الصوت المشترك

The city of Vardaan never slept—but tonight, it was holding its breath. Arjun Malik crouched on the edge of a crumbling rooftop, twelve stories above a maze of neon-lit streets. Rain slicked the concrete beneath his boots. In his earpiece, static crackled. “Target is moving,” said Rhea’s voice. Calm, but tight. “You’ve got a two-minute window before the convoy hits the tunnel.” Arjun adjusted the strap on his rifle. “Copy that.” Below, three black armored vehicles cut through traffic like sharks