STIFLED

Motihari, Bihar. 2002.

The first thing anyone entering the street would notice was the burning house.

Not just burning -- consumed. The flames had already done their work by the time the fire crew arrived, licking upward through the collapsed roof beams like fingers reaching for something they could never quite grasp. The sky above the house glowed a sickly amber, and the smoke -- thick, acrid, carrying the unmistakable sweetness of kerosene and something worse underneath it -- had settled over the entire street like a burial shroud.

Chief Fire Officer Prince adjusted the chin strap of his helmet and surveyed the scene with the methodical calm of a man who had spent twenty-three years cataloguing the ways fire could destroy human lives. He had seen apartment blocks gutted in Patna, a textile factory reduced to a skeleton of twisted girders in Muzaffarpur, a school bus that had caught fire on the highway outside Darbhanga with thirty-seven children inside. That last one still visited him in his sleep sometimes, the way nightmares do -- not as images but as sounds. The sounds of small voices calling for help that would arrive eleven minutes too late.

This fire was smaller. One house. A well-built house, by the standards of this town -- two storeys, brick and plaster, with a wide lawn and garden that had, mercifully, prevented the blaze from jumping to the neighbouring properties. The garden was Prince's first stroke of luck tonight. His second was that the fire had largely burned itself out before they arrived. There was nothing left to save, but at least there was nothing left to fight, either.

He stepped through what remained of the front door, his boots crunching on a carpet of charred wood, broken glass, and what might have been ceramic tiles from the kitchen. The heat radiated from the walls like a fever. Water dripped from the ceiling where his crew's hoses had done their work, creating a grey slurry of ash and soot that squelched underfoot. The smell was overpowering -- the chemical stink of burnt plastic mingling with the deeper, earthier scent of scorched brick and, underneath all of it, the smell that every firefighter learned to recognise and tried very hard to forget. The smell of burnt flesh.

The bedroom was the worst of it.

Two bodies lay on what had once been a mahogany bed, now a blackened skeleton of twisted springs and heat-warped metal. The mattress had melted into the frame. The bodies themselves were barely recognisable as human -- charred black, limbs contracted into the pugilistic pose that intense heat forces on dead muscle. The man's arm was draped across the woman's torso, or what remained of it. Whether this was a gesture of protection -- a last, desperate attempt to shield her from the flames -- or simply the way they had been lying when the fire reached them, Prince could not say. The district inspector would make that determination. Prince's job was recovery, not investigation.

One of his crew members, a young man named Ravi who had been on the job less than a year, emerged from the bedroom with his face the colour of old ash. He pulled his breathing mask down and leaned against the hallway wall, his chest heaving.

"Report," Prince said, not unkindly.

Ravi swallowed hard. "Both of them were inside, sir. Dead. I think -- I think the fire started in the kitchen. Gas cylinder, maybe. There's evidence of a sudden explosion. The electrical wiring in the kitchen was old -- exposed copper in several places. And sir..." He trailed off.

"Go on."

"There's no evidence of foul play, sir. But..." Ravi's face contorted with the effort of maintaining professional composure. "The bodies are -- they were -- on top of each other, sir. On the bed. There was no evidence of clothing on either of them. Not that the fire would have left any, but the positioning..."

Prince closed his eyes briefly. He understood what the young man was struggling to say. The couple had been in bed together. Intimately. When the fire reached them, they had likely been asleep, or at least unaware. The gas cylinder in the kitchen -- a common enough hazard in these older houses, where cooking gas cylinders sat beneath leaky regulators and frayed electrical wiring ran through walls that hadn't been inspected since the house was built -- had probably detonated first, sending a fireball through the ground floor. The staircase would have gone next, trapping anyone on the upper floor. By the time the flames reached the bedroom, escape would have been impossible.

A quick death, if they were lucky. Prince had seen enough fire victims to know that most were not lucky.

"Get the stretchers," he said. "And tell the ambulance to stand by. I want the bodies removed before the crowd gets any larger."

He heard the commotion outside before he saw it. Raised voices. The sound of a woman wailing -- high, keening, the kind of sound that came from a place beyond ordinary grief. And then a man's voice, raw and desperate, cutting through the night like a blade.

"Let me through! That is my wife! Vandana! VANDANA!"

Prince emerged from the ruins to find a scene that would stay with him for the rest of his career. Anuj Sahni was on his knees in the mud, held back by two constables who looked like they would rather be anywhere else on earth. Anuj was a well-known man in this town -- ran a successful textile business, donated generously to the local school, served on the temple committee, the kind of man people described as shareef without irony. He was tall, perhaps five foot eleven, with a fair complexion and deep brown-black eyes that, on any other night, would have projected quiet authority. But there was nothing authoritative about him now. His white kurta was torn at the collar where he had clawed at it, and his face held the particular vacancy of a man whose mind was refusing to process what his heart already knew.

Prince could smell the alcohol on him from six feet away. Not the sour stench of a habitual drunkard, but the sharp, acrid smell of a man who had been drinking hard and fast -- the kind of drinking that was less about pleasure and more about anaesthesia. Prince understood that, too. In a town this size, everyone knew about Vandana Sahni. Everyone knew about her affairs. Everyone knew that Anuj knew, and that he stayed anyway, because he loved her with the blind, self-destructive devotion of a man who had decided that a broken marriage was still better than no marriage at all.

"Sir, you cannot go inside," Prince said, crouching beside him in the mud. His voice was gentle. Professional. The voice of a man who had delivered variations of this news more times than he could count. "It is not safe. The structure is compromised."

"Is she -- " Anuj's voice cracked like dry wood. "Is Vandana -- "

There was no gentle way. There never was. You could dress it in euphemisms, pad it with condolences, but the truth was the truth, and delaying it only made the impact worse.

"I am sorry, sir. There are two bodies inside. A man and a woman. We are removing them now."

The sound that came from Anuj Sahni was not a scream. A scream would have been bearable -- it would have had edges, a beginning and an end. This was something lower and more terrible, a groan that seemed to originate not from his chest but from the very marrow of his bones, from a place so deep that it had no name. It was the sound of a man's world collapsing in on itself, the sound of every hope and denial and prayer being crushed under the weight of a reality that could no longer be avoided.

The constables loosened their grip. There was no fight left in him.

Two stretchers emerged from the house, each bearing a shape wrapped in white cloth that was already grey with ash and damp with water. The ambulance crew loaded them with the practised efficiency of people who dealt with death as a daily routine. As the vehicle started to pull away, Anuj broke free of the constables and stumbled after it, his bare feet slapping against the wet road, his voice rising to a howl.

"Vandana! Vandana! Don't leave me! I love you, Vandana! Please come back! PLEASE!"

Prince watched him go. One of the constables started after him, but Prince held up a hand. Let the man run. The ambulance would outpace him soon enough, and when it did, when the tail lights disappeared around the corner and the sound of the engine faded into the night, Anuj Sahni would stop. He would stand in the middle of the road, in the dark, in the rain that was beginning to fall, and he would understand that his wife was gone, and that the last image of her that the world would remember was not the woman he had loved but the woman who had betrayed him.

Prince turned away. There was nothing more he could do here.

---

Behind the police jeep, pressed against the cold metal of the door, a girl stood watching.

She was fourteen years old. Tall for her age, thin in the way of adolescents who have grown quickly and not yet filled out. She had her mother's sharp cheekbones and her father's dark, watchful eyes -- eyes that, on this night, held an expression that no fourteen-year-old should ever have to wear. It was not grief, exactly. Grief implies helplessness, a surrender to circumstance. What Ruhi Sahni's eyes held was something harder, something that was still in the process of being forged, the way steel is forged -- through extreme heat and the removal of everything that is not essential.

She did not cry. She did not move. She simply stood and watched her father disintegrate on the muddy road, and something behind those dark eyes quietly, permanently, rearranged itself into a new and terrible shape.

The neighbours had gathered by then, as neighbours do in small towns when tragedy strikes -- drawn by the smoke and the sirens and the irresistible gravity of other people's suffering. They stood in clusters of three and four, wrapped in shawls against the November chill, speaking in whispers that carried perfectly in the still night air.

"Vandana's karma finally caught up with her."

"How many men was it? Three? Four? I heard it was more."

"And poor Anuj still would have taken her back. The fool. The absolute fool."

"That lover of hers -- what was his name? Prakash? Pradeep? Some clerk from the municipal office, I heard."

"What will happen to the girl?"

"What can happen? She will grow up to be like her mother. Blood tells. It always tells."

Ruhi heard every word.

She catalogued them with the precision of a child who had spent her entire conscious life listening to adults say cruel things about her family when they thought she was not paying attention. She knew the words they used about her mother -- characterless, loose, shameless. She knew the pitying looks they gave her father -- poor Anuj, such a good man, married to that woman. She knew the sidelong glances they directed at her -- assessing, evaluating, searching for signs of the mother's sins in the daughter's face.

The words went into the same place they always went. A dark, pressurised chamber somewhere deep inside her chest -- a place she had constructed over years of hearing things no child should hear, brick by careful brick, mortared with silence and reinforced with rage. The chamber grew heavier with each addition. It pressed against her ribs. It made it hard to breathe sometimes, especially at night, when the house was quiet and there was nothing to distract her from the weight of it.

But the chamber never opened. Not once. Not ever.

Her father was still on his knees. The rain was falling harder now, soaking through his white kurta, turning the mud beneath him into a cold, brown paste. The ambulance was gone. The fire crew was packing up their equipment, coiling hoses, checking gauges, doing the mundane work of aftermath. The police were stringing up yellow tape around the perimeter of the house, even though there was nothing left to protect.

Soon someone would come and take her father home. Soon someone would remember that his fourteen-year-old daughter was standing here alone in the rain. Soon the bodies would be taken to the district hospital for post-mortem, the investigation would conclude what everyone already knew -- accidental fire, gas cylinder explosion, faulty wiring, two casualties -- and the town would add this chapter to its long, whispered inventory of Vandana Sahni's sins.

But no one came for Ruhi. Not for a long time.

She stood there until the last of the fire crew drove away. Until the constables retreated to their jeep to fill out paperwork. Until the neighbours, one by one, drifted back to their homes and their interrupted sleep and their morning chai, taking with them enough gossip material to last through the week.

Then Ruhi Sahni walked to her father.

He was still on his knees. His eyes were open but unfocused, staring at the spot where the ambulance had been. Rain ran down his face and he did not wipe it away. His hands lay in his lap, palms up, as if waiting to receive something that would never be given.

Ruhi took his hand. It was cold and muddy and it did not respond to her touch. She pulled gently, then harder. Slowly, with the mechanical obedience of a man who had stopped making decisions, Anuj rose to his feet.

She led him home. Through the rain, down the dark street, past the houses of the neighbours who had watched and whispered and done nothing. She was fourteen years old and she was leading her father home because there was no one else to do it.

At the door, she paused. She looked back once at the smouldering ruin of the house where her mother had died.

Then she turned away and went inside.

She was fourteen years old, and she had made herself a promise.

She would never let anyone hurt her father again.

---

2024, Pune.

Saying that Sanika Joshi was in a cranky mood would be putting it mildly.

The alarm on her phone screamed at five-thirty, and she did what she did every morning -- reached for it with the blind, fumbling desperation of a woman who had been engaged in a lifelong war against early mornings, silenced it, and lay in the grey half-light of her bedroom arguing with herself about whether today was the day she finally became a morning person.

It was not.

It was never going to be. Sanika had accepted this about herself the way she had accepted other immutable truths -- that Pune traffic would never improve, that her mother would never stop worrying, and that she, Sanika Joshi, twenty-seven years old and possessed of three broken engagements and a tongue sharp enough to cut glass, was constitutionally incapable of greeting the dawn with anything other than resentment.

Twenty minutes and two snoozed alarms later, she dragged herself vertical.

The bedroom was still dark, the blackout curtains doing their job with the ruthless efficiency of things that cost too much money. She sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, feet flat on the cold marble floor, and took stock. Body: functional. Mind: reluctant. Heart: don't ask. Three broken engagements will do that to you. Not break you -- nothing so clean or dramatic as that, nothing like the slow-motion shattering in the Hindi serials her mother watched with religious devotion. It was more like a rewiring. A quiet rearrangement of expectations. Now, every time something good happened, she found herself bracing. Not hoping. Bracing. Because hope had been wrong three times and bracing had never let her down.

She shook off the thought the way she shook off most inconvenient emotions -- violently and incompletely -- and stood up.

Her house -- a two-storey independent bungalow in Baner, one of the best residential areas of Pune -- was quiet except for the distant hum of the inverter. Her parents had bought this house almost three decades ago, when Pune real estate was still a reasonable proposition and not the fever dream of optimistic millionaires it had become since. The house was old-fashioned by current standards -- no modular kitchen, no false ceiling with recessed lighting, no rain shower in the bathroom -- but it was solid and spacious and filled with the accumulated warmth of a family that had lived well within its walls.

Sanika padded to the bathroom in her oversized COEP Pune t-shirt (borrowed from her army brother and never returned), caught her reflection in the mirror above the sink, and gave herself the same appraising look she gave quarterly financial reports at work.

Twenty-seven years old. Sharp features inherited from her Maharashtrian mother -- high cheekbones, a strong jawline, skin the colour of milky tea that held its tone without much effort. Her eyes were her best feature, or so Mira insisted -- dark grey circling black, almost amethyst in certain lights, what Mira called bedroom eyes and what Sanika called eyes that had seen too much bullshit to pretend otherwise. Her mouth was generous, with the kind of full lips that attracted attention whether she wanted it or not. Her hair was cropped short -- a pixie cut that she had got three years ago, partly because Pune traffic and the mandatory helmet made long hair a logistical nightmare, partly because life was too short to spend forty-five minutes with a blow dryer every morning, and partly because the look on her second ex-fiance's face when he had seen it had been worth every scandalised WhatsApp message from her extended family.

