow of a dying lamp barely keeping the darkness at bay.

Then—the sharp buzz of his phone cut through the quiet.

He exhaled through his nose, running a hand over his face before reaching for the device. An unknown number. But he didn't need a name to know who it was.

It was them.

Pressing the phone to his ear, he answered, voice rough from whiskey and sleepless nights. "Talk."

The reply came crisp, professional. No greetings. No wasted words.

A voice, clipped and authoritative, filled the space. No greetings, no pleasantries. Only orders.

"We need you on-site. Coordinates sent. Immediate deployment."

He frowned, leaning forward, running a hand over his jaw. His grip on the glass tightened. "Not my problem."

"It is now."

A pause.

"What's the mission?"

"This isn't a request."

A pause. He swirled the whiskey in his glass, watching the way the amber liquid caught the dim light. "Then tell me why."

A beat of silence on the other end. Then—

"A live specimen has been secured. Mythological in nature."

He blinked. A slow, unimpressed inhale. "Mythological."

"A mermaid."

Silence.

Then—he let out a dry, humorless chuckle. "Right. And next, you'll tell me Bigfoot's been running classified ops in Siberia."

"This isn't a joke," the voice snapped. "The subject is real. Contained. But hostile. We need someone who can handle unpredictable, high-risk assets."

"You want me to babysit a fish?"

"We want you to control a situation that's already spiraling. People are talking. Rumors are spreading. We need containment."

The words hung in the air, absurd and heavy. He let out a dry laugh. "You woke me up for a damn fairytale?"

"Rumors have already started leaking," the voice continued, ignoring his dismissal. "We need containment. She's... difficult. Uncooperative. We need someone who can handle unpredictable, high-risk subjects." A pause. "We need you."

His jaw tightened. He had spent years handling things that were dangerous, wild, deadly. None of them had scales and fairy-tale origins.

"I don't do ghost hunts," he muttered.

"This isn't a ghost hunt," the voice countered. "It's real. And it's happening, whether you believe it or not."

A sharp ding—coordinates received.

He sighed, rubbing his temple. He could ignore the call, ignore the rumors, pretend it was nothing but some classified mess they'd clean up without him.

But he knew better.

If they were calling him, it meant the situation was worse than they were letting on.

Another pause. Another glance at the whiskey glass.

Then, with a muttered curse, he grabbed his coat.

Destination set.

🄰🅁🄹🅄🄽 🅁🄰🄹🅅🄰🄽🅂🄷🄸

Full Name: Arjun Rajvanshi

• Age: 34

• Occupation: Former military soldier / government security operative

• Personality:

Quiet and reserved

Highly disciplined

Emotionally guarded

Loyal to the people he loves

Protective by nature

Observant and strategic

• Core Traits:

Strong sense of duty

Naturally protective

Brave under pressure

Struggles to express emotions

Deeply compassionate beneath a cold exterior