Warning: VOILENCE AHEAD !!! PLEASE PROCEED ONLY IF YOU ARE COMFORTABLE 

Hands pinned to ropes that hung from the rafters, Ramesh rocked against the restraints as another boot slammed into his stomach. Blood fountained from his mouth and splattered across the concrete; his shirt hung in tatters from fresh gouges. His eyelids fluttered, half-closed with pain and exhaustion.

"Ramesh. It wouldn't have come to this if you'd just told me the name."
The voice came slow and clinical. Abhay Thakur sat in a high-backed chair, a cigar smoldering between two fingers. Smoke curled around him, mixing with the coppery tang of blood in the air. Two men dressed head-to-toe in black flanked him, silent and watchful.

Abhay nodded toward the rope that bound Ramesh's left hand. The man nearest leaned forward, a tool glinting in the dim light. Ramesh screamed as a thumbnail came away in a wet, ripping noise. He clawed at the ropes with the other hand, a useless, frantic motion; blood dripped from the raw stump and pooled on the floor.

"We found twenty lakh in your account in a single week," Abhay said, eyes cold as the room. "But no names. No proof." He smiled without humor. "Your finger will rot away before I let you walk free." The sentence landed like a verdict disguised as a choice.

Outside, someone was trying—fingers in the press, whispers on the street—to drag Abhay's name through the mud. There had been others who tried. They had disappeared. This one would disappear too. Abhay watched Ramesh's chest heave and, with the patience of a man who believed himself untouchable, rose from his chair. He intended to make sure.

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He entered his office in a beige Nehru jacket, the fabric catching the light as the air seemed to shift around him. Whispers followed in his wake.

Abhay Thakur lifted a porcelain cup to his lips. The bitter bite of caffeine steadied him as his eyes skimmed over the meetings lined up for the day.

"Namaskar, Abhay ji."

Ankur Srivastav stepped inside. Thirty years in the Samaj Party had taken him from street rallies to a minister's chair—his ladder built on media influence and reputation. Reputation was power, and Ankur lived by it.

Abhay was cut from a different cloth. Seven years in politics—since the age of twenty-five—had been enough not only to dominate the party, but to wrap his fingers around businesses, industries, even the underworld. His grandfather had been Chief Minister, but Abhay's wealth from hotel chains, airlines, and brand power had far outstripped his family legacy.

He gestured at the seat opposite.
"What brings you here, Ankur ji?" His tone was polite, but his eyes already dismissed the need for this meeting—the last sabha had cleared most pending ministry talks.

Ankur's throat bobbed as he swallowed. Abhay noticed. Setting his cup aside, he leaned forward, brows raised.

"There's... evidence of drugs on the ship that was seized at the shore." Ankur's voice was careful, almost strained.

"Make someone surrender." Abhay shrugged, as though the matter barely deserved concern.

"Some locals," Ankur continued, "have seen your brand stamp on it."

That stilled Abhay's hands. The message beneath the words was clear.

Villagers from Ankur's constituency were whispering, questioning his integrity and his ties to the Samaj Party. Liquor, land, shady settlements—Ankur had tolerated all of it under Abhay's shadow. But drugs? That was different. He would not challenge Abhay outright, but the warning was unmistakable: if this fire spread, Ankur would walk away. Not out of morality, but to protect the reputation he had spent a lifetime curating.

Abhay, on the other hand, never let opportunity slip. Weakness was currency, and he monetized it—drugs, girls, alcohol, whatever people chose. He neither moralized nor persuaded. If someone wanted to spend, better it flowed into his coffers than another's.

He smiled at Ankur across the table, eyes holding steady, then exhaled in a faint sigh.

Ankur had covered for him before, countless times. But now the minister's patience was fraying.

"I'll look into it," Abhay said at last. "Anything else?"

Ankur pressed his palms together. "I'll take my leave." And with that, he turned and walked out.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------SANJANA'S POV:

The final stroke of green swept across my canvas. I stepped back, letting the image sink into me. A strange comfort bloomed in my chest—the dark clouds against a fresh green garden, yesterday's view from my window lane, captured in paint.

It's been a week since graduation.
A week since I last stepped outside.

That would change today.

"That's beautiful, dear," a voice said from behind.

"Hey, Dad." I smiled as his eyes shifted to the painting.

"I didn't see you at breakfast," I teased, wiping my paint-stained hands.

"Was busy in the morning," he shrugged.

I rolled my eyes. "Wow, what a specific answer."

He chuckled and placed a hand on my shoulder. "Chalo, chai toh saath mein peete hain." That was his way—deflect the question, soften the moment. And I never pushed too hard anyway.

A few minutes later, I handed him a cup of tea and poured one for myself. We sat together in the garden, the breeze just cool enough to make the chai comforting.

"You shouldn't skip meals at your age, Ankur saab," I said in a mock-stern voice.

His brow arched in amusement. "Did you just call me old?"

"Haan haan, jawan janeman ho aap," my mother, Urmila, chimed in from the gate, her tone dripping with playful sarcasm.

"Where's Dheeraj?" Dad asked, glancing toward her.

"He went with his friends... to a party." I paused. "Or at least that's what he told me."

We laughed together, warmth flowing easily. For all their strictness, my parents never failed to carve out moments like these. Moments I was grateful for.

But then—noise. Raised voices outside the gates. The three of us stilled, glancing at each other. Dad reached for his phone.

"Sir, I tried to stop them but—" Our security guard came sprinting in, words tumbling out before his head was shoved aside by a heavy hand.

My breath caught.

Abhay Thakur.

God, he looked even more striking in person than he did in the media. A shawl draped elegantly across his shoulders, his presence filling the garden like a storm rolling in.

"Sanjana, Urmila, get inside!" Dad hissed. Mom gripped my arm and tried to pull me away.

But I looked back. And his gaze found mine.

For one sharp, unshakable moment, I couldn't look away. Electricity crackled in the air between us.