Chapter 27: Two Ways To Survive
The hotel corridor had that after-midnight hush that makes even laughter feel illegal.
Riya unlocked the door with dramatic exhaustion, still wrapped in the oversized cricket team T-shirt she had bought outside the stadium because, as she’d announced, “if I’m committing, I’m committing fully.” It hung off one shoulder, sleeves rolled unevenly, the colour still faint on her cheek.
And the whistle.
Still around her neck.
She pushed the door open and walked in like a victorious general returning from battle.
Kabir followed, carrying nothing except the expression of a man who had just witnessed a miracle.
The door shut.
Riya turned to him slowly.
Blew the whistle.
Sharp. Loud. Echoing.
Kabir flinched. “Riya!”
She grinned, eyes wicked with leftover stadium adrenaline.
“For the winning six,” she declared.
She blew it again. Longer. More dramatic.
“Stop!” he hissed, half laughing, half horrified. “It’s one in the morning!”
She ignored him and marched towards the bed, blowing short bursts with the seriousness of a referee disciplining invisible fielders.
Kabir caught her waist mid-blow.
“People are going to complain.”
She leaned in conspiratorially. “Let them. Our team won.”
He shook his head, laughing under his breath. “You don’t even know the fielding positions.”
“I know mid-off now,” she shot back proudly.
He stared at her for a second.
This woman.
This woman who once called cricket “a statistical endurance test.”
Now she was walking around his hotel room in his team’s colours, whistling like she owned the stadium.
She blew it once more.
He lunged.
She squealed and dodged him, hopping backward onto the mattress, landing in a heap of fabric and triumph.
Kabir stood over her, hands on hips.
“Give it.”
“No.”
“Riya.”
She lifted it to her lips defiantly.
He narrowed his eyes.
“If someone knocks on this door because of you…”
She blew it again.
He burst out laughing.
Not controlled. Not composed.
Just helpless.
She watched him, breath slowing.
There it was again.
That look.
The one he wore at the stadium when the crowd roared.
Only now it was softer. Quieter.
Directed at her.
She finally let the whistle fall against her chest and rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling.
“I can’t believe I did that.”
“You did more than that,” he said, sitting beside her.
“You almost fought that uncle.”
“He celebrated our captain’s wicket!”, she spoke, offended.
He shook his head. “You don’t even like cricket.”
She turned her face towards him.
“I like you.”
The words came easy.
He didn’t smile.
Nor did he speak immediately.
Instead, he reached out and tugged gently at the collar of the T-shirt she was wearing.
“You bought this, a non-branded piece of clothing,” he said quietly.
She shrugged. “It was either that or paint my face fully. I showed restraint.”
He smiled.
Then his expression shifted.
Not amused now.
Something else.
“You didn’t have to do all that,” he said softly.
She studied him as silence settled.
Warmer this time.
She looked down at the fabric covering her.
“I’ve never really…” she hesitated, searching for the right confession. “I’ve never really stepped into your world like that.”
“You don’t have to step into everything.”
“That’s not what I mean.” She sat up, the whistle clinking lightly against her collarbone. “I always assumed the things you liked would just… exist around me. I never learned your world,” she said quietly. “But I just expected you to fit into mine.”
He leaned back on his palms, listening.
“I never asked you to teach me about cricket,” she continued. “Or the teams you follow. Or why you care about matches like they’re national emergencies.”
He gave a small laugh. “It’s not that dramatic.”
“IT IS! TO YOU!”
That landed.
He looked at her properly then.
The tiredness in her eyes.
The stubborn pride.
The effort.
“You showed up,” he said simply.
She frowned slightly. “Is that enough?”
“For someone like me?” He tilted his head. “More than enough.”
He looked away after saying it.
Like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
She went quiet.
He wasn’t used to being chosen like this.
He had learned early not to demand.
Not to hope.
But today she had stood in the sun for hours, screaming his joy into the sky like it belonged to her too.
He reached up and brushed the faint smear of colour off her cheek with his thumb.
“You looked ridiculous,” he murmured.
She gasped in mock offense. “Excuse me?”
“Completely unhinged.”
She blew the whistle again in protest.
He laughed louder this time and finally reached up, stealing it off her before she could blow it again, while locking both her tiny hands in one of his.
“Confiscated,” he declared, placing it on the bedside table, while Riya just whined.
She watched him do it.
Watched the whistle rest there, silent now.
Watched the echo of the day settle.
She crawled closer, folding her legs beneath her and leaning into his shoulder.
“I liked it,” she admitted quietly. “The noise. The way strangers hugged each other. The way you forgot everything else.”
He looked down at her.
“I’ve never seen you like that,” she added. “You weren’t thinking about strategy. Or danger. Or anything.”
He swallowed.
“That’s why I like it,” he said. “For a few hours, nothing is at stake.”
She rested her chin on his chest.
“I want to know those parts of you,” she said.
“Which parts?”
“The ones that exist when you’re not surviving.”
He went very still.
“You have me,” she said, softer now. “You don’t have to shrink the rest.”
His hand moved instinctively to her waist.
“You don’t have to stretch yourself either,” he replied.
She smiled faintly. “Maybe I want to.”
They lay back slowly, side by side, the room dim except for the city lights leaking through the curtains.
Her phone buzzed, breaking the moment.
They both ignored it for a second.
Then it buzzed again.
She reached for it reluctantly.
The name on the screen straightened her spine.
Arjun Sir.
Kabir didn’t miss that.
She opened the message.
“Report 0600 hours. Training ground.”
Kabir let out a low breath. “That’s brutal.”
She stared at the screen for a moment longer than necessary.
Then placed the phone down.
“How does he always know when I’m happy?”, Riya complained and dug her face into Kabir’s chest.
He trapped her legs between his, “Nervous?”
She considered.
“No,” she said slowly. “Not nervous.”
“Then?”
She looked at him honestly.
“I don’t want to disappoint myself.”
He smiled faintly.
“You won’t.”
She shifted closer.
“And you?”
“What about me?”
“Are you happy?”
He blinked at the sudden question.
“About what? You getting ready to catch bullets?”
“No. About today.”
He exhaled, long and steady.
“I didn’t think,” he admitted quietly, “that anyone would ever wear my team’s jersey just because I like it.”
She looked at him, startled by the simplicity of it.
“I should have done that a long time ago,” she whispered.
He shook his head. “You showed up.”
She slid her hand into his.
He squeezed back.
Outside, a distant car horn echoed faintly.
Inside, the whistle rested on the table like a small, satisfied witness.
“Wake me,” she said softly.
“I will.”
She smiled sleepily. “And if I complain at 4:30?”
“I’ll blow the whistle loud and remind you how you bullied an uncle tonight.”
She laughed under her breath.
Her breathing slowed gradually.
Kabir stayed awake a few seconds longer, watching the rise and fall of her chest, memorizing the quiet after noise.
Tomorrow she would step into someone else’s storm.
Tonight, she had stepped into his.
And it felt like something rare.
Something steady.
He turned off the lamp.
Tomorrow would demand more of them.
Tonight, they had already shown up.
--
The training ground at 0600 didn’t welcome anyone.
It waited.
Like it already knew who would break.
The sky hadn’t fully risen yet, but the light was harsh enough to strip comfort out of everything. Dry air. Open field. No shadows to hide in.
Riya stepped onto the gravel, adjusting the cuffs of her track pants, more out of habit than need.
She had prepared.
Hair tied tight. No distractions.
The pendant sat locked away in her locker.
Her fingers had lingered on it for a second longer than necessary before she shut the door.
No loose clothing. No jewellery. No excuses.
Kabir’s voice still echoed faintly in her head.
Now, she stood alone on the ground.
Or so she thought.
Arjun was already there.
Of course he was.
Still. Unmoving. Arms folded. Like he had been part of the field long before she arrived.
His gaze flicked to her once.
Measured.
“You’re late.”
Riya blinked. “Sir, it’s exactly-”
“Late.”
A beat.
“Five minutes early is on time. Update your watch.”
Her jaw tightened.
Noted.
He didn’t explain anything else.
Didn’t brief her.
Didn’t ask if she was ready.
He just tilted his chin towards the track.
“Run.”
Riya frowned slightly.
No weapons. No drills.
Just, “Start.”
That was it.
No buildup. No warning.
Just a command.
She nodded once.
And ran.
The first kilometer was easy.
Her body fell into rhythm quickly, breath steady, steps light.
For a moment, she almost questioned it.
This is it?
Behind her, Arjun didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
But she could feel it.
That silent pressure.
Like being watched without being seen.
Second kilometer.
Her breathing deepened.
Third.
Her back began to ache.
Fourth.
Her pace dipped.
“Faster.”
Not loud. Not harsh.
Just… final.
She pushed.
Fifth.
Her lungs burned.
Sixth.
Her throat went dry.
Seventh.
