The regression protocol

Regression?

Year – 2034

The city stretched endlessly beneath her, a lattice of lights and shadows, indifferent to the turmoil that gripped her heart. On the rooftop, a lone girl stood at the edge, the cold wind clawing at her white dress, tugging as though it could push her into oblivion. Her eyes, once bright with life, were now vacant, hollow—mirrors of a soul stripped bare of hope, stripped bare of emotion.

At her feet lay a shattered phone, its screen fractured but stubbornly alive. From the broken device came the relentless ping, ping, ping of notifications, echoing through the night like an accusing chorus. She barely registered the sound; it was both unbearable and hypnotic.

The screen flickered, revealing a headline that set her chest tightening with unease:

"India's most trusted ethical hacker, once a cornerstone of national security, exposed for treason—accused of leaking classified intelligence to a rival nation. Now a fugitive."

"The best ethical hacker, was she really the best ??."

Every major news outlet carried the same story, each iteration more sensational than the last. Bitter comments erupted online, spreading outrage like wildfire, fanning flames of fear and disbelief. The public's judgment was swift, absolute, and merciless. Her thoughts raced, colliding with disbelief and suspicion. But was it true? The carefully crafted words, the public spectacle—something about it didn't sit right. 

Her thoughts were abruptly shattered by the shrill ring of her phone. She bent down, picking up the broken device, its screen cracked but still alive, blinking with a storm of notifications. Twenty-eight missed calls from her mother, thirty from her father, and countless others from friends and colleagues. Her lips trembled as she murmured beneath her breath, barely audible over the wind, "Sorry... everyone..."

Before she could process, the phone rang again. This time, the caller was unknown. She hesitated, and then answered. A cold, mocking laughter echoed from the other side, sending a shiver down her spine. And then a voice she knew all too well—familiar, venomous—spoke:

"So, my dear Avni... did you see the headlines? Ha-ha-ha! Fascinating, isn't it? 'A trusted ethical hacker of India found committing treason.' How does it feel—laughable, interesting... or just plain sad? Whatever it is, you'd better hide in a filthy sewer somewhere, or they'll drag you straight to jail."

Pain laced her voice as she struggled to respond. "What... what did you hope to gain from this? Why... why you did this just why ?"

The voice on the other end was merciless, almost gleeful.

"Well... a lot, actually. Now you're out of the picture, Avni. No one to overshadow my achievements. You don't know how good it feels. And I must say, I admire you—still concealed, still untouchable. It was very hard to track your location, as expected of you, but..."

Her eyes instinctively flicked to the street below, and the sight stole her breath. Rows of Special Task Force vehicles lined the roads, their sirens muted but ominous, while armed officers moved with lethal precision. Red and blue lights painted the night as AI surveillance drones hovered above, their mechanical eyes scanning every inch of the rooftop. The city that had felt so vast and empty a moment ago now seemed claustrophobic, closing in from all sides.

"Goodbye, Avni. I hope you enjoy your stay in jail."

Her hands shook, the phone slipping slightly in her grasp. Anger, fear, and disbelief collided inside her chest, each emotion sharp and raw. The night air felt colder, heavier, pressing in from all sides, as if the city itself was holding its breath. Then, a sharp crack split the silence — a gunshot echoing off the steel and concrete. Pain bloomed hot and violent across her back, stealing the breath from her lungs. Her body jerked forward as the impact forced her over the edge.