Three broken engagements. That was her score. In cricket terms, she was a solid middle-order bat who kept getting run out by her partners.

The first had been a rich jackass from a prominent business family -- the kind of family that measured a woman's worth by the weight of gold in her wedding trousseau and the obedience with which she served chai to visiting relatives. He had been charming during the courtship, attentive in that performative way that rich men sometimes are when they're still in acquisition mode. Then, a week after the ring ceremony, he had decided she was bad luck. Two major contracts lost since they got engaged, he said. His astrologer confirmed it -- her stars were malefic, her horoscope incompatible, her very presence a drain on his fortune. Sanika had returned the ring with a suggestion about where he could store his horoscope that had made his mother faint.

The second had been worse. He was a perfectly acceptable man -- kind, educated, well-employed -- the sort of man mothers dream about and daughters settle for without complaint. Everything had been going smoothly. The invitations were printed. The venue was booked. The mehndi ceremony was scheduled for Thursday. Then, on Wednesday evening, while Sanika was trying on her wedding sari for the final fitting, his pregnant ex-girlfriend had shown up at his parents' house, belly first, demanding acknowledgment. The engagement ended that night. Sanika had cried for three days, then stopped. The humiliation was worse than the heartbreak -- the pitying looks from relatives, the whispered conversations that stopped when she entered the room, her mother's brave face that fooled no one.

The third had been the strangest of all. He was a quiet, well-mannered man who worked in software, who said all the right things and never raised his voice and made Sanika feel vaguely uneasy in a way she could not articulate. She had found him kissing his boyfriend in a car outside a Koregaon Park pub. The revelation had landed not with anger but with a peculiar, sad clarity. He had been gay, closeted under the crushing weight of parental expectation and societal shame, and Sanika had felt more sorry for him than she had for herself. She had kept his secret, letting both families believe the engagement had ended over "compatibility issues," which was, if you thought about it, technically true.

But three was enough. Three was a pattern. Three meant her parents stayed up at night whispering in their bedroom, her relatives whispered at pujas and family gatherings, and her brother Saket -- Captain Saket Joshi of the Indian Army, currently posted somewhere in Rajasthan that he was not allowed to name -- called every week to simultaneously check on her emotional state and resist the urge to vet her social circle like a military intelligence operation. Her eldest brother, who worked in the US, was worse. He had taken it upon himself to find her a suitable match from among his American-Indian colleagues, sending her photographs and biodata with the persistence of a matrimonial algorithm that had been set to desperate mode.

She had sent her parents to the US for their thirtieth wedding anniversary, a gift pooled from all three siblings. Go. See Niagara Falls. Visit dada in New Jersey. Stop worrying about your unmarried daughter for six blessed weeks. They had protested, of course -- her mother invoking every possible catastrophe that could befall a young woman living alone in a house ("What if there is a gas leak? What if there is a break-in? What if there is an earthquake?"), her father deploying the quiet, disappointed silence that was his most effective weapon. But the flight tickets were non-refundable, and her mother had always wanted to see New York, and eventually they had gone, leaving Sanika with six weeks of solitary bliss.

Well. Hers and the neighbour's bass-heavy music collection's.

The neighbour. Sanika's jaw tightened as she pulled on her running shoes. That... that man had entered the scene a couple of weeks back and made it his personal mission to destroy whatever peace and quiet she had been enjoying since her parents' departure.

God knows what the owners of the neighbouring house had been thinking when they leased it to a guy like him. The previous tenants had been the owners themselves -- a lovely elderly couple, Uncle and Aunty Deshpande, who went to the temple with her parents, accompanied her mother on vegetable shopping trips, and generally embodied everything that was good and wholesome about having neighbours in a quiet residential street. But their son had moved abroad and wanted them close, and so the Deshpandes had left, and in their place had arrived... him.

She didn't even know his name. All she knew was that he was tall -- significantly taller than her, which was saying something because she was not a short woman. He was built like a man who either spent serious time in the gym or regularly subdued people who did not want to be subdued — the kind of man who could carry you out of a burning building and still look annoyed about it. He had a face that, under different circumstances, she might have described as handsome — strong features, sharp nose, brown-black eyes with striations that caught the light in interesting ways. He wore his hair in a close-cropped military style and had a moustache that curled slightly at the edges, giving him the appearance of either a 1980s Bollywood villain or a particularly menacing freedom fighter. He had the permanent scowl of a man who had a personal grudge against the concept of daytime.

He rode a Royal Enfield Bullet that announced his arrivals and departures like a one-vehicle Independence Day parade. He kept insane hours -- leaving before dawn, returning well after midnight, sometimes not coming home for days at a stretch. His lights blazed at all hours. And his taste in music ran to old Hindi film songs -- Kishore Kumar, specifically -- played at a volume that suggested he believed his neighbours were either stone deaf or enthusiastic fans of the maestro's oeuvre.

Last night had been the worst. He had ridden home at 2:45 in the morning. 2:45! Her bedroom was on the side of the house that faced his driveway, and she had left the windows open to catch the cool night breeze -- a decision she was now bitterly regretting. He had accelerated the Bullet twice before turning the engine off, because apparently once was insufficient to wake the dead. His helmet had clattered to the ground. His front door had made all manner of ungodly noises as he shoved it open with all the subtlety of a battering ram. Then he had turned on his porch light -- a porch light that, by some diabolical architectural coincidence, was positioned to shine directly through her bedroom window with the concentrated malice of an interrogation lamp. He had slammed the door. Gone back out. Slammed it again. And then, having apparently satisfied his quota of noise pollution for the evening, he had gone inside and switched off his hall light but left the porch light blazing like a miniature sun.

Sanika had lain in bed, staring at the ceiling, counting her heartbeats, and imagining a variety of creative scenarios involving the neighbour, his Bullet, and a large body of water. She had finally fallen asleep sometime around four, which meant that when her alarm went off at five-thirty, she had managed approximately ninety minutes of rest.

No wonder she was cranky.

"Damn it! Damn it!" she muttered as she jumped into the shower and jumped out ninety seconds later, wrapped a towel around her wet body, and started brushing her teeth over the sink. With her free hand, she attempted to towel-dry her hair, which was the advantage of a pixie cut -- the whole process took thirty seconds instead of the twenty-minute production number required by long hair. Her mother had been horrified by the haircut. Her father had been offended on some deep, patriarchal level that he would never admit to. But they had been given a choice: their daughter's hair or their daughter living with them. They couldn't have both. The hair lost.

The ringing of the landline telephone snapped her out of her multitasking. A landline, in 2024 -- her parents refused to disconnect it, insisting that mobile networks were unreliable and that in a true emergency, the landline would be the last thing standing. Sanika suspected they kept it primarily to give her elder brother a dedicated channel for his lectures.

She was right. It was not her parents. It was her elder brother, calling from the US.

"Yes, dada," she said in greeting, wedging the phone between her ear and shoulder as she continued drying herself.

"Hey, Choti, how is it going? Getting ready for work?"

"Yes, and I'm already late, so if it's nothing urgent, we'll catch up tomorrow." She pushed aside the hangers with saris on them -- no time to wrap, drape, and pin today. "God, why aren't jeans made an official dress code!" she muttered.

Her dada laughed. "Don't tell me. You shut off the alarm instead of snoozing it."

"Dada, I really do not have time for this. I'm fine, the house is fine, my car is fine, no new scratches since last week, and no, there is absolutely nothing for you to worry about. Tell Mom and Dad that I'll talk to them tonight."

"Fine, OK, but be careful. I don't like you staying alone in that house. If it were an apartment, it would be a different thing..."

"Yeah, but it's not an apartment, and the street is safe. Residential area," she reminded him, dashing back into the bathroom for a hurried makeup job -- tinted moisturiser, a swipe of kajal, lip balm, done. She slipped a pair of small gold studs into her earlobes, strapped on her watch, and reached for the outfit she always grabbed when she was running late: black skirt, white top, and a multicoloured scarf looped around her neck. Prisma had a formal dress code for the management teams, and her boss was the sort of man who would note a wrinkled collar the way other people noted a fire alarm.

"Did you have your breakfast?" her brother fretted.

"Dada, FYI, I'm twenty-seven, not seven. I'm off now, bye."

She disconnected the call without giving him a chance to append further instructions, threw the phone in the general direction of the sofa, slipped her feet into a pair of flats, grabbed her backpack, car keys, and mobile, and made for the front door. She had a hairbrush in her backpack and would use it in the car before getting out at the office. One major advantage of the pixie cut: even on its worst day, it could be tamed in thirty seconds.

She locked the front door, slung the backpack over one shoulder, and stepped out into the Pune morning. The air was already warm, carrying the faint scent of jasmine from the garden her father had cultivated with military precision -- roses in three colours, two varieties of hibiscus, marigold along the pathway, and a lily plant that was the pride of both father and daughter. Between the two of them, they had turned the small front garden into something that drew admiring comments from the entire street and provided her mother with a steady supply of flowers for her daily puja.

She backed her car -- a metallic grey Hyundai i20 that had replaced the ancient Honda Brio her father had originally gifted her -- out of the shaded portico. The car had a reverse horn, as most Indian cars did. It didn't help the noise pollution, but it prevented dents and scratches, which in Pune traffic was a trade-off worth making.

The reverse horn, however, apparently did not agree with her neighbour.

He came stomping out of his house like a grizzly bear with a sore paw. He was wearing what appeared to be yesterday's clothes -- wrinkled track pants, a faded t-shirt that had seen better decades -- and from the thunderous scowl darkening his face, you would think Sanika had been playing death metal at stadium volume for the past hour. His eyes were bloodshot, his jaw was clenched, and every line of his body radiated the kind of hostility usually reserved for people who talk in cinemas.

"You trying to wake the dead or what?" he growled.

Sanika gritted her teeth and gave diplomacy one final, heroic shot. "I'm sorry," she said, in a tone so even and controlled it deserved a medal for restraint. She walked past him to shut and lock her gate.

He muttered an indistinctive reply before striding back into his house and banging the door shut. The sheer injustice of the situation -- the man who had woken her at 2:45 AM with his motorcycle symphony was complaining about her reverse horn at 8:30 in the morning -- spiked her temper so hard she could feel her pulse in her temples. But she controlled it. She would not admit it to anyone, not even herself, but there was something about this man that made her uneasy. Not afraid, exactly. She was Sanika Joshi, sister of two brothers who had taught her to throw a punch before she learned to ride a bicycle. She did not do afraid.

But he was big. And he was angry. And she didn't know what he did for a living, which meant she didn't know what he was capable of.

She drove to work with the radio on, letting the morning RJ's mindless chatter drown out her irritation. Prisma Technologies -- Prisma Systems India -- occupied six floors of a glass-and-steel tower at the Hinjewadi IT Park Phase 2 that looked exactly like every other IT park building in Pune: architecturally soulless but impressively air-conditioned. The company had been founded in 2005 by Pramod Gadkari, a man whose genius for software solutions was matched only by his genius for making his employees feel simultaneously essential and expendable. It had survived two recessions, a global pandemic, and the rise of AI-driven automation by doing what Pune IT companies did best: adapting, hustling, and billing American clients in dollars while paying Indian employees in rupees.

The atmosphere inside Prisma was a bizarre mixture of geeks in jeans and wrinkled t-shirts, management types in three-piece suits, and a few people in smart casuals who served as go-betweens for the two tribes. If Sanika had been in the engineering department, no one would have cared if she showed up in pyjamas. But she was in Finance, and her boss, Vijay Khandekar, was a stickler for punctuality whose pointed look at the clock as she walked in meant she would be staying late today to compensate.

Great. Another Monday gift-wrapped in annoyance.

She grabbed her ID badge, locked her car in the basement parking, and took the elevator to the fourteenth floor, scrolling through the morning's notifications on her phone. Three emails from Rao marked "URGENT" (they never were -- the man used the urgent flag the way other people used punctuation, reflexively and without meaning). A WhatsApp message from her mother confirming they had landed at JFK safely. Two missed calls from a number she didn't recognise. And a message in the group chat with Shruti and Mira:

Sanika: Dinner, ladies?

Two replies popped up almost simultaneously, making her grin. Thank God it was Friday. Well -- it wasn't Friday yet. It was Monday. But the promise of Friday dinner was what got her through Mondays. The three of them had been doing this for three years -- every Friday without fail, a standing date that survived broken engagements, marital crises, work catastrophes, and at least one episode per quarter that qualified as a Category 5 life meltdown.

She pocketed her phone, grabbed a coffee from the machine, and sat down at her desk. Her boss's office door was open, which meant he was watching. She opened her laptop, pulled up the quarterly projections, and prepared to have a completely ordinary, thoroughly unremarkable week.

It would not be either of those things.

---

Shruti Gokhale packed both the lunch boxes -- hers and Runal's -- and snapped them shut with the mechanical precision of a woman who had performed this task a thousand times and could do it in her sleep. She stacked the dirty dishes from breakfast in the sink for the maid to find, praying as she did every morning: Please, Kantabai, don't take the day off. Please, please. Don't make me come home to this mess tonight.

"You know, you really need to stop mumbling to yourself," Runal said, wandering into the kitchen in his boxers for his morning coffee. "It's become a habit now."

Shruti loaded the washing machine without looking at him. "You didn't have dinner last night."

"It was cold."

"We have a microwave, Runal. The cook makes rotis in the evening, so of course they're going to be cold by the time you get home. That's what microwaves are for."

"I come home tired from work. I'm not in a mood for heat-it-and-eat-it," he snapped. "I had a heavy snack at the office anyway."

"And a few drinks too."

"I was out with friends and it was just one drink."

"Right," Shruti said, in the particular tone of voice that wives deploy when they know something is not right but have decided that this particular morning is not the morning to pursue it. She handed him the coffee cup and left the kitchen. "I'm off to work. Your breakfast is on the table."

"It's cornflakes. You make it sound like hot parathas are waiting for me," he scoffed.

