“One Shot, One Fate”

The desert sun burned like a furnace overhead, but Captain Zayan Malik didn’t feel the heat anymore. His eyes were fixed on the scope, finger resting gently near the trigger, breath steady. The sniper rifle lay silently in his grip, an extension of his own soul.

He had been lying in the sand for almost four hours — motionless, invisible, and deadly.

His mission was clear: eliminate Zafar Rehman, a rogue warlord wanted for mass civilian killings. Intelligence had finally tracked him to an abandoned fortress on the Afghan border.

Zayan’s spotter, Private Daniyal, whispered, “Target in sight. Two guards. Sixty-five meters out. Wind southwest.”

Zayan nodded slightly. Time slowed. He adjusted his aim through the custom-built M82 sniper rifle — a weapon he had carried through ten years of war. The weight of its power was always heavy. Not because of its steel — but because of the lives it took.

He had one shot. One chance. That’s all snipers got.

He exhaled slowly, the world shrinking into the crosshairs. His mind blocked out the memories of faces, screams, and lost comrades. Only the mission existed now.

Bang.

The silence shattered.

Through the scope, he saw the bullet hit — not Zafar’s head, but the shoulder of a guard who stepped in at the last second.

“Missed,” Daniyal gasped.

Zayan didn’t reply. He was already reloading, but the warlord had ducked behind a wall.

Seconds later, gunfire erupted. The fortress came alive. Dust, bullets, and shouted orders filled the air.

Daniyal shouted, “They saw the flash! We’re exposed!”

“Fall back to cover!” Zayan ordered. They ran toward a rock formation, bullets kicking up sand behind them.

Behind cover, Zayan’s mind raced. His shot had failed — a rare, painful reality. But worse, Zafar was escaping, and dozens of his men were now hunting them.

“Captain, extraction is 3 kilometers north,” Daniyal reported, catching his breath. “But they’ll reach us before we make it.”

Zayan checked his rifle. Only three rounds left. No backup. No air support.

He closed his eyes briefly, then stood up.

“We’re not running. We finish this.”

Daniyal’s eyes widened. “Sir?”

“Zafar’s convoy will flee east through the mountain pass. That’s where I’ll take the real shot.”

They circled around the chaos, staying low, heartbeats echoing louder than gunfire. Zayan knew the terrain — a narrow cliff above the pass gave a perfect vantage point.

They reached it just in time.

Down below, the black SUV emerged, surrounded by armed escorts.

Zayan dropped flat, rifle ready. Daniyal spotted. “Wind… stable. Range… 1,200 meters. That’s extreme.”

Zayan smirked. “But not impossible.”

He breathed in deeply. The weight of every life Zafar had destroyed pressed into his spine.

He looked through the scope.

A slight shift of wind.

A flicker of heat waves.

He aligned the crosshair with the moving vehicle’s front window.

“One shot,” he whispered. “One fate.”

Bang.

Time froze.

The bullet soared like a whisper through the air.

The SUV’s window shattered. The vehicle swerved, crashed into a rock, and flames erupted. Through his scope, Zayan saw Zafar slumped over, motionless.

He closed his eyes, letting out a silent prayer.


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Three Days Later — Army Base, Islamabad

General Farooq stood before Zayan, his expression unreadable.

“You disobeyed fallback orders,” he said coldly. “But you completed the mission. Zafar Rehman is dead. Confirmed.”

Zayan saluted. “One shot, sir.”

Farooq softened. “One fate.”

He turned away, but stopped.

“You're a sniper, Zayan. But don’t forget... you’re human first. Even your silence has weight.”

Zayan said nothing.

He walked out, his rifle slung over his shoulder. Somewhere inside, he knew every bullet had a name. And some stories could only be told… from behind a scope.


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The End