Her body stopped negotiating.
It just… endured.
Eighth.
Her steps lost rhythm.
She stumbled.
Recovered.
Barely.
Ninth.
The world narrowed.
Ground. Breath. Pain. Repeat.
Tenth-
Her foot dragged.
And this time-
She didn’t recover.
She dropped.
Knees hitting gravel.
Palms slamming down.
Breath breaking into pieces that refused to come back together.
For a second, she couldn’t hear anything.
Not even herself.
Just the sound of her body failing to keep up.
Footsteps approached.
Slow. Unhurried.
Arjun stopped a few feet away.
Didn’t reach out. Didn’t bend. Didn’t help.
“Why did you stop?”
Riya let out a broken, breathless laugh.
“Because I can’t feel my legs…”
“Wrong.”
That cut cleaner than the fall.
She looked up at him, chest heaving.
“You stopped,” he said, voice low, controlled, “because you didn’t know when to stop before.”
Silence.
Something shifted.
Not outside. Inside.
He stepped closer.
Not to help.
To make sure she heard him.
“You move like this everywhere,” he continued. “No assessment. No exit. Just momentum.”
Her breathing slowed- just enough to listen.
“You think that’s bravery.”
A beat.
“It’s not.”
His gaze didn’t waver.
“It’s poor judgment.”
That hit harder than the ground.
Images flashed.
Pathan.
Blue Sapphire Club.
Moments where she hadn’t paused.
Hadn’t calculated.
Had just… gone.
To prove something. To fix something. To matter.
“The best officers don’t win every fight,” he said. “They choose which ones not to fight.”
Her fingers pressed into the gravel.
Steadying.
“You don’t get points for standing your ground,” he added quietly, “if it gets you killed.”
A pause and then, “You’re not useful dead.”
No anger. No accusation.
Just fact.
Riya looked down at her hands.
Dust. Sweat.
A faint tremor she couldn’t hide.
Her pride burned.
Good.
It meant she was still listening.
She pushed herself up.
Unsteady. But standing.
Arjun watched.
Nothing in his expression gave anything away.
“Again.”
Her head snapped up.
A flicker of disbelief.
“Walk,” he corrected. “Finish what you started.”
A beat.
“Then hydrate.”
Another.
“And tomorrow- you don’t collapse.”
She nodded.
Turned.
And started walking.
This time- she noticed everything.
Her steps. Her breath. Her limits.
Behind her, Arjun’s gaze shifted briefly.
To the academy emblem painted across the far wall.
Sadrakshanay Khalanigrahanay.
Protect the good.
Destroy the evil.
Then his eyes returned to her.
Running was never the hard part.
Knowing when to and when not to- That was what decided who survived long enough to matter.
His jaw tightened.
He looked away before the thought could take shape.
--
The corridor felt longer than usual.
Riya walked slowly, each step reminding her of the morning’s run- not sharp pain, not enough to stop her… just enough to stay.
A reminder.
Of limits. Of lessons. Of Arjun.
She had changed.
Fresh shirt. Hair tied properly. Face composed.
No trace of the girl who had collapsed on gravel.
Only the version these walls required.
Professional. Contained.
She passed the conference room.
The door was slightly ajar.
Voices filtered out.
Low. Focused. Familiar.
The team.
Already inside. Already working. Already… where they belonged.
Riya’s steps slowed.
Just for a second.
Her eyes flicked towards the gap in the door.
She could see the edge of the table.
A file. Chotu’s elbow. Shree leaning forward. Arjun’s voice-low, precise, cutting through the discussion.
And then, she looked away.
Of course.
That wasn’t her place.
Not yet. Maybe not so soon.
Her grip tightened slightly around the file in her hand as she turned towards the record room.
The place she knew.
The place that didn’t question her presence.
The place that didn’t need her to prove anything.
The place where she didn’t feel like an extra variable in someone else’s system.
She had taken barely three steps when, “Riya.”
She stopped and turned.
Rathore was walking towards her.
Unhurried. Measured.
But his eyes, they noticed things.
Always had.
“Good morning, Sir!”, she greeted him politely.
“Good morning”, he replied, stopping in front of her.
“First day,” he said “How was it?”
Riya straightened slightly.
Reflex.
“It was good, sir.”
Rathore studied her for a second longer than necessary.
Not the words, but the gaps between them.
“And Arjun?” he asked, almost casually. “Too much?”
A pause.
Riya’s lips curved.
Small. Tired. Honest.
“No, he was… Arjun sir-like.”
That, Rathore huffed a quiet laugh.
Brief. Real.
“Yeah,” he nodded. “That sounds about right.”
For a second, something lighter passed between them.
Not authority. Not hierarchy.
Understanding.
Then it settled again.
Rathore studied her for a moment longer.
Not the words.
The strain she was trying to hide. The slight imbalance in her stance.
Nothing he hadn’t already witnessed that morning on the training ground.
And allowed.
Riya shifted her weight slightly, adjusting her hold on the file.
“I’ll just…” she gestured vaguely behind her, “…head to the record room.”
Rathore’s brows knit faintly.
“The record room?”
She nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Like it was obvious. Like it was where she belonged.
Rathore looked at her.
Really looked this time.
Then past her.
Towards the conference room.
Then back at her.
“No.”
Riya blinked. “Sir?”
“That’s not your place.”
The words landed softly. But they didn’t hurt. They…confused.
She frowned slightly. “I mean, have I been assigned something else…”
“You belong with the team.”
Simple. Direct. Final.
The words didn’t land immediately. They settled. Then sank.
Riya stilled.
For a second, she didn’t move. Didn’t respond.
Like her mind needed a moment to catch up to what he had just said.
Rathore didn’t repeat himself and just turned, walking towards the conference room.
Then paused.
Half a step in.
Looked over his shoulder.
“Quick!”, a command.
That.
That did something.
Not dramatic. Not overwhelming.
Just… quiet. But deep.
Riya inhaled once.
Then followed, trying to control the jump in her walk.
The conference room door pushed open.
The conversation inside didn’t stop immediately.
But it shifted. Subtly.
Chotu looked up first.
Then Shree.
Then, Arjun.
His gaze landed on her.
Sharp. Assessing. Instant.
And then on Rathore.
Questioning.
Rathore walked in like nothing needed explaining.
Like this was always meant to happen.
Riya stepped in behind him.
Aware. Of everything.
The table. The files. The chairs. The space.
The place she had only ever seen from outside.
“Continue,” Rathore said, taking his position at the head.
But no one did.
Because now- there was a new variable.
Riya stayed near the door.
Instinct. Uncertain where to go.
Where to stand. Where she was allowed.
Rathore noticed.
Of course he did.
He looked at her once. Then at the table.
“Take a seat.”
The words echoed louder than they should have.
Riya hesitated.
Just for a fraction.
Her eyes flicked across the table.
One empty chair beside Shree.
One next to- Arjun.
Of course.
She walked forward.
Each step measured.
Not because she was unsure.
Because she felt it.
Every gaze. Every shift.
Every question left unasked.
She pulled the chair beside Shree, opposite Arjun.
She sat. Back straight. Hands steady over the file.
Not shrinking. Not claiming. Just present.
Shree gave her a small nod.
Encouraging.
Chotu blinked once, then twice, clearly recalibrating.
Arjun didn’t react.
Not outwardly.
But his gaze lingered a second longer than necessary.
Then moved away.
Rathore let the silence sit.
Just long enough.
“Before we proceed,” he said, voice cutting cleanly through the room, “I’ll clarify something.”
All eyes turned to him.
“Riya has not completed her full practical training module,” he continued.
Clear. Technical. By the book.
Riya’s fingers tightened slightly.
She already knew this.
But hearing it here, in this room, still mattered.
Rathore didn’t pause.
“But,” he added, tone shifting just enough, “she is cleared for all other operational aspects.”
A beat.
“Case briefings. Analytical discussions. Supervised field visits. Behavioural assessment. Psychological profiling.”
Each word placed carefully. Deliberately.
“She is part of this unit.”
That, that settled something.
Firm. Unmovable.
Rathore’s gaze swept across the team.
“I expect this team to function better with her than it has in the past.”
Not a suggestion. An expectation.
Chotu straightened while Shree nodded slightly.
Arjun, still. Unreadable. But listening.
Rathore leaned back slightly.
“Understood?”
A collective murmur.
“Yes, sir.”
Rathore nodded once and then looked at Riya.
Just briefly. But enough.
Acknowledgment.
Not permission. Not validation.
Placement.
You’re here. Now act like it.
The file in front of her suddenly felt… different.
Not like something she was carrying.
Like something she was part of.
Riya exhaled slowly.
Her shoulders eased.
Not fully. But enough.
Across the table, Arjun’s gaze lifted.
Met hers.
For a second.
No hostility. No approval.
Just, assessment.
And something else.
Something quieter.