"If you want hot parathas, you need to help me make them. I don't have time." It was an old argument. They had been having it, with minor variations, for almost three years. They lived in a three-bedroom apartment in Koregaon Park -- a nice apartment, in a good building, in a location midway between his office and hers. It was the apartment of a couple that was doing well. From the outside, it looked like the life everyone aspired to. From the inside, it felt like a show flat -- everything polished and precisely arranged, but no one actually living in it.

"What do you have time for? Seriously!" Runal's voice followed her down the hallway to their bedroom. "Weekdays you go to work. Weekends you go shopping. You're never home before me. You don't want to go out with me..."

"Both of us work on weekdays. I go to buy groceries and vegetables over weekends. You don't want to come with me for that either, so I guess we're even."

"Don't start that again. You know I'm not used to doing all that stuff. I never did it before and have zero interest in doing it now."

"And I did it since the day I was born?" she snapped back. "But I learnt, didn't I?"

Shruti stood in their bedroom and started getting dressed, pulling on black tights and a maroon-black kurta -- comfortable, professional, easy to move in. She was in sales, and Prisma was particular about appearance for client-facing teams. She had been recently promoted to sales manager for her sub-division, which meant she couldn't afford to go lax in the dressing department. The promotion itself was a source of unspoken tension between them. Runal had encouraged her to take a job when they first married, envisioning a wife who would keep herself occupied during the day and be waiting at home, refreshed and available, when he returned. He had not expected her to be good at it. He had certainly not expected her to be promoted -- twice in one year -- while his own career remained stubbornly static. The shift in their dynamic had been gradual but unmistakable: she was rising while he was standing still, and neither of them knew how to talk about it.

"OK listen, Mom and Dad are planning to come next month," he said from the doorway.

"Great!" The word came out with an edge that she had not intended but did not retract. Shruti's in-laws were a particular trial. They did not approve of her working. They did not approve of her friends. They did not approve of her cooking, her housekeeping, her choice of curtains, or the brand of dal she bought. And in their last visit, her mother-in-law had done something that Shruti still could not forgive: she had blamed their childless marriage on Shruti. Said that there must be something wrong with her that she hadn't conceived after three years. And Runal -- the man Shruti had fallen in love with in college, the man she had fought her parents to marry, the man who had stood outside her hostel gate all night when she was sick with malaria -- had not said a word. Not one word in her defence. He had changed the topic, and later, when she confronted him, he had said: "My mom wouldn't understand, Shruti. Just ignore it."

Just ignore it. As if three years of trying, of hoping, of Shruti silently wanting children while Runal silently dreading the responsibility, could be dismissed with just ignore it.

"What does that mean?" he snapped, reading the tone correctly.

"Nothing." She threw a long stylish scarf over her shoulder, slung her backpack, grabbed her phone and keys. "I'm off now. Don't forget your lunch box."

"Shruti!"

She stopped at the door and sighed before turning back. "Look, I heard what you said and I'll try, but I can't promise. You know I can't promise." She met his irritated eyes with an expression that was carefully, deliberately inscrutable. "See you tonight."

Her phone pinged with the familiar notification sound. She checked it quickly. It was from Sanika.

Dinner, ladies?

Yes, she typed. Thank God it was Friday. Well, it would be Friday soon. Friday meant escape. Friday meant Sanika and Mira. Friday meant she could stop pretending that everything was fine.

---

Mira Patil frowned at her reflection as she pulled back her thick, curly hair and secured it with a large clip at the back of her head. The dark circles under her eyes were getting worse, she noticed with a twinge of anxiety. She needed cucumber slices, or one of those Korean sheet masks that Sanika kept ordering online, or honestly just eight consecutive hours of sleep -- a luxury that had become increasingly rare since Karan had started spending most nights at her apartment.

Karan wouldn't like the dark circles. He noticed things like that. He noticed when she wore the wrong shade of lipstick, when her eyebrows needed threading, when she gained half a kilo. He noticed everything about her appearance with the attentiveness of a man who treated his girlfriend's body the way a car enthusiast treated his vehicle -- something to be maintained, polished, and displayed.

Tomorrow, she promised herself. Tomorrow is the weekend. I'll get a facial done, use the under-eye cream Sanika recommended, and sleep for twelve hours. He loved to show her off to his friends. Sometimes it hurt that he gave more importance to how she looked than to who she was underneath. But she wanted to make him proud. She loved him. She couldn't imagine living a day without him.

Could she?

The thought flickered and she pushed it away, the way she had been pushing it away for months. She focused on her makeup -- a light application of foundation to even out her fair complexion, a swipe of mascara, a neutral lip colour that was office-appropriate. Mira worked in HR at Prisma, in charge of regional recruitment and initial screening of candidates. She was twenty-six, the youngest of the three friends, short and almost boyish in figure, but with the kind of thick, dark curls and wide, sloe-eyed face that drew people to her like a warm light on a cold night. Men, especially. They were drawn to her cheerful smile and her gentle voice and her maddening tendency to see the best in everyone, even when the best was not there to be found.

Karan Malhotra was the most prominent example of this tendency.

They had met at Prisma two years ago, when Mira had been screening candidates for a managerial position and Karan had been one of the applicants. He hadn't got the job -- his qualifications were thin and his interview performance was mediocre -- but he had got her phone number. He was handsome in the way that certain men are handsome: symmetrically, undeniably, the kind of handsome that works on you before you have time to evaluate whether the personality behind the face is worth your attention. He had flirted with her, complimented her work, her observation skills, her looks. She had blushed and glowed and refused his invitation for coffee. He had taken the refusal graciously, left his number, and waited. She had called the next day. Coffee had become lunch. Lunch had become dinner. Dinner had become weekends. Weekends had become everything.

Now, two years later, they were -- what? Not engaged. Not officially living together, though Mira had moved into a one-bedroom apartment directly across from his two-bedroom in Kalyani Nagar, which meant they might as well have been. He spent most nights at her place, or she at his. She cooked for him. She did his laundry when his maid was absent. She reorganised her schedule around his. She had quietly, gradually, handed over the controls of her life to a man who drove it with the carelessness of someone who knew there was always another vehicle in the garage.

Firm arms wrapped around her from behind, pulling her against a body that was warm and hard from sleep. She could feel all of him -- the flat plane of his stomach against the small of her back, the solid wall of his chest, and lower, pressing insistently against her backside, the unmistakable evidence that he was already aroused. His skin smelled of last night's cologne -- Dior Sauvage, his one extravagance -- mixed with something saltier underneath, musk and sleep-sweat and something that was just him, something that made her inhale deeper than she meant to. Lips found her neck, the soft spot below her ear that he'd mapped out within their first week together and had been exploiting mercilessly ever since. His stubble scraped against the sensitive skin there. She felt the rough drag of it like a current running straight down her spine, pooling hot and liquid between her thighs.

"Morning," Karan murmured against her throat, his hands sliding under her shirt, palms flat against her bare stomach, fingers spread wide. His thumbs traced slow, deliberate circles on her hip bones, dipping just below the waistband of her underwear. His hips rocked against her once, slow and suggestive. "Come back to bed."

"I can't," she said, hating how breathless she sounded. Hating more that her body was already arching back into him, that her head was tipping against his shoulder to give his mouth better access, that the heat of his bare chest against her spine was dissolving every rational thought. She could feel her nipples hardening against the cotton of her shirt, could feel the dampness building between her legs. Her body was a traitor and it had been his accomplice for two years. "I'll be late."

"Five minutes. I'll be quick."

She let him pull her back to the bed. She always let him. He peeled her shirt over her head and she wasn't wearing a bra -- hadn't put one on yet -- and the cool morning air hit her bare breasts a half-second before his mouth did. He took one nipple between his lips, sucking hard enough to make her gasp, his tongue swirling in tight circles while his hand cupped the other breast, thumb brushing back and forth across the stiffened peak. She moaned -- a raw, involuntary sound that embarrassed her even as it left her lips -- and her fingers tangled in his thick hair, pulling him closer.

He pushed her back on the rumpled sheets and knelt between her legs. His hands hooked into her underwear and dragged it down her thighs in one smooth motion, and she lifted her hips to help because her body had stopped consulting her brain entirely. He kissed his way down her stomach -- slow, open-mouthed kisses that left wet trails on her skin -- and when his mouth reached the crease of her thigh she held her breath, her fingers twisting in the sheets, her back arching off the bed. He parted her with his fingers and his tongue found her, hot and wet and devastatingly precise.

She cried out. Couldn't help it. He knew exactly how to do this -- the flat of his tongue in long, slow strokes, then the tip, circling, teasing, building pressure until her thighs were shaking and her hand was pressing his face harder against her. He slid two fingers inside her, curling upward, and the combined sensation made her vision blur. Her hips bucked against his mouth. She was panting, sweating, one hand fisted in his hair, the other gripping the headboard behind her.

"Karan -- I'm going to --"

He didn't stop. He increased the pressure, his fingers driving deeper, faster, and she shattered. The orgasm ripped through her like a wave, her inner walls clenching around his fingers, her back bowing off the mattress, a sound tearing from her throat that was half his name and half something wordless and raw. He worked her through it, his mouth gentling but not stopping, drawing every last pulse from her until she was gasping and boneless and oversensitive to the point of pain.

Before she could recover, he rose over her, pushed her thighs wider apart with his knee, and entered her in one long, deep stroke. She was so wet he met no resistance, but the sudden fullness after the intensity of her orgasm made her cry out again, her nails raking down his back. He groaned against her neck -- a sound she felt in her own chest -- and began to move. Hard, rhythmic, practiced thrusts that hit that spot inside her with unfailing accuracy. He hooked one arm under her knee, opening her wider, driving deeper, and the angle made her see stars.

He knew her body the way a mechanic knows an engine. Every lever, every switch. Where to apply force and where to be feather-light. He could take her apart in minutes and he did, every time, with the efficient expertise of a man who took pride in his performance. His hips snapped against hers, the wet sound of their bodies meeting filling the small bedroom, and she was climbing again, impossibly, her second orgasm building from the ashes of the first.

"Come for me," he breathed against her ear, and she did -- clenching around him so hard that he swore and slammed into her one final time, burying himself to the hilt as he came with a shudder that racked his entire body.

For thirty seconds, the only sound was their ragged breathing. His weight on her. His heart hammering against her ribs. The smell of sex and sweat thick in the air. She felt him soften inside her, felt the warm trickle of him between her thighs.

This was the moment. The fragile, naked moment when two people have just been as close as two people can be, and what happens next reveals everything. She waited for him to say something -- anything -- that would make this feel like more than what it was. A word. A look. I love you would have been enough. Even that was amazing would have sufficed. Something to acknowledge that what had just happened was not merely physical, that she was more than a warm body that happened to live across the corridor.

He rolled off her, reached for his phone, and started scrolling through Instagram.

She pulled up her cream trousers five minutes later, buttoned her olive green shirt, and checked her makeup in the mirror. Still acceptable. Her lips were swollen and red. She pressed them together hard until they weren't. Between her legs she was still wet, still tender, and she hated that her body was still humming with satisfaction when her heart felt so hollow. She grabbed her keys and laptop bag.

"Hey Mira, my sister and her family are coming next week," Karan said from where he lay lounging on her bed, a thin sheet barely covering him. He looked like a magazine advertisement for something expensive and unnecessary.

Mira's face lit up. This was progress! His family, meeting her -- this could be the beginning of acknowledgment, of being accepted, of finally having a place in his life that extended beyond the bedroom. "Wow, that's great! What's the plan?"

"I don't know," he shrugged, getting up to grab a towel. "Just thought I'd give you a heads-up that for the whole of next week, until they leave, you and I are going to be just neighbours." He winked, walking past her toward the bathroom. "Know what I mean?"

The words hit her like a slap.

"But... why?"

"What do you mean, why? One whiff and my sister will holler it to the hills, and my parents..." He shuddered dramatically and disappeared behind the bathroom door.

Mira stood there, holding her laptop bag, staring at the closed door. The question circled in her mind like a dog chasing its tail: Would she hesitate to introduce him to her parents as her lover? Yes, of course. But as a friend? As someone she was seeing? Why couldn't he give her even that much? Why couldn't he tell his family that she existed?

Because she didn't hold that kind of place in his life. She had never held that kind of place. She was a convenience. A comfort. A body he enjoyed and a presence he tolerated and a secret he kept with the casual efficiency of a man who had always known, on some fundamental level, that she was temporary.

Swallowing down tears that burned her throat, she grabbed her keys and headed for the door. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. A message from Sanika.

Dinner, ladies?

Hell yes! she typed, blinking hard. Thank God it was Friday. Or would be soon. Friday meant Sanika and Shruti. Friday meant honesty. Friday meant she could stop pretending that being someone's secret was the same thing as being loved.

---

End of Chapter One.

---

Friday arrived the way it always did for the three of them -- not as a day on the calendar but as a collective exhale, a permission slip to stop performing normalcy and simply be themselves for a few hours.

Doolally Taproom in Koregaon Park was their spot. They had tried other places over the years -- Toit, which was perpetually crowded with tech bros comparing stock options; Arbor, which was beautiful but pretentious; The Permit Room, which had excellent cocktails but tables so close together that your neighbour could critique your life choices in real time. Doolally had found the sweet spot: good food, decent drinks, enough noise to provide cover for honest conversation, and a corner table near the back that the staff had started keeping available for them on Friday evenings without being asked.

Sanika arrived first, as she almost always did. Being in finance meant her day ended with a clear stop -- the numbers either balanced or they didn't, and once the reports were filed, there was nothing more to be done until Monday. She ordered a Virgin Mary (she was driving), pulled out her phone, and scrolled through the day's notifications with the glazed efficiency of someone who had long ago learned to separate signal from noise. Three emails from Rao (urgent, urgent, urgent -- none actually urgent). A message from her mother asking if she had eaten properly. A Zomato notification for a restaurant she would never visit. And seventeen -- seventeen! -- notifications from Instagram, all from people she didn't know, commenting on something she hadn't posted.

