Echo Protocol

The Assignment

The first threat came on a quiet Tuesday morning.

Anika Roy was brushing her teeth when her phone buzzed on the counter. She wiped her hands and checked it, expecting another news alert or an editor's message. Instead, it was a voicemail.

Unknown number. No caller ID.

She tapped play.

"Stop digging, Anika. Echo Protocol is not your story."

The voice was low, distorted—artificial almost. But there was something disturbingly human in the way the final words lingered. Not a warning. A promise.

Anika stared at the mirror. Her toothbrush was still in her hand, forgotten. She didn't move for a long second. Her own reflection looked back—tired eyes, hair in a messy bun, yesterday's eyeliner smudged beneath one eye.

She wasn't afraid. Not yet.

But she knew the feeling. It was the same cold twinge she'd felt when she exposed a political bribery ring three years ago. The same dull ache in her chest when her older brother's body came back zipped in a black bag with no explanation. Classified operation, they said.

Now it was happening again.

Her fingers hovered over the delete button.

She didn't press it.

By evening, her nerves were sharper than usual. The streets felt noisier, and the shadows longer. She knew this city well—had chased stories through its basements and boardrooms—but tonight it felt different. Like she was being followed by something she couldn't quite name.

Her editor, Rakesh, called just as she was locking up the office.

"You've pissed off someone powerful again, haven't you?"

"Define powerful," she said, forcing a smile into her voice.

"I'm serious, Anika. You've had three break-ins in six months. Now a voice message that sounds like it came straight from a spy movie. What exactly are you working on?"

She hesitated. "Something called Echo Protocol."

There was a pause.

"Anika... I don't like that name. Sounds military. Dangerous."

"I think it's both."

He sighed. "Just... promise me you'll hire protection. Real protection. Not your pepper spray and sarcasm."

She chuckled softly. "Fine. I'll look into someone."

"You're not bulletproof, Roy."

She hung up, a little more shaken than she wanted to admit.

This story was bigger than anything she'd touched before. Bigger than her anger. Bigger than her grief.

Which meant she had to finish it.

Two days later, Rayan Malhotra stood outside her apartment complex, looking up at the floor where she lived.

He hadn't wanted this job.

He didn't like journalists. They were unpredictable, emotional, and always thought they were invincible. But the client had insisted. And something in her file—something about the name Echo Protocol—had stopped him cold.

It wasn't a name you forgot easily. Especially if you'd once bled for it.

He knocked. Firm, deliberate. No smile.

Anika opened the door holding a cup of coffee and a mild look of suspicion.

"You're early."

"You're vulnerable," he replied flatly, stepping inside without asking.

She raised an eyebrow. "Is this the part where you sniff around my house like a retired bloodhound?"

He didn't look at her. "This is the part where I make sure you stay alive."

She watched him for a moment as he swept through the apartment. He was calm but alert, his eyes scanning everything—the doors, the windows, even the corners of the ceiling. Like he was expecting someone to jump out at any moment.

"Do you do that with everyone, or am I special?" she asked.

He gave a faint shrug. "Everyone. Especially the ones who don't listen."

She let out a breath. "Listen, I don't need a babysitter. I need a bodyguard."

"I'm not your babysitter. I'm your last line of defense."

"Wow. Dramatic."

"Necessary."

Their eyes locked in a beat too long.

He looked away first. "Do you have any idea what Echo Protocol really is?"

"I know enough to make powerful people nervous."

"That's not the same as knowing what you're up against."

"I didn't hire you to scare me, Mr. Malhotra."

He turned to face her fully now. "No. You hired me because you're smart enough to know you're already in over your head."

She didn't answer.

He handed her a small, plain phone. "Use this from now on. No calls, no emails. And if I say move, you don't ask why. You just run."

"Sounds more like a hostage situation than protection."

"If that's what it takes to keep you breathing, so be it."

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the humming of the refrigerator and a soft honk from the street below.

Finally, she took the phone. "Fine. But I don't trust easily."

"I don't need your trust," he said quietly. "Just your cooperation."

That night, Rayan sat in his car parked across the street, watching her apartment window. He hated doing this part. The waiting. The watching. The quiet.

Too much space for memories.

The mission in Zorvan. The smoke. The shouting. The blood.

He'd buried that part of himself. Or at least, tried to.

But then he saw Anika Roy's file—and the word Echo Protocol came back like a bad dream that had learned to speak.

Now she was stirring up ghosts he'd spent years trying to silence.

And maybe, just maybe... he wasn't ready to face them.

Inside, Anika stared at her laptop screen.

She'd finally opened the encrypted folder she'd been avoiding for weeks. The one sent anonymously. The one labeled "EP-DUMP."

Inside, a video.

She clicked play.

The footage was grainy, night-vision green. A village. Soldiers. Screaming. And then—explosions.

Someone yelled in English: "Cease fire! Abort!" But no one did.

She watched, her hands trembling slightly.

When the video ended, her coffee had gone cold.

She closed the laptop slowly, heart pounding in her chest.

She didn't know what exactly she'd seen.

But she knew this: it was real. It was ugly. And it was covered up.

Whatever Echo Protocol was it wasn't just a story anymore.

It was a war.

And she was standing in the middle of it.