He didn’t stop this.
Which meant he had already decided how this would go.
He looked away first.
“Continue,” Rathore said.
The briefing resumed.
And this time- she wasn’t outside the door.
--
The conference room had begun to loosen at the edges.
Files were still open. Screens still lit.
But the urgency had thinned into that late-evening lull where focus stretched just a little slower, just a little softer.
Half an hour to wrap.
Rathore walked in carrying a tray of coffee cups like it was just another routine he had folded into the day.
“Before anyone collapses,” he said dryly, placing them down one by one, “caffeine.”
Chotu reached first.
“Sir, you’re the backbone of this unit,” he declared solemnly, already halfway into his cup.
“Finish your report and we’ll discuss promotions,” Rathore replied without looking up, while handing Arjun his cutting chai.
A quiet chuckle passed.
Small. Controlled. Familiar.
Riya picked up her mug last.
Not immediately drinking.
Instead, she reached for a tissue from the stack near the center of the table and wiped the rim.
Once. Then again.
Careful. Precise.
Then turned the cup slightly.
Checked it.
Put the tissue down and then placed the cup carefully on it.
Satisfied.
Only then did she take a sip.
It was a small thing.
Barely noticeable.
Except- it wasn’t.
Chotu paused mid-sip.
Shree’s brow lifted just slightly.
Rathore watched the motion once.
Then again.
And then, he smiled.
“Interesting,” he murmured.
Riya glanced up.
“That level of inspection,” he said, nodding toward her cup, “in this office?”
A faint hint of amusement.
“I can’t believe you spent weeks in the record room without filing a complaint.”
Riya blinked once.
Then, simply replied, “I fixed it.”
Shree let out a soft breath that almost passed for a laugh.
Chotu looked between them while Rathore was already impressed.
Riya shrugged lightly. “It was unhygienic.”
Rathore shook his head, amused now.
That made Arjun look up.
Just a fraction.
A memory flickered.
First week.
A complaint that hadn’t been filed.
A cleaner that hadn’t been approved.
A change that had… happened anyway.
His gaze shifted to her again.
Not her face. Her hands.
Still holding the cup.
Steady. Measured. Controlled.
He looked away.
But not before noting it.
The room settled again but didn’t know it yet, that something about to begin would outlast every case file on that table.
And then, the door opened.
Not a knock. Not hesitation.
Authority didn’t announce itself.
It entered.
“Good evening,” the Commissioner’s voice carried in, followed by three others.
The room straightened instantly.
Chairs adjusted. Spines aligned.
“Sir.”
A collective acknowledgment.
Rathore stepped forward. “Sir.”
The Commissioner nodded once, scanning the room quickly before his gaze paused, briefly, on Riya.
Then moved on.
“I won’t take much of your time,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back. “This is a procedural update.”
Procedural. The word itself lowered resistance.
“We’ve initiated a collaboration with the Ministry of Home Affairs and the National Institute of Mental Health,” he continued, gesturing lightly towards the people behind him.
“Focus- psychological resilience and emotional conditioning in high-risk law enforcement units.”
A pause followed.
“Already active within the armed forces.”
Riya instantly thought of Kabir.
“And long overdue here.”
That landed quieter than it should have.
Arjun didn’t react.
But Rathore’s gaze sharpened.
“The nature of your work,” the Commissioner continued, “exposes you to prolonged psychological stress. Loss. Operational pressure. Decision fatigue. You all know it, you have even complained of it.”
Each word clinical. Measured. Deliberate.
They all knew what he meant.
“This program introduces a structured evaluation model.”
He turned slightly.
“And you will be the first to undergo.”
Chotu’s expression flickered.
Shree leaned back slightly.
Arjun didn’t move.
“The Emotional Quotient Assessment,” one of the accompanying psychologists added, stepping forward, “is designed to evaluate cognitive-emotional alignment, stress response behavior, and adaptive processing.”
Technical. Neutral. Unthreatening. On the surface.
“It is mandatory,” the Commissioner added.
That removed all debate.
Rathore nodded once. “Understood, sir.”
“And before we begin,” the Commissioner said, his tone shifting just slightly, “Meet Riya Mukherjee, the criminal psychologist of ETF.”
All eyes turned.
Again.
But differently this time.
Riya stood.
Professional. Composed.
“You completed the counselling module with Northern Command, right?”, the Commissioner asked.
“Yes, sir.”
Just then, one of the psychologists stepped forward.
Paused, looked at her and smiled.
Not formal. Not distant.
Recognizing.
“Riya?”
That, broke the tone.
Just a little.
Riya’s expression changed instantly.
“Ma’am…”
A softness slipped through.
Unplanned. Unfiltered.
The woman closed the distance between them without hesitation.
Hugged her with love and cupped her face lightly.
“Still correcting the world one flaw at a time?”
Riya laughed softly. “Trying to.”
The room watched.
Quietly.
Recognition. Respect.
Something… established.
“She was the youngest research fellow we had,” the woman said, turning slightly to the others. “Brilliant. Difficult. Thorough.”
Riya winced faintly. “Ma’am…”
“Obsessive, actually,” she added, amused.
That, earned the faintest shift in the room.
Arjun’s gaze lingered this time.
Not questioning. Reassessing.
The Commissioner nodded. “Good. Then you’ll understand the framework being implemented.”
The setup began quickly.
Devices arranged. Forms distributed.
Minimal explanation. Maximum compliance.
“All operational officers,” the psychologist said, “will undergo the assessment.”
Just then the Commissioner added, “Except probationary staff on training.”
Riya didn’t react.
Of course.
“Riya,” the same woman added, “you may observe.”
Observe.
Riya nodded once and stepped back.
The test began.
It didn’t look like much.
Questions. Prompts. Visual responses. Timed sequences.
But it wasn’t just the answers that mattered.
It was everything around them.
Chotu shifted often, restless.
Glancing at the clock once, then again.
Already calculating delay.
Shree sat still.
But his jaw tightened on certain questions.
Subtle. Contained.
Rathore moved slower than the rest.
Measured. Reading. Not reacting.
And Arjun, he didn’t hesitate.
Didn’t pause long enough to be noticed.
His responses came measured.
Precise. Too precise.
Like every answer had already been filtered before it reached the surface.
Riya watched.
Not as a trainee. Not as a colleague.
As a psychologist.
Patterns. Gaps. Avoidances.
And then, for a brief second, Arjun looked up.
Their eyes met.
Not long. Not meaningful. Not obvious.
But not empty either.
He looked away first.
The test continued.
Outside, the light had begun to fade.
Inside, something had already begun.
Quietly. Unnoticed.
And far more significant than anyone in that room was ready to admit.
--
The door clicked shut behind her with more effort than it should have required.
Riya didn’t move immediately.
For a second, she just stood there, back resting against the wood, eyes closed, breath slow but heavy… like her body hadn’t quite caught up to the fact that it was allowed to stop.
The silence inside the room felt different from the training ground.
Softer. Safer.
But her legs- they didn’t agree.
Each step she took forward felt like her muscles were quietly protesting, not dramatically, not enough to stop her… just enough to remind her.
You were pushed today. You learned something.
She dropped her bag on the chair without aim, missed slightly, but didn’t care.
“Food,” she muttered under her breath, already moving towards the bed after washing her hands at the basin. “I need food before I eat you, Kabir…”
Just then, the lights went out and she froze.
Complete darkness swallowed the room.
“Seriously?” she whispered, exasperated. “This day is getting…”
A soft click.
Warm, dim light flickered back on.
Not the main lights.
Lamps. Low. Golden.
And in the center of the room stood, Kabir.
Leaning casually against the table like he had all the time in the world.
“Welcome,” he said lightly, “to your second training session of the day.”
Riya stared at him.
Then at the room.
Then back at him.
“You cut the power?”
“Temporary strategic blackout,” he corrected. “An advanced technique.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I just ran ten kilometers.”
“Good,” he nodded. “You’ve completed Phase One.”
“I did not sign up for Phase Two.”
“You did,” he said easily. “The moment you said you loved me.”
She exhaled, long and dramatic, and dropped onto the edge of the bed.
“I hate both of you.”
Kabir grinned. “Consistency is important in training.”
She glared at him.
He pushed off the table and walked towards her, slower now, eyes scanning her the way soldiers assessed damage without asking.
“You ate?” he asked.
“No.”
“Of course not.”
He handed her a plate before she could argue.
Simple food. Dal and Chapati.
Warm.
She blinked.
“You knew I’d be like this?”
“I know you,” he said.
That landed quieter than expected.
She took the plate.
A bite.
Then another.
Her shoulders dropped half an inch.
He watched her for a moment.
“Finish that,” he said. “Then come here.”
She frowned. “Why?”
“Because your training isn’t over.”
She stared at him like she was considering throwing the plate.
But she finished eating anyway.
Because despite everything, he was right.