She frowned and opened the app. The notifications were all on Mira's profile, on a video that Sanika had been tagged in. She tapped play and felt her stomach drop.

But before she could process it, Shruti slid into the chair opposite her with the controlled grace of a woman who was holding herself together through sheer force of willpower.

"Hey," Sanika said, looking up from her phone. One glance at Shruti's face told her everything she needed to know. "That bad?"

"I found perfume on his shirt," Shruti said, without preamble. "Not mine. I was doing the laundry on Sunday. He'd gone off to work -- on a Sunday, Sanika. An important meeting, he said. And I found his shirt, and it smelled of perfume that I don't use. That I've never used."

Sanika's jaw tightened. "Did you ask him?"

"No." Shruti's voice was perfectly steady, which was worse than if she had been crying. Crying meant she was processing. Steady meant she had shut down. "I wasn't ready to hear the answer. If I ask and he denies it, I'll know he's lying. And if he doesn't deny it..." She trailed off, her finger tracing the rim of her water glass. "Then it becomes real."

"It's already real, Shratz."

"I know." A pause. "Her name is Zara. She's his colleague. She sends him emails suggesting which shirt to wear to client meetings." Shruti's mouth twisted into something that was trying to be a smile and failing. "He wore the blue one. The one she recommended. I watched him put it on."

Sanika reached across the table and took her hand. She didn't say I'm sorry or that bastard or you deserve better -- all of which were true but none of which would help right now. She just held her friend's hand and waited.

"The worst part," Shruti continued, "is that I'm not surprised. I've been watching him drift away for months. Maybe longer. We used to be best friends, you know? Before we were lovers, before we were married, we were friends. We'd sit up all night talking about everything -- politics, movies, his family, my family, what we wanted from life. Now we barely exchange ten sentences a day that aren't about groceries or bills or whose turn it is to call the plumber."

"When did it change?"

"Gradually. Then all at once." Shruti withdrew her hand gently and straightened in her chair, composing herself as Mira approached the table, slightly breathless, her helmet hair not quite tamed. "I'll tell you both together. I don't want to say it twice."

Mira dropped into the third chair, ordered a Pina Colada, and looked from one face to the other. "OK, who died?"

"Nobody died," Sanika said. "Yet. Tell her, Shratz."

Shruti told her. The Sunday morning. The laundry. The perfume on the shirt -- faint but unmistakable, a floral-musky scent that was nothing like the light citrus Shruti wore. The email from Zara she'd found on Runal's phone while he was in the shower. Client meeting at 11 today. Hope you'll wear that new blue shirt. It suits you to a T. The fact that he'd worn the blue shirt. The fact that he'd barely looked at her as he left. The fact that when she'd packed his lunch, he'd said I don't need the lunch box today -- because, presumably, he would be lunching with someone else.

Mira's eyes were wide. "Oh, Shratz. Oh no."

"I haven't confronted him yet," Shruti said. "I'm not ready. Right now it's just... suspicion. Evidence, if you want to be clinical about it. But if I confront him and he admits it, or if he lies about it, either way our marriage enters a different phase. And I need to be prepared for that."

"What do you need from us?" Sanika asked.

"Just this. Just Friday. Just you two." Shruti's composure cracked for just a moment -- a tremor in her lower lip, a brightness in her eyes that was not from the restaurant's fairy lights -- before she pulled it back together. "Now. Enough about my drama. Mira, what's happening with the toad?"

The toad was their nickname for Karan, established after the incident where he had taken Mira on a weekend trip to Pondicherry and then asked her to pretend they were "just colleagues" when they ran into his cousin at the hotel restaurant.

Mira took a long sip of her Pina Colada. "His sister and family are coming next week."

"And?"

"And I am to pretend I don't exist. We are to be 'just neighbours' for the duration of their visit." She made air quotes with her fingers. "Know what I mean?" she added, mimicking Karan's voice with savage accuracy that made Sanika snort despite herself. "He literally winked at me when he said it. Like it was a fun little game. Like asking me to erase myself from his life for a week was a reasonable request that any reasonable girlfriend would accept with a smile."

"You said no, right?" Sanika asked.

Mira stared at her drink. "I didn't say anything. I just... left. Grabbed my bag and went to work."

"Si." Sanika's voice carried the particular weight of a friend who had watched this pattern repeat itself for two years and was running out of patience. "You know what this is, right? It's not about his family. It's not about timing. It's about the fact that you don't matter enough for him to be honest."

"I know."

"Do you? Because we've had this conversation before. We had it after Pondicherry. We had it after his birthday party where he introduced you as a colleague from work. We had it after he--"

"I know, Su. I know all of it." Mira's voice was quiet but steady. "I've been thinking about it. A lot. And I think... I think I'm tired."

That was new. Sanika and Shruti exchanged a glance. Mira didn't get tired. Mira was the eternal optimist, the one who saw potential in every man and every relationship, the one who believed that love could fix anything if you just gave it enough time and patience. Mira getting tired was like watching the sun decide it had had enough of rising.

"Good," Sanika said, and meant it.

---

The food arrived. Thai green curry, pad Thai, spring rolls, tom yum soup -- they always over-ordered, splitting everything three ways, a habit born from the first few months of their friendship when they had discovered that their taste in food was as compatible as their taste in conversation topics. The spring rolls arrived first, golden and glistening, and Mira immediately claimed two because she had skipped lunch. Shruti rearranged the table with the practised efficiency of a woman who had spent three years managing their Friday dinners like a project -- napkins here, sauces there, everyone's drink within reach but not in the splash zone of Sanika's emphatic hand gestures.

This was the thing about their friendship that outsiders never quite understood. It wasn't built on shared backgrounds -- Sanika was Maharashtrian, Shruti was Rajput, Mira was Assamese. It wasn't built on shared temperaments -- Sanika was a storm, Shruti was a steady flame, Mira was sunlight. It was built on something simpler and rarer: the absolute, bone-deep certainty that nothing you said at this table would ever be used against you. Not your failures. Not your fears. Not the ugly, petty, unflattering thoughts that you kept locked away from the rest of the world because the rest of the world would judge you for having them.

They had met at Prisma, thrown together in the peculiar way that Indian workplaces forge friendships -- through proximity, shared canteen tables, and the universal bonding experience of surviving a particularly brutal town hall presentation by the CEO. Sanika had been the first to crack a joke about it. Shruti had been the first to laugh. Mira had been the first to suggest they continue the conversation over chai. Four years later, they were less like friends and more like a small, fiercely loyal nation-state of three, with its own language (a mix of Hindi, English, and inside jokes so layered that deciphering them would require a postgraduate degree), its own traditions (Friday dinner, Saturday morning WhatsApp catch-ups, annual birthday celebrations that were mandatory and non-negotiable), and its own constitution (Article 1: We do not judge. Article 2: We do not lie. Article 3: We do not let each other suffer alone).

As they ate, Sanika told them about her neighbour. She hadn't intended to -- the man occupied far too much of her mental real estate already without giving him airtime in conversation -- but it came out anyway, the way things do when you're with people you trust.

"He came stomping out at eight-thirty in the morning because of my reverse horn," she said, jabbing a spring roll for emphasis. "Eight-thirty! This is the same man who woke me at 2:45 AM with that motorcycle of his. Do you know what a Royal Enfield Bullet sounds like at 2:45 in the morning? It sounds like the apocalypse with a kick-start."

Shruti's lips twitched. It was the first time she'd almost smiled all evening. "What does he look like?"

"Like trouble. Big. Tall. Permanent scowl. Bloodshot eyes. Clothes that look like they've been slept in for a week. Moustache." She paused. "He has nice eyelashes, though. Dense. The kind that would touch his cheeks when he sleeps."

Mira put down her fork. "Excuse me. Did Sanika Joshi just notice a man's eyelashes?"

"I noticed them because his porch light was shining directly into my bedroom and his face was lit up like a Diwali lamp. It was an observation, not an appreciation."

"Uh-huh." Mira was grinning now, the first genuine grin of the evening. "What else did you observe?"

"That he needs to learn basic human decency. And possibly invest in a muffler for that bike. And that whoever leased the house to him should be charged with disturbing the peace." She took a pointed sip of her Virgin Mary. "That's all."

"She noticed his eyelashes," Shruti whispered to Mira.

"I heard that."

They all laughed then -- really laughed, the kind of laughter that comes not from anything being particularly funny but from the sheer relief of being with people who know you well enough to find humour in your contradictions. For a few minutes, the shadow of Runal's infidelity and Karan's cowardice and the unnamed neighbour's eyelashes lifted, and they were just three friends sharing food and honesty in a noisy restaurant on a Friday night.

The waiter came to clear the starters and take the main course order. Shruti rattled it off without looking at the menu -- after three years of Friday dinners, they knew each other's preferences by heart.

"OK but seriously," Mira said, leaning forward. "You don't even know his name?"

"No. And I don't want to. He's a temporary nuisance. My parents will be back in five weeks and then I'll have backup."

"What if he's a serial killer?" Mira asked, eyes wide with theatrical concern.

"Then at least his porch light will serve as a warning beacon. Danger: homicidal insomniac with bad taste in motorcycles. Approach at your own risk."

"You're going to find out he's like, a doctor or something, and feel terrible," Shruti predicted.

"Doctors don't come home at 2:45 AM on motorcycles smelling like they've been in a bar fight."

"Actually, they do," Shruti said mildly. "Emergency room shifts."

Sanika opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again, and then changed the subject with the grace of someone who had just lost an argument and preferred not to acknowledge it.

---

Saturday morning dawned bright and beautiful, the kind of Pune morning where the air was cool enough to make you believe the city's weather was still the paradise everyone's grandparents remembered, before the traffic and the construction and the relentless concrete expansion had turned it into just another sweating Indian metropolis with good coffee.

Shruti loved Saturday mornings. Monday to Friday she had work to rush to, and Sunday meant a day closer to Monday and was spent preparing for the week ahead -- ironing clothes, packing lunch ingredients, reviewing the sales pipeline on her laptop. But Saturday was hers. Saturday she could sit in the basket swing on their balcony, sip her tea, watch the morning light move across the rooftops, and pretend, for a little while, that her life was as peaceful as it looked from the outside.

She was doing exactly this when Runal joined her, coffee in hand, wearing yesterday's t-shirt and a pair of old shorts.

"Good morning."

Shruti smiled. "Good morning. You're up early today."

He shrugged and left it at that, settling into the chair beside the swing. For a moment they sat in companionable silence -- the kind that, once upon a time, would have been comfortable, even intimate. Now it felt like a held breath.

"Want to go for a walk?" she asked, keeping her voice light. "The weather looks lovely."

"I have a call in twenty minutes. You go ahead and I'll join you after that?"

Shruti shook her head. "No, it's no fun walking alone. Finish your call and we'll go out for breakfast. I can pick up the vegetables on my way back."

He made a face at the mention of chores but relented. She had a long, relaxing shower -- the kind where you actually condition your hair instead of just shampooing and rinsing in a rush -- and got dressed in tracks and a loose-fitting t-shirt. After being in formals the whole week, weekends were for comfort. She let her hair down, literally and figuratively.

Grabbing her wallet, she grinned at him. "Shall we go? I'm hungry."

Runal looked her up and down. "Going out with your husband doesn't warrant dressing well, I suppose?"

The good mood wavered. "It's just for breakfast."

"Yeah, but you wouldn't think of going dressed like that to meet a client or even your colleagues, now, would you?"

"I would go like this to meet my friends," she replied calmly, though she could feel the familiar downward spiral beginning.

"Those two?" Runal's voice carried an edge that was no longer disguised. He had never liked Sanika and Mira, never understood what his wife saw in them. "They don't count."

"Runal, it's the weekend and I don't want to fight. Come, let's go. I'm hungry."

"Where has the woman I married gone, Shruti?" he asked, almost resentfully. The woman who always had a special smile for him. Who wanted to look her best for him. Who wrote him love letters despite the fact that they met every day.

"I'm sure she's with the guy I married," Shruti replied without hesitation. "Wherever he is."

The silence that followed was louder than any argument.

---

Mira opened her door to find Karan standing there with the easy grin of a man who had never had to earn his welcome.

"Hey, what's the plan today?" he asked, walking past her into the apartment without waiting for an invitation. He settled himself on her couch with the familiarity of someone who considered her space an extension of his own.

She shrugged. She hadn't forgotten his instructions that they would act as strangers starting next week when his family arrived. "Nothing much." She paused before asking, "Why?"

Firm, gentle hands led her to a chair, where he made her sit and stood behind her to massage her shoulders. His touch was expert -- he knew exactly where she held tension, exactly how much pressure to apply, exactly how to make her body relax even when her mind was screaming. It was, she thought with a flash of clarity that surprised her, the thing he was best at: making her body forget what her heart already knew.

"Both of us have been busy the whole week, so I was thinking maybe we can go for a long drive. Relax and generally chill out. What say?"

A small smile of delight formed on her lips despite everything. "Long drive? Where to?"

It was his turn to shrug. "Do we have to decide right away? Let's just play it by ear. We can take turns driving, stop when we feel like stopping... go on our own little adventure."

Mira felt the excitement take over before she could stop it. She sprang up from the chair. "OK. I'll go and get ready. Want me to pack anything?"

"Nah. No overnight stay. My sister and her family will be coming tomorrow night."

Her smile slipped but she refused to let the reminder ruin her mood. "When shall we leave?"

"The others are on their way, so as soon as you get ready?"

Mira's face went still. "Others?"

"Yeah, Vikram and Neha. And Sunil might come too." At her uncomprehending look, he asked, "What?"

"I thought it was just you and me."

He rolled his eyes. "Where is the fun in that? Now move, move." He patted her butt, nudging her towards the bedroom.

