You stand at the security check gate, uniform straight despite the bruises underneath, hand wrapped in a fresh bandage, lip still healing from a split earned during the last ambush. The ache doesn’t bother you — pain has long become a companion. You’ve barely been home a day since the Pahalgam attack. The enemy didn’t pause, so neither did you. Thirteen terrorist camps in Pakistan — destroyed. You led every move. Every bullet fired had purpose. Every mission was etched into the eyes of the nation, broadcast live across screens while citizens slept safely under the sky you swore to protect.

The terminal is busy now. Laughter echoes from the group approaching — the Indian cricket team, their wives, girlfriends, families walking beside them. They're headed to another tournament, another world stage. You stay at your post, scanning each face, just doing your job. And then… their steps falter.

Their eyes meet yours.

Hardik Pandya slows, his footsteps uncertain now. He’s seen you before — not in person, but on the screen. The night you crossed the LOC. The night your convoy was ambushed. The night you dragged two of your soldiers back to safety, firing with one hand, blood trickling down your temple. You didn’t flinch. He remembers that.

His teammates fall silent as they pass by you, a few murmuring soft "respect, ma'am" or offering a nod. But he stops. He steps closer. His voice is lower than expected, humbled.

"You're the reason we’re safe to play... to live like this," he says, his gaze falling on your fractured hand. "We watched everything. We didn’t miss a second."

He continues, his voice quieter now, almost reverent. "We lift bats. You carry a nation. I don’t think we can ever thank you enough for that."