She stood and walked towards him.
Slowly. Suspiciously.
“What now?” she asked.
Kabir didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he walked behind her.
Paused.
Then gently, placed his hands over her eyes.
The world disappeared again.
“Hey…”
“Relax,” he murmured near her ear. “Trust me.”
That word was enough.
She didn’t pull away.
Didn’t argue.
“Walk,” he said softly.
“Where?”
“Forward.”
She hesitated and then stepped.
Careful. Uncertain.
Her body was still tired. Her balance slightly off.
Her instincts screamed to open her eyes.
To regain control. To see.
“Slow down,” he said.
“I am slow,” she muttered.
“You’re rushing.”
“I literally cannot feel my legs properly.”
“Exactly.”
He guided her another step forward.
Then another.
“Stop.”
His hands lifted and her eyes opened.
She blinked.
A large bucket sat on the floor in front of her.
Steam rising gently.
Warm water.
She looked at it.
Then at him.
“…You kidnapped the electricity for this?”
Kabir shrugged. “High-level operation.”
She stared at him for a second.
Then, something in her expression softened.
Just a little.
“Sit,” he said.
She did.
Carefully.
Lowering herself onto the chair behind her.
Her legs protested again.
He crouched in front of her.
No jokes now. No theatrics.
Just- Present.
“Put your feet in,” he said.
She hesitated just for a second, and then obeyed.
The moment her feet slipped into the warm water, her entire body reacted.
A sharp inhale.
Then- Relief.
Not loud. Not dramatic.
But deep.
Her shoulders dropped.
Her head tipped back slightly.
“Oh,” she breathed.
Kabir smiled faintly.
“Better?”
She nodded, eyes still closed. “Don’t talk. I might cry.”
He chuckled softly.
Silence settled.
But not empty.
The kind that held.
Kabir dipped his hand into the water briefly, adjusting the temperature.
“Running isn’t weakness,” he said. “It’s survival.”
She watched him.
He looked up once. Held her gaze.
“But panic looks exactly the same,” he added.
That, shifted something.
He reached for her foot. Firmer this time. Less careful. More deliberate.
“You know when to run now,” he said.
His thumb pressed into a nerve.
Sharp enough to make her flinch.
“Good.”
“But if you run at the wrong time…”
He looked up.
“You don’t get a second chance to correct it.”
Silence.
Not soft anymore, but heavy.
He resumed, slower, controlled.
“He taught you when to step away,” Kabir continued.
His grip steadied.
“I’m teaching you what happens when you can’t.”
Her brows pulled together.
That hit differently.
“In the field,” he said quietly, “you don’t always get exits.”
His fingers tightened slightly around her ankle.
“Sometimes you’re already inside the situation before you realise it.”
Her breathing changed.
Listening now.
Fully.
“You don’t get time to think,” he said. “You don’t get space to plan.”
“And if your mind runs before your body does…”
His gaze lifted again.
“You freeze.”
That, landed.
Hard.
Not loud.
But absolute.
Her throat went dry.
Because she knew, that could happen.
That had happened.
Pathan Lala.
Blue Sapphire Club.
He released the pressure slightly.
But didn’t soften.
“You move fast,” he continued. “Not just physically.”
His hand tapped lightly against her temple.
“Up here.”
She didn’t argue, because he was right.
“You jump to outcomes,” he said. “You try to fix everything immediately.”
A pause.
“That works in theory.”
Another.
“It gets people killed in reality.”
That, wasn’t gentle.
And it wasn’t meant to be.
Her fingers tightened in her lap.
“So, what do I do?” she asked quietly.
Kabir held her gaze.
Longer this time.
Then, he pressed her foot flat into the water.
Firm.
Grounding.
“You stay,” he said.
Not soft. Not poetic.
Instruction.
Her breath hitched slightly.
“You stay exactly where you are,” he continued.
“Long enough to understand what’s actually happening.”
“Not what you think is happening.”
That distinction, clicked.
Deep.
“Stillness isn’t comfort,” he said.
“It’s control.”
Her eyes didn’t leave his.
“You don’t trust stillness,” he added.
Not accusing, b certain.
That, was the truth.
She looked away first.
Because she couldn’t argue.
He didn’t follow.
Didn’t soften it.
Just continued the slow, methodical pressure along her foot.
Undoing the strain.
Without undoing the lesson.
After a while, her shoulders dropped again.
But this time, it wasn’t just relief.
It was understanding.
After a while, she leaned back, letting her head rest against the wall.
“You’re annoyingly insightful,” she muttered.
“I’m selectively annoying,” he corrected.
She glanced down at him again.
“You do this for all your trainees?” she asked, teasing.
He smirked. “Only the ones who bully uncles at cricket matches.”
She huffed a small laugh.
The tension eased.
Not gone. But… lighter.
After a moment, she shifted slightly, reaching forward to pick up a piece of roti from the plate she hadn’t fully finished.
She held it out to him.
“Eat.”
He raised a brow. “I’m working.”
“Eat,” she repeated.
He did.
Because that was their rhythm.
She leaned forward slightly now, resting her chin against his shoulder as he continued the slow, methodical pressure along her foot.
“You know,” she murmured, “this is a very different training method.”
Kabir chuckled. “I believe in retention.”
She smiled faintly.
Then, softer, “I met Sonali Di the day before.”
His hands paused for just a fraction.
Then resumed.
“Oh?”
“She invited us for Ganpati.”
“Us?”
“We’re going.”, Riya said in an almost threatening tone.
“We?”
“Obviously.”
She tilted her head, thinking. “What are you wearing?”
“Something that doesn’t involve whistles.”
She gasped softly. “That whistle is now part of my personality.”
“I removed it for a reason.”
She leaned forward, brushing a quick kiss against his nose before pulling him with her onto the bed.
“Focus,” he murmured.
“On what?”
“Staying.”
That word settled differently this time.
Not playful. Not light.
She looked at him for a second longer than usual.
Then her grip around him tightened, just a fraction.
Not clinging. Anchoring.
Her breathing slowed against his chest.
Not forced. Chosen.
She didn’t try to fill the silence.
Didn’t move. Didn’t think ahead.
For once, she didn’t reach for what came next.
She stayed. Right there. In the quiet. In the warmth.
In the moment she would’ve rushed past yesterday.
After a while, she spoke.
Soft.
Almost to herself.
“This is harder than running.”
Kabir didn’t respond. He didn’t need to.
His hand moved once, steady against her back. Grounding.
And somewhere between the fading heat of the water and the stillness he refused to let her escape-
Riya understood something that Arjun had and also hadn’t taught her.
Running keeps you alive.
But knowing when to stay, that’s what makes you last.
--
The house didn’t feel like a police officer’s residence that evening.
It felt… alive.
Not loud. Not chaotic. But full.
Soft marigold strings lay half-arranged across the center table. The faint scent of incense lingered in the air, mixing with the sharper rhythm of paper turning.
Sameer Rathore sat on the couch.
Files open. Reading glasses low on his nose.
Attention split across printed reports and a laptop screen.
ETF - Daily Training Logs.
Subject: Riya Mukherjee.
Reporting Officer: ACP Arjun Rawte.
His eyes moved steadily.
Endurance below operational standard. Push continued.
Subject displays impulsive engagement tendency. Correction initiated.
Response time improving. Judgment- still reactive.
Rathore’s jaw shifted slightly.
Clinical words. Clean observations.
But he could read what wasn’t written too.
Across the room, “Papa, look!”
Pihu burst in, dragging a tiny cardboard box twice the size of her enthusiasm.
“I made Bappa’s house!” she announced, holding up something that leaned dangerously to one side.
Rathore looked up instantly.
The shift was immediate.
Work paused.
“Architectural marvel,” he said seriously.
Pihu beamed.
Behind her, Sonali shook her head, smiling as she adjusted a string of flowers on the doorway.
“Don’t encourage her, Sameer. It’s going to collapse before Ganpati even arrives.”
“It’s called abstract design,” Rathore replied, closing the file halfway but not completely. “Very advanced.”
Pihu nodded vigorously. “Yes!”
Sonali rolled her eyes, moving toward the kitchen. “Dinner in ten. And please- try to be present.”
That, landed.
Rathore leaned back slightly, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
“I am present.”
“You’re reading reports while nodding at your daughter’s architecture,” she shot back lightly.
He exhaled, glancing at the file again.
Just once. Then, closed it. Fully and placed it aside.
“Better?” he asked.
Sonali glanced over her shoulder.
Softer now.
“Trying,” she said.
That was enough.
Pihu climbed onto the couch beside him, settling like she owned the space.
“Papa,” she whispered dramatically, “Bappa is coming in two days.”
“I’ve heard,” he nodded.
“And we have to welcome him properly.”
“Of course.”
“And no work.”
Rathore hesitated. Just a fraction.
Pihu narrowed her eyes.