Mira stood in her bedroom doorway and looked at the man she loved -- handsome, careless, already scrolling through his phone as if the conversation was over -- and felt something shift inside her. Not break. Not yet. But shift, the way tectonic plates shift before an earthquake: a slow, deep movement that changes the landscape permanently even if the surface looks the same.

She went to get ready. But the excitement was gone.

---

Saturday morning found Sanika in her parents' bedroom, having relocated there after a particularly brutal 2:45 AM motorcycle symphony from next door. The room was on the far side of the house, away from the neighbour's driveway, and with the windows shut and the curtains drawn, the noise was muted enough to allow sleep. She had heard the jeeps -- two of them, she thought, screeching to a halt sometime after three -- and the distant thud of the Bullet's engine. But she had been too exhausted to care.

She slept like a log and woke at seven-thirty, fresh and lazy. She did not mind lazy. It was the weekend, and lazy was a luxury she had earned through five days of Vijay Khandekar and his urgent-flagged emails.

After brushing her teeth and making herself a cup of extra-strong coffee -- caffeine was her lifeline, her religion, the one substance she would defend to the death -- she settled on the living room sofa and made her morning calls. FaceTime with her parents in New Jersey first -- her mother looked ten years younger without the daily burden of worry, and they asked about the house, the garden, her eating habits, but not about marriage, which meant her eldest brother had coached them into restraint. A quick call to said brother, who ran through his usual safety checklist as though she were a forward operating base rather than a grown woman in a residential neighbourhood.

Then she called her army brother, Captain Saket Joshi, who picked up on the first ring.

"Hey, Choti."

"Hey, bhaiya. How's the arm?" He had sustained a minor training injury -- nothing serious -- but had made her promise not to tell their parents. Their mother would drive seven hundred kilometres to Rajasthan to inspect the damage personally.

"Fine. How's everything there?"

"Great. Sleeping in your room, actually. Safer from the noise."

"What noise?"

"Neighbour situation. It's handled."

"Do I need to--"

"No. Go back to doing army things."

After munching on cornflakes in milk, she planned her day. Groceries, vegetables, washing machine, and gardening. The last one perked her up immediately. She and her father shared the gardening gene -- the front garden was their joint project, their pride -- and her mother never had to buy flowers for her daily puja.

Her father had been planning to get chrysanthemums after returning from his trip, but Sanika decided to surprise him. She would buy them now, plant them, and have them blooming by the time he got back. The thought gave her a burst of energy that carried her through the boring mundane tasks -- groceries, vegetable shopping, washing machine loading -- at twice her usual speed. By four in the evening, she was back from the nursery with two chrysanthemum plants (orange with yellow centre and pink with white centre), additional soil, and organic fertiliser.

She backed her car out of the shaded portico until it was in front of the small garden, connected her phone to the car's Bluetooth, put on the Rock On soundtrack -- because Bollywood rock was the only acceptable accompaniment to gardening -- and grabbed her shovel.

The evening was beautiful. The cool Pune breeze was gentle enough to sway the roses without bending them. Several neighbours were out doing weekend things -- Mr. Kulkarni washing his car, Mrs. Rao pruning her hedge, the Menon kids cycling up and down the street with the fearless abandon of children who haven't yet learned about traffic statistics. Sanika smiled and waved at them, feeling the contentment that came from simple physical work in good weather. Planting things was meditative. You dug the hole, mixed the soil, placed the seedling, patted it down, watered it. No quarterly projections. No Vijay Khandekar. No broken engagements. No existential questions about whether you would die alone. Just dirt and roots and the quiet miracle of growth.

She was so absorbed in digging a hole for the second chrysanthemum that she didn't hear anyone approach. Something tapped on her shoulder.

She shrieked and swung.

The shovel came up in a defensive arc, stopping inches from the face of her neighbour. The jerk. Standing right behind her with bloodshot eyes, wrinkled clothes, and a scowl that could curdle milk from across the street.

Without a word, he reached past her, leaned into her car, and switched off the music. Silence descended on the garden like a judgement.

"What the hell!" she roared. The day had been going so well. Her face flushed red with fury, she stood with her feet apart, shovel raised like a weapon. "Just what the hell is your problem?"

"I am trying to sleep," he said, enunciating each word with deliberate spacing, the way one might explain gravity to a particularly stubborn child. "Do you have to blast my ears with that thing that is supposed to be music?"

Sanika gaped at him. "It's four in the evening."

"So?"

"So get to bed at a decent hour, mister. It's not my problem."

"Just what is it that you have against letting me get some sleep? You're the noisiest woman I've ever encountered."

The sheer, towering injustice of that statement vaporised whatever remnant of fear she might have felt. She strode up to him until she stood directly in front of him, the top of her head coming up to his neck. Almost. So what if he was big? She was mad. And mad beat big any day. Any time.

"I'm noisy?" She gritted her teeth. It was tough to shout with her jaw locked that tight, but she tried. "I'm noisy?" She jabbed a finger at his chest. "I'm not the one who woke the entire street at two forty-five in the night with that thing you call a bike. I'm not the one who accelerated it before turning it off, banged the door twice, and forgot to switch off the porch light -- which, by the way, shines directly into my bedroom like an interrogation lamp." She advanced another step. He took a step back. The jabbing finger followed. "Furthermore, it is a reasonable assumption to expect people to be asleep at two in the morning rather than four thirty in the evening. You have a problem with daytime noise in this city? Get a pair of earplugs."

She lifted the shovel and slung it on her shoulder like a warrior. "The day had been going so well and now you've gone and ruined it." She glared. "Don't tempt me to use this on you."

"Yeah," he nodded, with the infuriating calm of a man who held all the cards. "You better not use it, or I would have to arrest you."

"What?" She stared at him.

"I'm a cop." His pause was deliberate, almost taunting. "Samar Rane. DCP, Crime Branch."

Disbelief flooded her face. "You're a DCP?"

"Yes." And with that, social niceties apparently discharged, he switched back to jerk mode. "Look, I don't hold a nine-to-five job like you. I get sleep when I can, which hasn't been much in the last couple of days."

"Fine," she snapped. "I'll switch off the music when I garden -- which is the only time I get to listen to it, let me add. Am I allowed to dig and plant my plants?" she asked sarcastically. "Or would that disturb your precious sleep too?"

"Not unless you're going to be hitting a bass drum with that shovel," he snapped back, before turning and striding toward his house.

I can't hit a cop. I can't hit a cop. I can't hit a cop.

She watched him disappear into his house and slam the door (of course he slammed it), and then she stood there for a full thirty seconds, shovel on her shoulder, chest heaving with indignation.

DCP, Crime Branch. The man was a senior police officer. She had been living next to a senior police officer for two weeks and hadn't known it because he looked and behaved like a sleep-deprived bouncer with a grudge against the concept of daytime.

She turned back to her chrysanthemums. Planted them both with considerably more force than the delicate seedlings warranted. Watered them. Cleaned up. And went inside, where she stood under the shower for fifteen minutes, replaying the confrontation and thinking of all the devastating comebacks she should have delivered.

DCP, Crime Branch. That explained the insane hours. The 2:45 AM arrivals. The jeeps she heard sometimes. The perpetual exhaustion. It also explained why a man like him had chosen to rent a house in a quiet residential lane in Baner instead of the countless apartments closer to the city centre. She would learn later -- much later, from Salim, after three glasses of whisky and a loose tongue -- that Samar had deliberately chosen this neighbourhood because of its proximity to the Hinjewadi IT corridor. He'd been working an organized crime case that had its tentacles deep in the tech parks -- a money-laundering operation running through shell companies registered in the IT SEZs -- and he needed a safe house in a residential area close enough to his operations that he could move fast when he needed to, but quiet enough that no one would think twice about a man coming and going at odd hours. The Deshpandes' house, available at short notice after the elderly couple's departure, had been perfect. That his neighbour turned out to be a sharp-tongued woman with a vendetta against his motorcycle had not been part of the operational plan.

It did not, however, excuse the porch light. Or the door-slamming. Or the motorcycle.

I can't hit a cop,* she reminded herself one more time. *But I can fantasise about it.

---

End of Chapter Two.

---

Sunday afternoon.

Mira waited until all the friends left. Correction -- until all his friends left. They had descended on her apartment the previous evening, a rowdy convoy of Karan's college buddies and their girlfriends, and had proceeded to drink her beer, eat her snacks, sprawl across her furniture, and treat her home as if it were a hostel common room. One of them -- a girl called Priya, all legs and lip gloss -- had draped herself across Karan's shoulders for a group photograph, and Karan had let her. More than let her. He had pulled her closer, his hand settling on her waist with the easy familiarity of a man who touched women the way other people touched furniture -- without thinking, without permission, without consequence.

Mira had watched from the kitchen doorway, a plate of reheated samosas in her hands, and felt something inside her crystallise.

Sanika was right. Being a yes-master was not the way to go about it.

She loved Karan. Yes. But that love was costing her self-respect. She had given and given and adjusted and accommodated and smiled when she wanted to scream, and what had it got her? A relationship that existed only in private. A boyfriend who introduced her as "a colleague" and hid her from his family. A life lived in the margins of someone else's convenience.

She was going to put her foot down. Yes, it would hurt. But it was not as if she was not hurting already.

She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and stood in front of the couch where Karan was slouching, fiddling with the TV remote. The apartment smelled of stale beer and the ghost of fifteen people's perfume. Empty glasses lined the coffee table. A cushion had fallen behind the sofa and no one had picked it up. This was her home, and it didn't feel like hers anymore.

"I'm leaving," she said.

Karan didn't look up from the TV. "What's the hurry? My sis's flight doesn't land till almost midnight."

"Karan." She injected firmness into her voice -- a firmness that felt unfamiliar, like wearing a shoe on the wrong foot. "I'm going."

He frowned and got up slowly. "What's wrong, Mira?"

She took another deep, fortifying breath. No backing down now. She had rehearsed this in her head a hundred times -- in the shower, during her commute, lying awake at three in the morning while Karan snored beside her. The words were ready. She just had to say them out loud.

"You said we should be just neighbours when your family gets here. I think we should continue the same even after they leave."

"What, you're breaking up with me?" He scoffed, disbelief written across his face like a headline. The idea that she would leave him was so foreign to his worldview that he literally could not process it.

"Yes. I'll start looking for another apartment and vacate mine as soon as I can. I don't think it would be comfortable for either of us --"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hang on just a damn minute. Where is this coming from? You were fine until a few minutes ago. We went out yesterday, spent the night together, and today you want to break up?"

She would miss him. She already missed him. Tears glistened in her eyes at the thought of not seeing him again. Not feeling his arms around her as they cuddled and watched movies. His smiles, his laughter, his touch. The deep, soothing voice he used when he gave her a massage after a tiring day at work. She would miss him so much.

But.

"I love you, Karan. You know that. I love you more than I can ever say, but --"

"But what?" He looked plain bewildered.

"Love is not supposed to hurt like this, Karan. And it's hurting me. You are hurting me. Every time you flirt and charm other women, you hurt me. Every time you touch them, you hurt me."

"Oh, come on, Mira." He took a step towards her but stopped immediately when she backed up a step. To this day, he could not remember a time when she had backed away from him. "You know it doesn't mean anything. I'm just being friendly."

"It is not friendly. Don't tell me it's friendly because I know the difference. I can see the difference." She remembered Sanika's words. "What if I did the same thing? What if I hugged and patted Sunil's butt?" she asked, naming Karan's best friend. "How would you feel if I flirted with him, extended my plate so he could share my dinner? Complimented him on how hot he looked?"

Karan looked away, as if he didn't like the picture she was painting. Too bad. She should have painted and coloured it a long time ago.

"Do you know how it felt to watch you do all that yesterday with that girl? And it wasn't the first time." She waved her hand, cutting him off when he opened his mouth. "I know there are a lot of women out there who are OK with that kind of thing. But I'm not. I'm not OK." She swiped a trembling hand over her wet eyes, smearing her mascara and not caring. "I put up with all that hurt because I love you. But hiding me away when your family comes, like I'm your dirty little secret, like you're... you're ashamed to even know someone like me..." Her voice cracked. "I accept that you can't tell them we're lovers. But what about a friend? A girl you like, respect, someone you're interested in? You can't even do that, can you? Because I don't hold that kind of place in your life. I never tried to hold myself away from you, so you probably think I'm e-easy."

More tears leaked from her eyes. God, she hadn't known it could hurt this much.

"Maybe I am, I don't know," she continued, sniffing, inhaling deeply, steadying her voice through sheer force of will. "I did what I did because I fell in love with you and saw my future with you. But now I realise it's not enough if I see it alone." She met his eyes -- those large, handsome, utterly bewildered eyes -- for the last time. "Bye, Karan. Take care. I'm sure we'll be seeing each other until I move out of my apartment, but I'll try to keep out of your way as much as I can. I suggest you do the same."

She turned and walked out before her courage deserted her.

The door clicked shut behind her. She stood in the corridor of the apartment building, her back against the wall, and let the tears come. They came hard and fast and silent, the way tears do when you've been holding them for two years.

She didn't know how long she stood there. Could have been five minutes. Could have been thirty. The corridor smelled of dal frying in someone's kitchen and the faint chemical tang of floor cleaner. Through the wall, she could hear the muffled sounds of a cricket match on someone's television -- some batsman hit a four and a family cheered and it was just an ordinary evening for everyone in this building except her. She wanted to bang on every door and scream I just left the man I love, does nobody care? But nobody would care, and she knew that, and knowing it made the tears come faster.

Her phone buzzed. Sanika.

Su: You OK? You've been quiet all day.

Mira typed and deleted three responses before settling on: Broke up with Karan. For real this time.

The reply was instantaneous: Coming over. Don't move.

No. I'm OK. I just need to be alone tonight. I'll tell you both everything tomorrow.

A pause. Then: If you change your mind, I'm one call away. Any hour. I mean it, Si.

I know. Love you.

Love you more. And I'm proud of you.

Those last four words broke something open in her chest. She pressed the phone against her heart and took a shuddering breath. Then she straightened her spine, wiped her face with the back of her hand, and walked to her own apartment. She unlocked the door, stepped inside, locked it behind her, and stood in the small hallway that smelled of the jasmine incense she'd lit that morning.

She was alone. Truly, completely alone for the first time in two years. No Karan to text goodnight. No Karan to plan weekends around. No Karan to make excuses for.

The silence was terrifying. And liberating. And she wasn't sure which feeling was winning.

---

Shruti watched the front door slam shut behind her departing husband.

It was Sunday and he had gone off to work. An important meeting, he'd said. And maybe it was. She didn't deny the possibility. She herself had weekends when she'd gone to meet a prospective client, but it had been rare. She tried her level best to avoid bringing work home. She tried to give a hundred per cent to her home and her husband.

But not Runal. Not anymore.

He had been so much fun during their college days. Full of laughter and jokes and the kind of spontaneous affection that made her feel like the centre of someone's universe. She remembered the boy who had waited outside her hostel gate in the rain, holding a bouquet of roses he'd bought with his pocket money, grinning like a fool because she'd agreed to go to the movies with him. She remembered the clumsy, eager young man who had torn her blouse in his eagerness to make love to her on their wedding night and looked so contrite and apologetic that she'd laughed and kissed him and told him she loved him anyway. She remembered the partner who had prepared her resume and applied to job sites on her behalf because he didn't want her to sit at home waiting for him -- because he believed she was meant for bigger things than domestic routine.

Where had that man gone?

She didn't love the man who didn't come near her except to sleep with her once a fortnight, if that. She didn't love the man who told her to work but resented her when she succeeded. She didn't love the man who communicated primarily through criticism and silence, who had turned their home into a theatre of polite avoidance, who slept with his back turned to her every night as if her presence in the bed was something to be endured rather than enjoyed.

Pathetic, she thought with a grimace. That's what she was. There were countless women out there who suffered through truly traumatic marriages -- violence, abandonment, poverty. Here she was, in a nice three-bedroom apartment in Koregaon Park, with a job and friends and financial independence, complaining because her husband didn't cuddle her anymore. Her mother-in-law would call her ungrateful. Half her relatives would agree.

But she wasn't happy. And pretending otherwise was becoming exhausting.

With a sigh, she started sorting the clothes for washing. Midway through the task, she stopped.

She had already found the perfume on his shirt earlier in the week. She had already seen the email from Zara. She had already told her friends. But she had not confronted Runal, because confrontation would make it real, and she was not yet ready for real.

Now, standing in the utility room with his blue shirt in her hands -- the same blue shirt Zara had recommended, the same blue shirt he had worn without a word, the same blue shirt that had come home smelling of someone else -- she realised that real had arrived whether she was ready or not.

She brought the shirt to her nose again. The perfume was still there. Fainter now, after a week of hanging in the closet, but present. Undeniable. A floral-musky scent that was nothing like anything Shruti owned.

She put the shirt in the washing machine. Poured in the detergent. Pressed start. And stood there, listening to the machine fill with water, watching the drum begin its slow rotation, and feeling, for the first time in her marriage, genuinely afraid.

---

Sanika shifted the carry bag from one hand to another as she turned into her street, her steps easy and leisurely. She had forgotten to get milk and juice packs during yesterday's grocery run, and rather than drive, she had walked to the nearest supermarket. Honestly, in Pune traffic, it was faster to walk than to drive and spend half an hour circling for parking.

Lost in her thoughts -- replaying the confrontation with Samar Rane and coming up with increasingly creative insults she should have deployed -- she didn't hear the bike roaring up behind her.

Before she realised what was happening, she felt a swift tug on the back of her shirt, heard a ripping sound, and stumbled sideways as a motorcycle swept past with two men on it, laughing their heads off. Her shirt had been torn from neck to waist. The collar and edges held together, keeping the fabric against her back, but the violation -- the casual, laughing cruelty of it -- hit her like a physical blow.

Fury replaced shock in approximately half a second.

"Bloody bastards!" she screamed.

They heard it. The bike screeched to a halt and both riders erupted from it, their laughter curdling into aggression with the terrifying speed of men who had been drinking.

"What did you call us, bitch?" The first one bore down on her, weaving slightly, his breath carrying the sour-sweet stench of cheap liquor.

This was a residential street. Her street. A small, friendly neighbourhood where people smiled and waved and helped each other. Sanika's scream, followed by the screeching bike, brought people out of their houses within seconds.

"What's going on here? Sanika beti, any problem?" Mr. Kulkarni, her father's friend, came out of his house, concern on his face.

"Shut up, old man!" The second drunk shoved him backward, coming to stand beside his friend. They were surrounding her now -- two men, drunk enough to be aggressive but not staggering. Dangerous.

She could hear the neighbours' voices rising. "Someone go and call that policewala. I think he's home."

The drunks either didn't hear or didn't care. The first one leaned into her face. "I asked a question here, bitch. What did you call us just now, huh?"

"Bloody bastards," Sanika said. Loudly. Clearly. Enunciating each syllable. "Drunken. Bloody. Bastards."

The first guy's face contorted. "Drunk or not, I think it's time we showed you we can do more than tear your shirt."

Yeah, like she was going to wait for that.

Sanika charged him. She dropped her shoulder and bulldozed into him from the side -- a move she had learned from being the only girl between two brothers, both of whom had considered it their sacred duty to teach their little sister how to fight before she learned how to ride a bicycle. The impact sent him staggering. He tried to regain his balance, failed, and landed hard on his backside. He struggled to get up and, with a lurid curse, lunged for her.

She dodged sideways and stuck out her foot.

He stumbled but managed not to fall on his face. The second guy tried to grab her from behind, but Mr. Kulkarni's son -- a college kid with more courage than sense -- caught him by wrapping both arms around his waist. Another neighbour joined, and together they brought the second drunk down and held him. The women of the street were running inside their houses, probably to fetch weapons -- rolling pins, cricket bats, the heavy brass pestle that every Indian kitchen kept for emergencies.

The first drunk regained his footing and turned to Sanika with blood in his eyes. She fell into a boxing stance -- left foot forward, weight on the balls of her feet, guard up. Her army brother had drilled this into her during summer holidays until the stance was muscle memory. She only hoped she still remembered what came next.

He charged. This time there was no evading him. She went down, but she brought him down with her, and as they hit the ground, she drove her knee into his ribs with every ounce of fury that had been building since two forty-five that morning. She felt something give -- not break, but crack -- and he howled.

Then a hand grabbed the man by the collar and hauled him off her with the casual authority of someone picking up a piece of litter.

Samar Rane stood there in his uniform, the drunk dangling from his fist like a caught fish, and behind him, two constables were already handcuffing the second man with efficient, practiced movements.

"Everyone OK?" Samar asked, directing the question at the street at large but looking at Sanika. She was on the ground, her torn shirt bunched at her back, her knee bleeding from where it had hit the gravel, her hair wild, her eyes blazing with adrenaline and rage. She looked, he thought, like a woman who did not need rescuing but would accept it under protest.

"That one is mine," she said, pointing at the drunk he was holding. "I wasn't finished."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "I noticed. That was a solid knee strike."

"My brother taught me."

"Smart brother." He handed the drunk to one of the constables and extended his hand to help her up. She took it, grudgingly, and stood. Her knee throbbed. Her shirt was ruined. Her carry bag had split, and milk packets were scattered across the road.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, his eyes scanning her with the quick, thorough assessment of a man trained to evaluate damage.

"Just the knee. And the shirt. And my dignity." She tried to adjust the torn fabric. "Can you at least turn around?"

He turned. Behind him, she could hear him instructing the constables in rapid-fire Marathi, directing the neighbours to go back inside, coordinating the arrest with the efficiency of a man for whom street-level chaos was a Tuesday afternoon.

Mrs. Menon from three doors down appeared with a shawl and a cup of tea. "Here, beti. Wrap this around yourself and drink this. Those animals -- in our own street! Thank God the DCP sahab was home."

Thank God indeed. Not that Sanika would ever admit it. Not to him. Not ever.

---

Monday evening, the three of them converged on Pizza Hut with the desperate energy of survivors regrouping after a natural disaster. They fell into each other's arms in a tight group hug before collapsing into a corner booth.

"How's your knee?" Shruti asked, inspecting Sanika's bruised leg.

"Fine. Just a scrape." Sanika waved it away. "And guess what? The jerk neighbour is the cop who made the arrest. DCP, Crime Branch, no less. He came over later to take my statement and update me on the case."

"What?" both friends chorused. "Are you sure?"

"Positive. Uniform, badge, the whole deal. He even grinned at me when he told me the drunk I punched had cracked ribs."

"Cracked ribs?" Mira's eyes went round with admiration. "From your punch?"

"From my knee, actually. And the neighbour ladies threw chilli powder at the other one." Sanika's grin was savage. "He had it everywhere."

Shruti laughed for the first time in what felt like days. "God, I wish I'd been there."

"So your scary, grizzly-bear neighbour turns out to be a cop," Mira mused. "That explains the weird hours and the motorcycle."

"It explains the hours. It does not excuse the motorcycle. Or the porch light. Or the personality."

"You're blushing."

"I am not blushing."

"You are absolutely blushing, and you never blush." Mira was grinning. "We've been through all three engagements with you and you have never, not once, blushed when talking about a man."

"Because there is nothing to blush about! We introduced ourselves and he accompanied me during my morning run the last couple of days. That's it."

"If you say so," Mira shrugged one shoulder.

"He's a Maratha, for God's sake. Rane. With my track record, even thinking about it would be asking for trouble." She waved them to silence. "We're getting off the topic. Shratz, what's happening?"

Shruti's face sobered. "Nothing's changed. I still haven't asked. I'm still afraid to."

"And Si?"

Mira nodded, firmly but sadly. "I broke up with Karan. For real this time."

A pause. Then Sanika reached across the table and squeezed her hand. "Good. He didn't deserve you."

"I know." Mira's voice was small. "But it still hurts."

The music system finished one song and another started. A syrupy love ballad about dying for your beloved, which was precisely the kind of thing none of them wanted to hear right now.

"OK, you know what?" Sanika said, sitting up straight, her second cocktail making her bolder than usual. "I'm so sick of pretending. Pretending it doesn't hurt. Pretending we're fine. Pretending these men didn't completely wreck us."

The words landed on the table like a grenade with the pin pulled.

Mira set down her glass. Her eyes were red-rimmed but fierce. "You know what Karan did? The last time his parents came to visit from Lucknow? He introduced me as his colleague. Two years together. Two years of me cooking for him, cleaning up after his messes, holding his hand through every panic attack and career crisis. And I was his colleague." She laughed -- a harsh, brittle sound. "He couldn't even say the word girlfriend in front of his mother. Like I was something to be ashamed of."

Shruti traced the rim of her glass, her jaw tight. "Runal used to come home smelling of perfume. Not mine. Someone sharp and floral -- Jo Malone, I think. He'd walk in at midnight, shower immediately, and then slide into bed like nothing happened. I found the receipt once. Tucked into his coat pocket. A dinner for two at a restaurant he'd never taken me to. When I confronted him, you know what he said?" Her voice cracked. "'You're imagining things, Shruti. You always imagine things.' Made me feel like I was the crazy one."

Sanika exhaled hard. The cocktails had loosened something in her chest -- a knot she'd been carrying so long she'd forgotten it was there. "Three engagements," she said quietly. "Three men who looked me in the eye and said forever and then walked away like I was a pair of shoes they'd tried on and didn't like." She held up a finger. "Rohit. My college sweetheart. Left me three weeks before the wedding because his mother decided a girl with short hair was inauspicious. Short hair! Like my haircut was a bigger red flag than his inability to stand up to a woman who still ironed his underwear."

Mira snorted. Even Shruti managed a small, painful smile.

"Number two. Varun. The chartered accountant." Sanika held up a second finger. "Six months in, I found out he was simultaneously engaged to a girl in Nagpur. A backup engagement, he called it. In case I didn't work out. Like I was a mutual fund and he was hedging his bets."

"Oh my God," Mira whispered.

"And then there was Mihir." The third finger. Sanika's voice went very quiet. "Mihir was the worst. Because Mihir was kind. Mihir was everything. And then one day, four months before our wedding, he sat me down and said, 'Sanika, I love you, but I'm not in love with you. I think I might be in love with someone else.' Someone else turned out to be his gym trainer. A man named Arjun." She swallowed. "I don't blame him for being who he is. I blame him for using me as a shield while he figured it out. Three years. Three years of my life as someone's cover story."

The silence at the table was thick enough to touch.

Mira picked up her phone. Not the Notes app this time. She opened the camera, switched it to video mode, and propped it against the salt shaker so it faced all three of them.

"What are you doing?" Sanika asked.

"Something we should have done a long time ago." Mira's voice was raw but steady. "We're done being silent. We're done letting these men walk away clean while we sit here bleeding. I want to say it out loud. On camera. All of it. Everything they did. Everything we swallowed." She looked at both of them. "Who's in?"

Shruti stared at the phone's blinking red light. Then she straightened her spine. "I'm in."

Sanika looked at the camera. At her friends' faces -- flushed, angry, a little drunk, completely done pretending. She thought about three broken engagements and the pitying looks from relatives and the WhatsApp groups where aunties discussed her defects like she was a returned product. She thought about every night she'd spent wondering what was wrong with her, when the truth was that nothing had ever been wrong with her.

"Record," she said.

Mira hit the button.

What followed was forty-seven minutes of raw, unfiltered, slightly buzzed truth-telling that none of them would fully remember recording but none of them would ever regret.

Sanika went first, her voice gaining strength with each sentence. Rohit and his mother's superstitions. Varun and his backup fiancee. Mihir and the three years of borrowed time. She didn't cry. She was past crying. She was furious -- a clean, clarifying fury that burned away the shame she'd been carrying for years.