He raised his hands. “Minimal work.”
She considered.
Then nodded. “Okay.”
Negotiation successful.
Sonali returned with a tray, placing it down.
“Did you invite your everyone?” she asked casually.
Rathore picked up a glass of water. “I’ll do it tomorrow.”
“You said that yesterday.”
“Tomorrow.”
She gave him a look.
He ignored it expertly.
“Arjun’s coming?”
“Yeah!! Arjun Chachu is going to be my guest!”
Pihu, leaned in excitedly.
“Mumma, will Puchchi come?”
Sonali’s expression softened instantly. “Yes, she will.”
Pihu clapped. “Yay!”
Rathore’s brow furrowed slightly.
“Puchchi?” he repeated.
Sonali smiled, but there was something… tucked behind it.
“My friend. I am dying to get the two of you introduced.”
Rathore studied her.
Not the words. The tone.
Something familiar.
Something she wasn’t explaining.
Pihu grinned.
Sonali watched both of them.
Quiet. Knowing.
And somewhere between marigold strings, unread questions, and a name not yet spoken- something had already begun to align.
Rathore just didn’t know it yet.
--
The range didn’t look like a place for beginners.
It looked like a place where mistakes were corrected before they were made.
Concrete lanes. Soundproof walls. The faint metallic scent of oil and gunpowder clinging to the air like something permanent. Targets lined up at measured distances, clean and indifferent.
Riya stepped in, and something in her shifted.
But this hadn’t started today.
It had been building.
For the past week, every morning after drills, when her legs still carried the memory of gravel and breathlessness, she had passed this corridor.
And every single time, her steps had slowed.
Just a fraction.
Her eyes had drifted.
Inside. Towards the weapon racks.
The silhouettes of rifles. The precision of it. The control.
She had never said anything. Never asked. Just… looked.
Once, twice- every day.
Curiosity, held back by discipline.
Arjun had noticed.
Of course he had.
He noticed patterns. Repetition. Deviations.
And hers- had been consistent.
Today, he hadn’t walked past.
He had stopped. Turned. Unlocked the door.
Didn’t explain.
Just said, “Inside.”
Riya had blinked.
Once.
As if confirming she heard correctly.
Then followed.
Now, standing inside the range, that same restrained curiosity, didn’t stay restrained.
Her spine straightened.
Just a little more than usual.
Her eyes moved faster now, sharper, taking everything in- the racks, the markings, the distances, the discipline embedded into the space.
Curiosity. Unfiltered.
Almost- Childlike.
Arjun didn’t miss it.
“Control that expression,” he said flatly.
Riya blinked. “What expression?”
“That one,” he replied, without looking at her. “You’re not here for sightseeing.”
Her lips pressed together instantly.
He was already at the weapon table, inspecting a standard-issue sidearm with mechanical ease.
His gaze flicked up once.
Paused.
There it was. That look.
Not fear. Not hesitation.
Interest.
He held it for a second longer than necessary.
Then looked back at the weapon.
Casual. Deliberate.
“You’re not cleared for this,” he said.
The boundary landed.
Riya didn’t argue. Didn’t even try.
Just nodded.
But her eyes, still moved.
Still absorbed. Still… wanted.
Arjun exhaled quietly.
Almost inaudible.
“We are here to ease your distraction,” he added dryly. “Not to encourage it.”
That was as close to permission as he would allow himself.
She stepped forward. Careful.
Like the moment required precision.
Not excitement.
Even though it was there- Bright.
Barely contained.
Arjun saw that too.
And for a fraction of a second, something in his expression shifted.
Not softness. Never that.
But- Allowance. Controlled. Measured.
Gone before it could be named.
“Take position.”
Just like that, the moment became training again.
He picked up a pistol and placed it in front of her.
“The special units use it,” he said. “Glock 17 Gen 4.9×19mm. Polymer frame. No external safety.”
A beat.
“It does exactly what you tell it to do.”
Another.
“And exactly what you don’t.”
That settled into her bones.
Riya stepped closer. Slower now. More aware.
Her fingers hovered before she picked it up.
Careful. Respectful. A little too careful.
Arjun watched.
“It’s not glass.”
Riya shot him a look. “I know.”
“Do you?”
That was enough.
She adjusted her grip. Still not right.
He let it pass.
For now.
“Target.”
She followed his gaze.
A paper silhouette.
Still. Waiting.
She raised the gun.
Too quickly.
“Slow.”
She corrected.
Raised it again. Arms extended. Shoulders tense. Finger hovering.
“Don’t anticipate it.”
“I’m not…”
“You are.”
She inhaled. Steady.
Took aim.
Fired.
The sound cracked through the range.
Sharp. Violent. Final.
The recoil hit before she understood it.
Her wrist jerked back.
Her shoulder shifted.
Her balance broke half a step.
The gun dipped.
Her breath caught.
“…shit.”
Quiet. Honest.
The sting travelled up her palm, into her wrist.
Alive. Unforgiving.
She lowered the weapon slightly, blinking, recalibrating.
Arjun didn’t move. Didn’t correct.
Just let it sit.
“You expected control,” he said.
Riya exhaled. “I expected it to feel… less aggressive.”
“It is aggressive.”
Flat.
“That’s the point.”
She flexed her fingers.
Testing. Learning.
“It’s not strength,” he continued. “It’s control.”
A beat.
“You don’t fight recoil.”
She looked at him.
“You absorb it.”
That shifted something.
“Again!”
She raised the gun again.
Slower. More aware.
Still off.
Arjun stepped forward.
Then, behind her.
Close. Too close.
Riya stilled. Barely.
His hand adjusted her elbow.
“Don’t lock it.”
Firm. Precise.
His fingers moved to her wrist.
“Higher.”
Her breath changed.
She ignored it.
Focused ahead.
His other hand corrected her grip.
Thumb. Angle. Pressure.
Now, he was right behind her.
Closer than he registered at first.
It wasn’t unfamiliar territory.
He had trained recruits before. Dozens.
Corrected stances. Adjusted grips. Stepped into personal space without a second thought.
But they had all been men.
This- felt different.
His hands closed over hers, firm, guiding the angle, stabilising the wrist. Professional. Precise.
And yet, for a fraction of a second, awareness arrived late.
Too late.
The space between them thinned.
Not visibly. Not obviously.
But enough.
The range didn’t disappear.
The targets didn’t blur.
Nothing changed.
Except- he noticed it.
Arjun’s jaw tightened.
Not because of the proximity.
Because he had noticed it.
That had never happened before.
He should’ve corrected from a distance.
Should’ve instructed. Not stepped in.
But this, he said to himself, was faster.
Cleaner. More efficient way of teaching.
That’s all it was, he had thought.
He leaned in just enough to finish the correction.
“Hold.”
“Now,” he said, voice lower. “Let it happen.”
Riya swallowed and nodded.
Fired.
The shot cracked again.
The recoil came.
But this time, her wrist held.
Not perfect. But better.
The dip was smaller.
The stance steadier.
She exhaled.
Arjun stepped back immediately.
Distance restored.
Clean. Professional. Untouched.
Like it had never happened.
Riya lowered the gun slowly.
Her pulse hadn’t settled.
From the shot. From the correction.
From- Everything.
She didn’t look at him.
Didn’t trust what she might read.
Arjun had already turned away, picking up another magazine.
“You’ll take time,” he said.
Flat. Controlled.
“A lot of it.”
A beat.
“Right now, the weapon is handling you.”
He glanced back.
Brief. Measured.
“You’re nowhere near worthy of it.”
This time- It didn’t sting.
Because now- she understood.
Riya looked down at the gun in her hand.
It felt different. Heavier. Not exciting anymore.
But real.
Something that demanded, not curiosity, but discipline.
For the first time-
She didn’t want to fire again.
She wanted to be worthy of it.
Arjun noticed that too.
He didn’t say anything.
But something in his stance- Approved.
Silently.
And just as quickly- Buried it.
--
Friday evenings at the ETF office had a different kind of exhaustion.
Not the sharp kind.
The dull one.
Files closing. Chairs shifting. Conversations thinning into “Monday ko dekhte hain.”
Riya packed her file slowly, her body still carrying the memory of the week- runs, drills, words that stayed longer than bruises.
Across the room, Sameer Rathore was wrapping up a call.
Shree shut his laptop with a sigh.
Chotu was already halfway to the door in spirit.
And Arjun Rawte, was still reading.
Of course.
Riya slipped her phone into her bag, and just then, it buzzed.
She paused and pulled it back out.
A message.
From Kabir.
Her expression shifted instantly.
Location Pin
Message: URGENT. NEED BACKUP.
For a second- nothing made sense.
Then everything did.
Too fast. Too loud.
Her pulse spiked.
“Sir,” she said abruptly, already picking up her bag.
Rathore looked up immediately.
“I… I have to go,” she said, voice tighter than usual.