Mira went next. Karan's cowardice -- the family trips she was never invited to, the festivals she spent alone, the way he'd reach for her in private but couldn't hold her hand in public. "Two years," she said, looking directly at the camera, her eyes bright with tears she refused to let fall. "Two years and I wasn't even worth a noun. Not girlfriend. Not partner. Not even friend. I was a colleague." She laughed again, that sharp, wounded sound. "He had the audacity to cry when I broke up with him. Like he was the victim. Like his heart was the one that got stepped on every single time his mother called and he'd lock himself in the bathroom to take it so she wouldn't hear my voice in the background."

Then Shruti. Quiet, controlled Shruti, who never raised her voice, who always mediated, who smoothed things over. Shruti, who looked at the camera and said, in a voice so calm it was terrifying: "My husband cheated on me. I don't know for how long. I don't know how many times. But I know the perfume, and I know the restaurant, and I know the exact shade of lipstick I found on his collar -- MAC Ruby Woo, if anyone's curious. And when I told him I knew, he looked me in the eye and said I was paranoid. He said maybe I needed to talk to someone. He meant a therapist. For my trust issues." She paused. "My trust issues. Because apparently noticing that your husband comes home smelling like another woman is a mental health condition now."

By the end of the video, they were laughing and crying simultaneously -- the kind of unhinged, cathartic, mascara-ruining breakdown that happens when you finally stop performing strength and let yourself be honest. Sanika made a crack about the dimensions of a man's character being more important than the dimensions of anything else, which sent them into hysterics. Mira confessed that Karan was spectacular in bed and absolutely useless everywhere else, "which is basically like having a sports car with no steering wheel." Shruti said she hoped Runal's mistress enjoyed the Jo Malone perfume because she certainly hadn't, and that if there was a man worth dying for out there, he'd better show up with a receipt for his own damn dinner.

They clinked their glasses one last time, paid the bill, and went home -- Sanika to her empty house and her chrysanthemums and the distant sound of a Royal Enfield Bullet that she pretended she couldn't hear; Shruti to her silent apartment and the bedroom she now occupied alone; and Mira to her one-bedroom flat across from Karan's, where she stood under the shower for twenty minutes and cried for a relationship she had ended and a man she still loved despite knowing he didn't deserve it.

---

Later that night, Mira lay in bed, scrolling through her phone, unable to sleep.

The video was still in her camera roll. She played it back, watching through her fingers, cringing and laughing in equal measure. It was messy. It was raw. It was real. Three women, slightly drunk, mascara smudged, saying everything they'd been too polite and too scared and too conditioned to say in all the years they'd spent swallowing other people's failures.

It was aimed, every unfiltered word of it, at the man she had just walked away from. The man who had failed on loyalty, on courage, and on the basic human decency of acknowledging her existence in front of his own family.

Before she could think about it too carefully -- before the rational part of her brain could intervene and remind her that the internet was forever and impulse posting was a recipe for regret -- she opened Instagram, uploaded the video, added a caption (Never again silent. #NeverAgainSilent), tagged Sanika and Shruti, and hit Share.

Then she silenced notifications, put her phone on the nightstand, pulled the covers over her head, and fell into the first deep sleep she'd had in weeks.

By morning, the video would have ten thousand views. By lunch, fifty thousand. By the end of the week, it would have crossed into the millions -- shared on X and WhatsApp and Reddit and every workplace group chat from Pune to Bombay. Clips were reposted on YouTube Shorts and Instagram Reels. Reaction videos spawned reaction videos. Feminist accounts called it "the most honest forty-seven minutes on the internet." Men's rights accounts called it "toxic feminism." Everyone had an opinion. No one could look away.

And somewhere, in a quiet room in a quiet house, someone would watch it with shaking hands and narrowed eyes and a hatred that had been building for years -- a hatred that had nothing to do with the video and everything to do with a wound so old and so deep that nothing, not time, not therapy, not reason, could reach it.

Someone who would decide, calmly and methodically, that the women who said those words deserved to die.

---

End of Chapter Three.

---

The video went viral the way a forest fire goes -- silently at first, a small flame catching a dry leaf, then a branch, then a tree, and by the time anyone noticed, the whole damn forest was burning.

By Tuesday morning, the #NeverAgainSilent video had crossed two hundred thousand views on Instagram and had been shared on X, WhatsApp, Reddit, LinkedIn (where it generated a furious debate about "workplace professionalism" between people who clearly had no work to do), and approximately seven hundred different group chats across Pune's IT corridor. Someone had even transcribed the best quotes and pinned them to the notice board in the Prisma canteen, where they hung like a declaration of war between two armies that hadn't realised they were fighting until someone drew up the battle lines.

Sanika discovered this when she walked into the office on Tuesday morning, fresh from her run with Samar (they had settled into a routine without discussing it -- he woke her with a call, she cursed him, they ran, they had coffee at the roadside stall, they went their separate ways), and found the entire floor buzzing with a kind of energy that she associated with either a bomb threat or a company-wide email about free pizza.

It was neither. It was worse.

"Have you seen this?" Pallavi from Marketing ambushed her at the coffee machine, phone thrust forward like a weapon. "Two hundred thousand views! And it's trending on X under #NeverAgainSilent. Someone made a meme out of it. Look!"

Sanika looked. The meme featured a stock photo of a confused-looking man hiding behind a laptop, with the caption: When your ex drops a 47-minute confessional video and you're checking if your name came up. Despite everything, she had to bite back a laugh.

"This is so cool!" Pallavi was practically vibrating. "My sister thinks this has the potential to reach the top hundred most-liked posts on Instagram. Hey, why don't we push for it? The women at Prisma are all behind you. Just say the word and we'll flood X. You'll be famous! Signing autographs and stuff!"

Sanika choked back a grunt. She would get her ass fired before that. Her boss was already looking for excuses to knock her down a step or two. This was like delivering her head on a silver platter. She waited until Pallavi bounced away before muttering, "Autographs? If this goes on, I'll have to ask Samar to provide us protection."

She said it without thinking. A throwaway comment, a joke, the kind of thing you say when your brain is still on its first coffee of the day.

The rest of the morning was a parade of reactions. Some colleagues high-fived her in the corridors. Others averted their eyes, as if she'd been caught doing something shameful. The marketing team's WhatsApp group -- the one she wasn't supposed to know about -- had apparently renamed itself #NeverAgainSilent Fan Club, which she only discovered when Pallavi accidentally forwarded a message meant for the group to the official work chat. The resulting scramble to delete it before their VP saw it was, according to witnesses, the most coordinated effort the marketing team had produced all quarter.

In the canteen at lunch, the video had spawned a live debate. Two tables had been pushed together, men on one side, women on the other, voices rising over the clink of steel plates and the smell of dal and rice. A guy from DevOps was arguing that the video was "airing dirty laundry in public," while a woman from QA was calmly dismantling his argument point by point with the precision of someone who debugged code for a living. Sanika grabbed her plate and fled before she could be dragged into it.

But Mira and Shruti, who had materialised beside her at the coffee machine with the silent synchronicity of women who have been friends long enough to communicate through raised eyebrows, stopped with their cups halfway to their mouths.

"Samar?" Mira asked slowly.

"Yeah, Samar. My neighbour. You know him."

Shruti nearly dropped her cup. "The jerk neighbour who turned out to be a jerk cop who resembled a mafia member and a drunkard whose clothes hadn't seen the inside of a washing machine--"

"OK, yeah, fine, it's the same guy."

Mira's eyes went round. "You are blushing, buddy. And you never blush." They should know, after all. Both of them had been with her through all three engagements and the subsequent breakups.

"What? No!" Sanika protested, violently.

Shruti blinked, astonished. "You've fallen for him?"

"Good God, no! What's gotten into you guys? We just kind of introduced ourselves and he accompanied me during my early morning runs the last couple of days. That's it."

"If you say so," Mira shrugged one shoulder.

"No, really. He's not a bad guy, I accept that, but there's nothing more to it than that. I mean, come on, he is a Maratha. Rane. With my history, even thinking of anything with him would be asking for trouble. Aa bail mujhe maar," she quoted the Hindi proverb. She waved them to silence when they tried to protest. "We're getting off the topic. Shruti, what's Runal going to say to this?"

Shruti gave a tight smile. "I don't see any point in trying to deny it or hide it. I refuse to feel ashamed of something that was done with my friends just for fun." Sighing, she packed up the rest of her lunch and got up. "At least this would give me a chance to clear out a few things, right?"

"Good luck," Sanika hugged her. "Keep us posted, OK?"

---

Mira locked her bike and walked up to her apartment, her thoughts still on Shruti. Did her one careless act ruin the relationship between her friend and her husband? Agreed that things had been rocky even before that, but this video didn't help matters, did it? Would Runal understand? She didn't think she would forgive herself if they broke off because of this.

The initial points had all been valid ones. It was later on that the humour had gotten the better of them. Now they were stuck with people judging them based on those. That was the worst part of this whole fiasco. The judgement that was sure to come. As if all they cared about was the size of a penis and time taken to ejaculate.

Her phone pinged. Since it was not an Instagram or X notification, she opened it. It was from Karan.

You did this to make fun of me, didn't you?

Make fun of him? She frowned. Why would I even want to make fun of you?

Well, that's what's happening to me. Whoever has seen your stupid video, my friends, are laughing. Asking for my size and how long I last.

You know I would never make fun of you Karan. But I was hurt when you said we have to ignore each other in front of your family.

Aaah so you are taking revenge.

Suddenly she was tired. Tired of fighting for him. For them. The hope that refused to completely die down diminished a little more. Sighing, she tapped her reply. You know what? You are right. Parts of what I said in that video were aimed solely at you. Like faithfulness, dependability, sense of humour.

She hit send before she could regret it. Then she put the phone down, went to the kitchen, made herself a cup of chamomile tea, and sat on her small balcony, watching the evening traffic crawl past and wondering when exactly loving someone had become so exhausting.

The balcony was barely three feet wide, just enough room for the cane chair she'd picked up at a Sunday market and the small clay pot where she was trying, with limited success, to grow tulsi. The plant was wilting despite her best efforts, and she saw a grim metaphor in that but chose not to examine it too closely. Below her, the street was settling into its evening rhythm -- the fruit vendor wheeling his cart to the corner, the watchman at the neighbouring building lighting his beedi, the stray dog she'd been feeding for months trotting up to her building gate and sitting with patient expectation.

She tossed the dog a biscuit from the packet she kept by the balcony door. It caught it mid-air and wagged its tail. At least someone in her life was easy to please.

Her phone buzzed again. Not Karan this time. It was Sanika on their group chat.

Su: Girls. Friday dinner. No excuses. We need to debrief.

Shratz: I'll be there. Lord knows I need a drink after the day I've had.

Si: Same. But can we go somewhere where nobody knows us? I'm tired of being famous.

Su: Babe, the whole of Pune IT corridor knows us now. We'd have to move to Goa.

Si: Don't tempt me.

Mira smiled at her phone -- the first real smile she'd managed all day. Whatever else was falling apart, at least she had them. Sanika with her ferocious loyalty and Shruti with her quiet strength. The three of them had found each other at Prisma four years ago and had been inseparable since. Different backgrounds, different temperaments, but the same fundamental understanding that friendship between women -- real friendship, the kind where you could be ugly-crying in your pyjamas at 2 AM and know someone would answer the phone -- was the most underrated force in the universe.

She finished her tea, rinsed the cup, and went to bed early. Sleep didn't come easily. She lay staring at the ceiling fan making its lazy rotations and thought about Karan and whether there was a point at which persistence became pathology. She thought about Sanika's accidental mention of Samar and the blush she'd tried so hard to hide. She thought about Shruti walking into a confrontation with the quiet dignity of a woman who had run out of excuses to make for her husband.

And she thought, with a small, fierce determination, that whatever happened next, the three of them would face it together.

---

Shruti entered the house and closed the door behind her. Runal was home. Earlier than her. But she didn't fool herself into thinking he wanted to spend time with her. What he came home looking for was a confrontation. He was probably in the study or in the bedroom with his Kindle. She went into the kitchen to deposit her lunch box and got herself a glass of water. She didn't have to wait long. He came out of the study and stood at the entrance of the kitchen as if waiting for her to stammer an apology.

"Wow, you're home early. Will wonders ever cease." There. He can look for her apology in that.

His lips thinned. He hadn't even changed after coming home. She glanced at his stylish clothes and trim haircut. He always did dress very well. Even if it was a pair of jeans, he wore it with style.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Shruti?" She tilted her head, waiting for him to expand. "Seriously, have you gone mad? Recording that video and putting it on the internet like it was some kind of an achievement? You have any idea the kind of comments guys are passing about you? You have any idea how it felt when that guy walked up to me laughing and told me that you were one of the women in it? I never liked those friends of yours to begin with, but now? I'm just--" He threw up his hands in the air. "They're just--"

"Stop." He looked startled at her firm voice. "You want to talk about me, fine. Don't bring them into it. Not. One. Word." She stressed each word when he opened his mouth.

"Fine," he snapped. "They are what they are, but what is wrong with you? Recording some video about how terrible men are and putting it on the internet!"

"Not who, Runal. What. It's about qualities. You know, things like dependability." She looked straight into his eyes. "Faithfulness."

He slid his gaze away from hers.

Shruti waited for the crippling pain to hit her, then gathered it and shoved it into a corner of her heart to be aired out later. Taking a deep breath, she asked in a calm voice, "Who is it? Zara?"

Runal seemed taken aback and stammered. "Who is who? What Zara? What nonsense are you talking?"

"The woman you keep comparing me to."

With a distracting hand through his hair, he whirled away from her. "I'm not having an affair with anyone, if that's what you're asking. And don't change the subject."

"Maybe not yet, but there is someone, isn't there? Someone you're attracted to?" He didn't turn to face her. He didn't deny, and that was a loud answer for her. "I'm going to shift my things to the other bedroom," she said calmly. "Doesn't mean I'm going to file for divorce tomorrow morning, but I really think both of us should step back and think about our relationship. What we want from it. If we even want it."