Not composed. Not controlled.
Real.
Rathore’s eyes sharpened.
“Everything okay?”
She nodded too quickly. “Yes. Just… urgent.”
Outside, thunder rolled faintly.
The sky had already begun to darken.
“Arjun,” Rathore said, without taking his eyes off her, “drop her. It’s going to rain.”
Arjun looked up.
His gaze went straight to her face.
Not the words. The urgency. The strain.
Riya stepped back slightly.
“No, sir, it’s okay,” she said quickly. “I’ll book a cab.”
“I’ll manage. Thank you, sir!”
Before either of them could push further, she turned and left.
Fast. Too fast.
Arjun’s jaw tightened.
Something wasn’t right.
He looked towards the door, but stopped.
Half a second too late.
She was already gone.
The cab ride felt endless.
Every signal too long. Every turn too slow.
Riya’s fingers tightened around her phone.
Kabir wasn’t picking up calls.
Her mind ran.
Too fast. Too far.
Kabir.
In trouble. Injured. Alone.
She pressed her lips together.
No.
Don’t assume.
But she already was.
The cab screeched to a halt.
“Madam, location aa gaya.”
She barely waited for it to fully stop.
Paid. Got down. And ran.
The building loomed in front of her.
Bright. Crowded.
Her chest tightened.
Something felt off.
But she didn’t stop.
Inside. Escalators. People. Noise.
Everything blurred.
Her eyes stayed locked on the screen.
Level. Wing. Unit number.
She took the lift.
The seconds crawled.
Every floor felt like delay.
Her reflection in the mirror, didn’t look like her.
It looked like someone bracing for impact.
Ding.
Doors opened.
She stepped out.
Faster now. Almost running.
The corridor was quieter here. Muted lights.
And then, she heard it.
Gunshots. Sharp. Rapid.
Echoing through walls.
Her heart dropped.
No.
No no no…
Her pace broke into a full run.
She reached the door.
Didn’t knock. Didn’t think.
Pushed it open- And froze.
Color exploded.
Bright. Chaotic. Ridiculous.
Paint splattered across walls.
Across glass. Across- People.
Shooting at each other.
Laughing. Shouting. Running.
Masks. Gear. Markers.
And in the middle of it- Kabir.
Helmet slightly tilted.
Gun raised.
Absolutely fine.
He turned. Saw her.
And- Grinned.
“Backup arrived!” he shouted over the noise.
Riya didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t process.
Then, her knees gave out.
She dropped to the floor.
Not dramatically. Just- Relief.
Crashing into her system all at once.
Kabir blinked.
“…Okay, that’s not the reaction I was expecting.”
He jogged over, pulling off his mask.
“Hey…”
She looked up, her eyes wide and breath uneven.
“You…”
He crouched in front of her. “Hi?”
She hit him. Hard. On the arm.
“What is WRONG with you?!”
“Ow… okay… valid… but also…”
“URGENT?!” she snapped. “NEED BACKUP?!”
“I did need backup!”
“This is a PAINTBALL GAME KABIR!”
He looked around. “A very intense one.”
She hit him again.
“You idiot! I thought…”
She stopped.
Didn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t need to.
Kabir’s expression changed.
Just slightly and he saw it, the fear she hadn’t said.
“…You thought something happened,” he said quietly.
She glared at him.
Which was answer enough.
A beat.
Then, he grinned again.
Softer this time.
“My bad.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“I am,” he agreed easily.
Then, gesturing around, “You also didn’t notice I sent you a pin for a mall.”
She froze.
“…I didn’t.”
“I can see that.”
She groaned, dragging a hand down her face.
“Oh my god.”
Kabir leaned back slightly.
“Also,” he added thoughtfully, “if I ever call you for real backup…”
He tilted his head.
“We’d both die.”
She stared at him. Offended.
Then lunged. He dodged, laughing.
“Okay! Okay! I deserved that!”
“You’re the worst!”
“And yet,” he said, standing up and offering her a hand, “you showed up.”
She hesitated but then took it.
He pulled her up easily.
Still smiling. Still infuriatingly calm.
“Come on,” he said, tossing her a paintball marker.
Riya caught it instinctively, then immediately looked offended. “No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
He tilted his head. “You wanted ACTION. This is recreational.”
“This is warfare in a shopping mall,” she shot back.
“Good,” he nodded. “Controlled chaos. Best place to learn.”
She squinted at him. “I’m not doing this.”
“You are,” he said simply, already reaching for a vest from the rack. “First, gear up.”
“I hate you.”
“Efficient hatred saves time,” he replied, handing her the mask.
She took it. Grumbling. But she wore it.
Kabir strapped the vest and checked her marker again.
“Always check your weapons before entering the battlefield!”, he said.
By the time she looked back at him, she was already half way in.
“Good,” he said, softer now. “At least you don’t quit before starting.”
She rolled her eyes.
The arena buzzed with scattered movement.
Footsteps. Shouts. Sudden bursts of color against walls.
Kabir didn’t rush in.
He pulled her slightly to the side. Behind cover.
“Rule one,” he said. “Don’t walk into noise. Read it first.”
A shot splattered against the wall near them.
Riya flinched.
“Normal,” he said calmly. “Now breathe.”
“I am breathing.”
“Not usefully.”
She glared, then inhaled again.
Slower. Better.
“Good,” he nodded. “Now, eyes up. Not on the gun. On the field.”
She adjusted. Watched. Not reacted.
A player darted across the far end.
Kabir leaned slightly. “Where next?”
Riya tracked. “Left flank. He’ll try to circle.”
“Then don’t aim at him.”
She frowned. “Then…?”
“Aim where he’ll be.”
That clicked.
She raised the marker.
Waited. Didn’t rush.
A second passed- Movement.
She fired but missed.
Kabir didn’t react. “Again.”
She adjusted. Fired. Closer.
“Better,” he said. “Still alive though.”
She shot him a look. “Encouragement is free, you know.”
“I charge premium,” he replied.
Another player moved.
This time, she didn’t rush.
Didn’t chase. She waited.
Tracked. Fired. Hit.
The guy yelped and threw his hands up dramatically.
Riya blinked.
“…I did that.”
Kabir’s grin flickered. Brief. Proud. “You did.”
She looked at the marker in her hand- Different now.
Less foreign. More… responsive.
Then she looked at him.
A slow smile. Real.
“You look hot!”, Riya teased him in the middle of chaos.
Kabir rolled his eyes.
Shots cracked around them again. Closer now. Faster.
Riya ducked instinctively, pressing back against the wall.
Kabir didn’t move.
“Stay.”
She looked at him. “They’re literally shooting at us.”
“Yes.”
“That’s your argument?”
“That’s your training.”
He leaned slightly, checking angles.
Then looked back at her.
“Listen carefully,” he said, tone shifting.
Not playful now. Clear. Grounded.
“If you ever get a distress call…”
Her expression changed instantly.
“You don’t run in blind, not even knowing where you are heading to, like today,” he continued. “You assess. Position. Support.”
A shot splattered inches from her shoulder.
She flinched again.
“Because if backup collapses,” he added quietly, “the call turns into a casualty.”
That landed.
Not a warning, but a responsibility.
Riya’s grip tightened.
Kabir met her eyes.
“Stay steady,” he said. “Long enough to matter.”
A beat.
“Not just fast enough to arrive.”
Silence.
“If I had been in trouble today for real, you would have been of no help, because you came here unprepared, without thinking, no strategies, no backups.”
That was a punch in the stomach.
Then, a movement.
Someone rushed their side.
Riya turned.
Didn’t panic. Didn’t rush.
She waited half a second, then fired.
Direct hit. Clean.
She exhaled.
Slow. Controlled.
Kabir watched.
Something settled in his expression.
“Good,” he said quietly.
This time- No sarcasm. No tease.
Just… approval.
The game carried on around them.
Loud. Messy. Alive.
But somewhere between missed shots and small victories- Riya wasn’t reacting anymore.
She was choosing.
Position. Timing. Stillness.
And when the next shot came- she didn’t duck first.
She aimed. And stayed.
--
The office had begun to empty in layers.
Riya had already left, too quickly for questions, tooquietly for comfort.
Rathore stood near the table for a second longer than necessary, gaze lingering at the door she had walked out of.
Then, he snapped back.
“Right,” he muttered under his breath, reaching for his phone.
“Almost forgot.”
Shree and Chotu turned as they had already reached the door. “Sir?”
“All of you- Ganpati at my place. Tomorrow.”
Chotu’s head snapped up like someone had just announced a bonus.
“Sir, you are bringing home Ganpati this year?” he asked, already smiling.
Shree’s expression shifted too. Subtle, but warmer. “We’ll be there, sir.”
Rathore nodded once.
“I’ll call and invite Riya too.”
Then his gaze moved.
To Arjun.
Who hadn’t reacted.
Of course.
Arjun leaned back slightly, arms folded, expression already forming the refusal before words.
“Rathore, I…”
“Pihu’s instructions.”
That cut in clean. Arjun paused.
“Apparently you are on her guest list,” he added. “Very strict enforcement.”
Chotu snorted, while Shree hid a smile.
Arjun exhaled slowly.
A child.
That complicated things.
Rathore glanced at him now. Just once. Measured.
“You don’t want to explain to a five-year-old why you didn’t show up,” he said mildly.
Silence.
Arjun’s jaw shifted and he nodded.
That- was agreement.
Rathore nodded, satisfied.
Then, as if remembering something equally inconvenient, “And before that,” he added, “you and I are attending DSP Vikram Deshmukh’s Ganpati tomorrow morning, the first thing.”
“New posting,” Rathore said. “Transferred last week. Protocol.”
Arjun didn’t react.
But he didn’t argue either.
Because he knew.
This part of the job didn’t come with negotiation.
Presence mattered. Even when it didn’t.
Rathore picked up his keys.
Then paused, without turning, “And wear something that doesn’t look like you came straight from a raid.”
Arjun stayed back a second longer.
Silent. Uninterested.
Already done with the idea of crowds, rituals, polite conversations.
But he still made a mental note.
Tomorrow. Rathore’s house. Pihu.
And something else.
Something he didn’t name.
Then he pushed the thought aside.
Picked up his file.
And left.
--
The office had thinned into silence by the time Arjun stepped out.
Corridors dimmed. Footsteps gone. The building settling into its after-hours stillness.
He was halfway to the parking lot when his phone rang.
Unknown number.
He almost ignored it. Almost.
Then something, habit, instinct, something quieter, made him swipe.
“Hello.”
A pause.
Then, a voice.
Old. Fragile. Familiar.
Arjun stilled.
Not visibly. But completely.
“Yes… I remember,” he said after a moment, tone flattening into something controlled. “Tell me.”
He listened.
Didn’t interrupt. Didn’t move.
His grip on the phone tightened slightly.
“Since when?” he asked.
Another pause.
His jaw set.
“No,” he said quietly. “No, you should’ve called earlier.”
Not anger. Not accusation.
Just… something heavier.
Listening. Processing.
A long silence followed.
Then, “I’ll see what can be done,” he said.
Not a promise. Not yet.
Just a line drawn between problem and action.
Another few words exchanged. Softer now. Almost respectful.
“Yes… I remember,” he repeated.
“I haven’t forgotten.”
That, lingered.
Then the call ended.
The screen went dark.
But Arjun didn’t move immediately.
For a few seconds, he just stood there.
Phone still in his hand.
Eyes fixed somewhere that wasn’t in front of him.
He inhaled slowly.
Exhaled once.
Then slipped the phone back into his pocket.
His expression, when he turned back towards the exit, was the same.
Controlled.
Unreadable.
But the weight had changed.
And it stayed with him as he walked into the night.
--
The mall was loud in a way that didn’t demand attention.
Lights everywhere. Music bleeding from different stores. The hum of people who had nowhere urgent to be.
Riya walked through it like she owned none of it, and yet somehow, belonged completely.
Her fingers were laced with Kabir’s.
Not tightly. Not loosely.
Just… there.
Comfort.
“You are not buying that,” Kabir said, stopping mid-step.
Riya turned, offended. “Why not?”
He pointed at the kurta she was holding up. Bright. Loud. Borderline criminal.
“Because I’d like to attend Ganpati with dignity.”
“You’ll look festive.”
“I’ll look like a walking rangoli.”
She grinned. “Exactly.”
He exhaled, dragging her gently towards another rack. “Subtle. We’re aiming for subtle.”
“You are boring.”
“I am alive because I’m boring.”
“That is not the flex you think it is.”
He smirked.
She didn’t let go of his hand, not even while flipping through hangers with her free one.
“Try this,” she said, pulling out a deep ivory kurta.
Kabir looked at it. Then at her. Then back at it.
“…acceptable.”
She gasped. “High praise.”
“I’m generous.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re difficult.”
“Disciplined.”
She rolled her eyes, pushing it against him. “Go. Trial room. Now.”
He took it, but didn’t move.
Instead, his phone buzzed.
He glanced at the screen.
The shift was subtle, but real.
Riya noticed.
“Go,” she said, softer now. “I’ll pick some other options too.”
He nodded once. “I’ll be back in two minutes.”
He stepped away, already answering the call.
Riya turned back to the racks.
Focused again.
Sorting through colors. Textures.
She picked another kurta, held it up, imagining.
“Hmm… this one makes you look less annoying,” she muttered to herself.
“Riya?”
She froze. Turned.
Shree. Chotu.
Standing a few feet away.
Equally surprised. Equally… unsure.
For a second, no one spoke.
The past sat there.
Uninvited. Heavy.
Then, Chotu cleared his throat. “Uh… hi.”
Riya blinked. “Hi.”
Shree gave a small nod. “Shopping?”
She looked down at the kurta in her hand. “Yes!”
Chotu snorted while Shree’s lips twitched at her obvious expressions.
The tension shifted, just slightly.
“You?” she asked.
“Ganpati,” Shree replied.
“Right,” she nodded. “Same.”
Another pause, but less awkward now.
Still… careful.
Chotu pointed at the kurta in her hand. “That’s actually nice.”
Riya raised a brow. “I am good with fashion, you know!”
“You actually are!” he said honestly.
That earned a small smile.
Progress.
Something in her posture- Softened.
Not defensive. Just… quieter.
Across the corridor, Kabir stood near the railing, away from the noise.
“Sid,” he said.
“Yeah,” came the reply. Urgent. Low. “We’ve got movement.”
Kabir’s gaze sharpened instantly.
“What kind?”
“A fisherman. Coastal side. Been asking questions. Specific ones.”
Kabir didn’t speak, just listened.
“He’s trying to establish contact,” Sid continued. “Not with us. With Sikander’s network.”
That, changed things.
Kabir’s jaw tightened.
“How sure?”
“Enough to not ignore it.”
A pause.
“He might’ve seen something that day.”
The island. The op. Jamaal.
Kabir’s grip on the phone shifted.
“Location?” he asked.
“I’ll share. But we need to meet,” Sid said. “In person.”
“And bring the ACP, too.”
Silence. Short. Controlled.
Kabir looked out over the crowd below.
Unseeing.
Then, “No.”
Sid paused. “What?”
“He won’t be part of this.”
“Why?”
Kabir didn’t answer immediately.
But his mind, went back.
Flash. Gunfire. Jamaal on the ground. Uncontrolled rage. Arjun.
The way he had pulled the trigger.
Not tactical. Not clean.
Personal. Too personal.
Kabir’s voice came out steady.
“Because this isn’t just operational for him anymore.”
Sid exhaled. “Kabir…”
“He won’t make that call clean anymore.” Kabir said quietly.
Not loudly. Not dramatically. But with certainty.
“And I won’t risk this turning into something bigger because emotions get involved.”
A long pause followed.
“…Alright,” Sid said finally. “Just you then. But fast.”
Kabir nodded. “I’ll send you the location.”
The call ended.
For a second, Kabir didn’t move.
The mall noise returned around him.
But distant. Muted.
His reflection stared back faintly from the glass.
Controlled. But thinking.
Then, he turned and walked back.
He stepped in just as the moment settled into something almost… normal.
“Miss me?” he said lightly.
Riya looked up instantly.
Then, his gaze shifted.
Took in two men standing next to his girl.
“Hi,” he said simply.
Shree nodded once. “Shree.”
“Chotu,” the other added, a little more casually.
Kabir inclined his head. “Kabir.”
A pause. Not awkward. Just… new.
Then his eyes narrowed slightly, like a memory clicking into place.
“Wait…” he pointed lightly, “we’ve met before.”
Chotu’s brow lifted a fraction.
“Outside the club,” Chotu continued. “Raid night. You were trying to get her out before things escalated.”
Riya closed her eyes briefly. “Can we not revisit that?”
Kabir smiled faintly. “You were unconscious.”
“I was resting.”
Chotu laughed.
The tension cracked. Just enough.
Kabir looked back at him. “You helped us get out.”
Chotu shrugged. “Part of the job.”
Kabir shook his head once. “Still. Thank you.”
That, landed differently.
Not casual.
Not brushed aside.
Chotu straightened a little. “Anytime.”
Shree watched the exchange quietly.
“By the way, can I know your fitness regime?”, he asked Chotu, clearly impressed with his biceps, while Riya rolled his eyes and groaned. “Kabir... you need to stop doing this in public places.”
Shree grinned while Chotu was flattered.
Kabir looked between them once.
Then, deliberately, shifted the tone.
“So,” he said, glancing at the kurta in Riya’s hand, “final verdict?”
“Approved,” she said immediately.
“I just saved myself from Peacock Blue and Blood Red, just by the way,” he added.
“I have excellent taste.”
“You have strong opinions.”
“Same thing.”
She stared at him.
Then shook her head. “Hopeless.”
But she was smiling.
And that, didn’t go unnoticed.
Shree’s gaze flicked between them.
The ease. The rhythm. Unforced.
Chotu leaned slightly toward him, murmuring just low enough, “Now I understand, what her urgent work was.”
Shree didn’t reply. Didn’t need to.
Kabir checked his watch briefly.
“We should go,” he said.
Riya nodded. “Yeah.”
She turned to Shree and Chotu.
A small pause.
“See you,” Shree said.
“Yeah,” Chotu added. “Take care.”
Kabir gave a brief nod. “You too.”
Riya lifted her hand in a small wave.
“Bye.”
And just like that, they parted.
Not friends. Not yet.
But no longer strangers standing on opposite sides of something.
--
The room was quiet in a way that didn’t comfort.
It held.
Arjun stood in front of the cupboard for a moment longer than necessary before opening it.
Inside- Order.
Neat. Controlled. Undisturbed.
He reached to the back.
Pulled out a kurta.
White. Simple. Folded with care that had outlived the reason for it.
His fingers paused over the fabric.
A memory flickered, soft laughter.
A complaint about him never dressing properly.
A stubborn insistence that festivals meant something.
Roshni.
He didn’t let it stay. Didn’t let it grow.
He folded the memory the same way he folded the cloth, tight, contained.
And then, something else slipped loose.
A saree- Pink.
Light. Familiar. Untouched.
It shouldn’t have been there.
Or maybe, it had always been.
His grip tightened.
For a second, just a second, the room shifted.
Not in reality.
But in what it held. What it remembered. What it refused to forget.
His jaw locked.
The softness- didn’t stay.
It never did.
It burned. Turned. Sharpened.
Jamaal. The island. The trigger.
The way it had ended.
Not clean. Not detached. Not enough.
Arjun folded the saree back.
Carefully. Deliberately.
Placed it exactly where it had been and closed the cupboard.
Shut it in.
All of it.
The past. The loss. The part of him that had once paused.
His hand rested on the handle for a moment.
Then tightened into a fist.
Low. Controlled.
“I’m not done.”
Not grief. Not memory. A promise.
Cold. Precise.
“What I did to Jamaal…”
He took a breath, measured.
“…Sikander won’t walk away from worse.”
The room didn’t respond.
It didn’t need to.
Because whatever warmth had once lived there- was gone, replaced.
By something that didn’t wear festivals.
Didn’t hold memories.
Didn’t soften for what used to be.
Only waited.
And finished what it started.
--
The mall had thinned just enough for the noise to soften into a hum, by the time they reached the women’s section.
Riya drifted ahead, scanning racks with the seriousness of someone on a mission.
“Something ethnic,” she muttered, pulling out a kurta, then rejecting it within two seconds. “Not too loud. Not too simple. Not… this.”
Kabir followed a step behind, one hand in his pocket, watching her with quiet amusement.
“You’ve rejected twelve options in three minutes,” he noted. “You have commitment issues.”
She shot him a look. “Excuse me?”
“With clothes,” he added calmly.
She turned away, unimpressed.
And then, Kabir stopped.
Riya took two steps before realizing his hand had slipped from hers.
She turned.
He wasn’t looking at her. He was looking at a mannequin.
Draped in a traditional Maharashtrian saree. Nauvari. Pink with a rich border, pleats tucked in a way that spoke of movement, strength, tradition.
For a second, he didn’t say anything.
Just… looked.
Riya followed his gaze.
Then looked at him. Then back at the saree.
And smiled slightly.
“Absolutely not.”
Kabir blinked, coming back. “I didn’t even say anything.”
“You didn’t have to,” she said, walking toward him. “I know that look.”
“What look?”
“That ‘this would look perfect on you but I won’t say it because I think you’ll say no’ look.”
He exhaled a small breath. “You’re overanalyzing.”
“I’m a psychologist.”
“That doesn’t give you permission.”
“It absolutely does.”
She turned to the mannequin again, tilting her head.
“It’s nice,” she admitted. “Very nice.”
Kabir said nothing.
Just watched, his eyes hopeful.
She glanced at him sideways. “But I will trip. Fall. Collapse. Create a public incident. You’ll have to carry me out.”
“I’m trained for that.”
She laughed. “You’re not trained for saree-related disasters.”
“I adapt.”
She shook her head, smiling, already stepping back.
“No. Not happening.”
A pause and then, Kabir nodded. Just once.
“Alright.”
No persuasion. No insistence.
He reached out, straightened the edge of the saree on the mannequin absentmindedly, and stepped back.
“Let’s find you something else.”
Simple. Easy. Done.
Riya didn’t move.
She watched him instead.
The way he had let it go.
Just like that.
No disappointment shown. No lingering.
But she knew him. Too well.
The way his gaze had stayed a second longer than needed.
The way he hadn’t joked after.
The way he had chosen… not to ask.
Something softened quietly inside her.
Not dramatic. Not loud. Just… certain.
“Wait.”
Kabir turned.
She walked back to the mannequin.
Looked at it again. Then at him. Then back.
“If I wear this,” she said slowly, “you’re not allowed to laugh if I fall.”
“I won’t laugh.”
“You will.”
“I’ll help you up first.”
She narrowed her eyes. “And then laugh.”
“Maybe a little.”
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.
“Fine,” she said, picking the saree off the display assistant’s counter nearby. “We’re buying this.”
Kabir stilled.
“Riya…”
“Just because,” she added, holding up a finger, “it matches your kurta.”
At the billing counter, as the saree was folded carefully- Kabir was still looking at her.
Not the saree. Her.
“As far as I remember, you didn’t even like sarees,” he said teasing.
She shrugged.
“I still don’t,” she admitted.
Then glanced at him.
“But you do.”
That, was it.
No grand declaration. No dramatic pause.
Just a simple truth placed gently between them.
And somehow, it meant more.
Kabir looked away for a second.
Then back at her.
Something in his expression had shifted.
Not wide. Not obvious.
But… full.
“Thank you,” he said.
Soft. Real.
Riya blinked.
“Don’t thank me! You are buying it for me!”, Riya retorted, pointing towards his wallet.
Kabir happily obliged.
She looked at the neatly packed bag in her hand.
Then at him.
And suddenly, she understood.
It wasn’t about the saree.
It was never about the saree.
It was about, choosing to step into his world.
And how much that choice could mean to someone who never expected it.
She slipped her hand back into his.
This time, tighter. Warmer.
“Don’t get used to it,” she said lightly.
Kabir’s fingers closed around hers.
“Too late.”
--
Some learned when to run.
Some learned when to stay.
And somewhere between breath and bullet,
between silence and storm- they began to change.
--
First things first- I owe you all a huge apology.
Yes, I disappeared.
Yes, it was for two whole months.
No, I did not get kidnapped (unfortunately, that would’ve been a cooler excuse).
The truth is far less cinematic and far more… adult.
Work.
Work.
And, just to spice things up, more work.
Somewhere between deadlines, responsibilities, and staring at my screen like it personally offended me, writing took a backseat. And not even the comfortable passenger seat, more like that awkward middle seat with no legroom.
Also… confession time.
There was a tiny motivation dip.
Not a dramatic breakdown. Not a full creative crisis. Just that annoying phase where your brain goes:
“Let’s write something amazing!”
…and your hands reply:
“Or we could just… not.”
AND (because clearly I like chaos), my brain has been secretly cooking up another story.
A completely different one.
Arjun-Riya.
New emotions. New problems.
Basically, my creativity said: “Why focus on one when we can emotionally invest in two at the same time?”
Now combine that with my attention span of a toddler in a candy store, and you get me- jumping between stories like:
“This one needs angst.”
“No wait, THIS one needs a confession scene.”
“Oh wow, new idea, let’s abandon both for five minutes.”
…You see the problem.
BUT.
Here I am.
Back. Writing. Continuing.
Because no matter how distracted my brain gets, this story still matters to me. And honestly? So do all of you who’ve been waiting, reading, and quietly (or loudly 👀) asking for updates.
So here’s where I need your help:
Drop your thoughts.
Your reactions.
Your screams.
Your “WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO US?” messages.
Because your feedback = my motivation fuel.
The more you engage, the faster I show up with updates.
It’s a very scientific system. Completely reliable. Definitely not emotionally driven at all. 😌
Also yes-
That other story? It’s very much happening.
No, I will not abandon this one.
Yes, I will probably juggle both like a slightly unstable multitasker.
Thank you for sticking around.
Thank you for being patient.
And thank you for still being here when I randomly reappear like this.
Now that I’m back-
Let’s see how quickly I can update before my brain runs off again. 😄
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