"You're changing the topic! We need to talk about you and your discussion about the man making you moan and scream. My team members are laughing at me, Shruti!"

It hadn't been her who had added that, but she wasn't going to rat out her friend. "And all you had to tell them was yes, you've spoiled me for another man, and that you're the reason your wife has such high standards. We did it for fun and that's all I'm going to say on that subject. Some new thing will pop up and this one will fade away before you know it. It's an issue only if you make it into one, Runal." Sighing, she rubbed her forehead. "Now I'm going to shift my stuff into the other bedroom. Think about what I've said."

She left him standing in the kitchen doorway, mouth open, the argument unfinished. In the other bedroom -- the guest room with its neutral colours and its single bed and its view of the parking lot instead of the garden -- she sat on the edge of the mattress and stared at the wall and wondered how it was possible to share a home with someone and feel so completely alone.

---

It was past nine by the time Sanika reached home. She backed her car into the portico and laughed out loud when she saw Samar pushing his bike into his portico. Getting down from her car, she called out a greeting: "DCP saab is home early tonight, I see!"

He grinned but she could see the lines of tiredness etched across his face even from that distance. She took out her backpack and the carry bag from the car and walked up to the wall that separated both the houses. "Looks like your day has been as delightfully bitchy as mine."

He laughed, dispelling some of the weariness on his face. At a closer inspection she realised something else. She peered closer at his damaged knuckles. Bruised but they didn't seem to be broken. "The guy is in the hospital or mortuary?"

That drew another huff of laughter from him. "Blood-thirsty woman." And then it was his turn to peer. "I smell food."

She grinned and lifted her carry bag. "Bhelpuri, sevpuri, dahi puri, samosa chat, kachori chat, and vadapav."

"You're going to eat all that?" He looked astonished.

"I might've gotten a little carried away while ordering."

"And I didn't get a chance to have my lunch today. Care to share?"

"Sure. I got two of each. What do you want?"

He looked at the sky and surroundings. "Weather is nice. Let's eat here. That way we can have a little of everything. The wall can be our table."

She giggled. "You're really hungry, aren't you? OK. Let me get changed and we'll meet here in five minutes?"

Both of them hurried into their houses and were out in four and a half minutes. She got the plates, spoons, and a napkin to spread over the wall, and they spent the next ten minutes gorging on the junk food. It probably wouldn't help her calories, but it sure revived her good mood once again. As they got to the last item, she said, "Fine, don't tell me how you got those knuckles. I'll just read in tomorrow's paper."

He finished chewing and said, "You won't find it in any newspaper."

"Online then."

"Not there either." He grinned and shrugged. "A missing person's case. I went to a politician to ask a few questions. His uh, bodyguard got in the way."

"And no one will come to know?" she wailed. "That's so unfair. You should be the one in the news, not me."

He raised his eyebrows. "You're in the news?"

"Not in the way you think," she scowled. "My friends and I recorded something for fun a couple of days back and now it's all over social media along with our names. Everyone at Prisma -- that's where I work -- are now split into two groups because of that one video. Applause from women and catcalls from men."

"What's it about?" he asked, polishing off the last of the bhelpuri and licking his fingers.

He really had been hungry, she thought. Then his question registered. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Fine. I'll check out for myself then."

"Do whatever you want, but I'm not talking."

The sound of the gate opening made them both look in that direction. Another cop walked into Samar's house. He saw them both near the wall, changed direction, and came up to them. "A unique way to have dinner."

Samar wiped his hands with a tissue and made the introductions. "Salim, this is--"

"Sanika Joshi," Salim completed the sentence with a grin. "Hi, I'm Salim, DCP South-East. Samar's friend and current colleague."

"How did you know my name?" Sanika asked suspiciously.

The men exchanged hasty glances which she was sure meant to convey something to each other in a language unknown to her. "Uh, those guys Samar arrested? I saw the evidence video and recognised you."

Yeah, right. She would bet her paycheque her neighbour cop had shared some other facts about his neighbour. "If you say so." She just got back her good mood and didn't want to ruin it, so she let it slide. "So you guys have known each other long?"

"Same batch during our IPS training, and we'd been together for the first couple of postings," Salim replied. He was a little shorter than Samar, leaning towards the lankier side and minus the moustache. But both of them sported the same crew-cut style of hair. He turned back to Samar. "Boss, we need to go. Oh, and before I forget -- Nafiza watched some video online today." He sighed in exasperation. "I am to tell you that according to those women, she'd bet that you tick every box they described, and I would come a close second."

Sanika, who had been in the act of gulping down water, choked and spewed it out, making the men jump back to avoid being sprayed. Both of them glanced at her. One with mild concern and another with intent speculation. Even through her sputtering and coughing because the water had gone the wrong way, she saw the wheels turning at supersonic speed in Samar's head. And waited for the ground to open up and swallow her whole.

---

End of Chapter Four.

---

The image that stared back from the mirror was familiar yet strange.

And no wonder. Ever since all this started, there had been no sleep. Only fitful dozing. Besides, so much pain, hurt, anger, and hatred bottled up inside would definitely change the person on the inside as well as the outside. No one would take away the pain, of course. But hatred. Yeah. That would go away. That would definitely go away once justice was served. Soon. Real soon.

The morning routine had become a ritual. Wake up. Stare at the ceiling for exactly seventeen minutes -- it was always seventeen, always the same crack in the plaster that looked like a river delta, always the same thought: today could be the day. Then the bathroom. The mirror. The careful examination of what was left of the person who had once believed the world was fair.

The toothbrush moved mechanically. Left side, right side, front, back. Rinse. Spit. The water swirled pink -- the gums had been bleeding for weeks now, the body manifesting what the mind refused to acknowledge. Stress. Or rage. Or both. The HR wellness newsletter that arrived every Monday morning with its cheerful pastel colours and its advice to take deep breaths and practice gratitude had become a source of dark amusement. Practice gratitude. For what? For the daily humiliation? For the whispers that stopped when certain people entered the room? For the loneliness that had calcified into something hard and sharp and permanent?

To think those bitches worked at Prisma! The mere thought was blasphemous. The fact that they were colleagues! It brought the stomach contents into the mouth. They thought they were so smart, sitting there with their cocktails and their righteous fury, airing men's failures like dirty laundry for the whole world to see. Never again silent? They should never have spoken in the first place. And now the names were out. The women at Prisma were calling them Terrific Trio while the men thought they were Terrible Trio. Neither was correct. They were Trash Trio who mocked and taunted. Never again silent indeed! What did they know about real men? Nothing. They had absolutely no clue. Had they ever tried to measure up and fail every single day? Did they know what it was to try and try, knowing you would fail, yet unable to give up? Did they? No. They didn't know. And they didn't deserve to live. They want to air men's failures? They would learn what silence really meant. A silence that would never end.

The phone numbers had been easy. Laughably easy. Employee records were right there in the system, accessible to anyone in the department with the right login credentials. Home addresses too. Emergency contacts. Blood groups. Allergies. The company stored everything digitally now -- all those smart workplace initiatives that the CEO loved to boast about in quarterly meetings. We're a transparent organisation, he liked to say. Information flows freely at Prisma. He had no idea how freely.

The reflection in the mirror smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. The smile widened, stretching the lips over teeth that had been ground flat from years of nocturnal clenching. The dentist had recommended a mouth guard. The dentist didn't know the half of it.

A plan was forming. Not the vague, shapeless fantasies that had sustained the dark hours until now, but something with edges. Something with a timeline. The calling had already started -- two calls from two different PCO booths, the kind of places with no CCTV cameras, the kind of places where the owner barely looked up from his newspaper when someone walked in. The reactions had been gratifying. Fear was a beautiful thing when it was in someone else's eyes. When it was in their voice. When you could hear it trembling through the phone line like a current through a wire.

You won't get the man but you will die.

The words had felt good to say. Like exhaling after holding your breath for too long.

---

Thursday morning at Prisma brought a fresh round of skirmishes.

The video had crossed 1.5 lakh views and over fifty thousand shares on X. Sanika had stopped counting. The notifications had been silenced, the apps muted, and she had resolved to ignore the entire phenomenon the way one ignores a persistent headache -- by pretending it didn't exist and taking paracetamol at regular intervals. The paracetamol, in this case, was work, and she threw herself into it with the ferocity of a woman who needed to think about quarterly projections instead of her rapidly disintegrating reputation.

Shruti had a harder time of it.

The meeting started normally enough. The usual review of targets, client updates, pipeline status. Then Arnab -- the senior VP who had appointed himself the moral guardian of Prisma's corporate culture -- decided to bring it up.

"I think we need to address the elephant in the room," he said, leaning back in his chair with the self-satisfaction of a man about to say something he considered profound. "This video that's been going around. It's affecting team morale."

"It's not affecting team morale," Shruti said quietly. "What's affecting team morale is people who won't stop talking about it."

"It was filthy and mean-spirited," he said.

"I don't agree. People see what they expect to see. Dirty minds see grub everywhere."

"You're saying I have a dirty mind? How dare you!"

"Enough!" Their CEO walked in, took in the scene at one glance, and barked the command. "Arnab, stop dragging out the same old shit. We have better things to do at Prisma than discuss some video on Instagram. Now get your head out of your ass and sit down. We're going to have new clients and new targets for the next quarter."

Shruti let her tense muscles relax slowly as the situation diffused. How long would this go on? The meeting began and concluded quickly and peacefully after that.

---

Mira had slept a little better on Thursday night and woke up fresh on Friday morning. Maybe she was recovering from a broken heart, or maybe she was moving on despite it. Since it was Friday, she could discuss and evaluate during dinner with her friends, she thought with wry humour.

Reaching her bike, she was about to pull on her helmet when her phone rang. Frowning at the unfamiliar number, she nevertheless answered. "Hello?"

"You won't get the man but you will die!" And the line went dead.

What the fuck!

Frown deepening, she pressed the call-back button, but the line was engaged. Nutcase, she muttered to herself, strapped the helmet on, and started the bike.

At work, she ran into Ruhi almost immediately.

"It wouldn't have happened if she had her mind on her job instead of that disgusting video," Ruhi growled in a low tone as Mira nearly collided with her outside her manager's cabin.

"Excuse me?" Mira said, taken aback. She shouldn't be surprised. Ruhi needed an excuse to get her dander up. In fact, it was a surprise that she had waited as long as she did. Maybe the number of things that pissed her off had been pretty long.

"The overlaps in the previous signups," she clarified. "They wouldn't have happened if not for that cheap, dirty video that you put on the internet," she said, her face flushed. Then she shook her head firmly. "I don't even want to discuss it with you."

"Fine by me," Mira said, trying not to look amused.

"I'm going to see if I can change my group," she said with a fierce glower.

"You are welcome to try, but don't get your hopes up. You know how it is until the initial round of recruitments are over," she said sweetly.

"Fine," she glared. "But you better not--"

Mira's patience ran out at that point. "Ruhi, do you realise you're behaving like a petulant school kid?" Ruhi opened her mouth to protest but wasn't given a chance. "Get back to work and leave me to do mine."

Mira waited until Ruhi strode away before muttering to herself, "Who the hell hired her?"

"Not me," came the immediate reply from her manager's cabin. Mira giggled.

---

Sanika was called into her boss's office just as she was about to go in search of some tea. Vijay Khandekar was a perpetually grumpy, ill-tempered boor who had peaked in 1998 and had spent the subsequent decades resenting the world for moving on without him.

She sighed and dragged herself into his cabin. He wasn't pleased with her -- that much was glaringly obvious. And absolutely nothing new. He was never pleased with any of the female members of his team. In the four years Sanika had worked under him, she had watched him promote three mediocre men over two exceptional women, deny maternity leave requests with the enthusiasm of a man who considered reproduction a personal inconvenience, and once -- memorably -- suggest during a team meeting that the reason women earned less was because they "chose to prioritise family over performance," a statement so spectacularly tone-deaf that even the men on the team had winced. She suspected the reason for this conference and prepared herself to be chewed out.

"Ms Joshi, the environment at Prisma is getting ruined."

"Ruined how, sir?" she asked innocently.

"Don't be facetious, Ms Joshi. There have never been gender fights at Prisma. Nor has the language of the company ever deteriorated to this level. You and that ridiculous video of yours are the reason for this. It is vulgar and dirty, to say the least."

"How is it my doing?" she asked with a bewildered frown.

"That dirty video of yours--"

"It was not exclusively mine," she couldn't help pointing out. "You could say it was a collaborative effort." And damn if she apologised for it. Why the hell was he holding her solely responsible for the whole mess? Fine, it got posted on Instagram and took off after that, but how was she to be blamed if people liked and loved and shared it? She wasn't the one who put them to work on social media! But logic, women, and Rao never went hand in hand.

"Ms Sanika, please. You might not be the only one, but I have no doubt you're the one who started all that nonsense. And now it's up to you to control it."

Her eyes bugged out. She really couldn't help it. "Control it how?"

"That's not my problem," he waved it away.

"How can you say that, sir? The reputation of this department is on your very capable shoulders, and you need to help me out if people out there are besmirching it." She sat back with a smile and started outlining her plan. "You could start by sending an email within Prisma. Your word would undoubtedly hold more weight than mine would." Boosted by the look of discomfort spreading across his round face, she continued. "I'll add you as my friend on Instagram. You can start backtracking and encouraging people not to like it and talk to them into--"

"Uh, I don't think that would be the best way to handle things."

"Then what do you suggest?" she asked with innocent eagerness. She never could fool her brothers with it, but Rao was another matter. His expression went completely blank as he stretched his neck like a turkey. She hid her smile.

"Uh, on second thought, I don't think that would be necessary. I'm sure with time such nonsense will die its own death," he said, nodding repeatedly.

That meant he knew there was nothing he could do. There was nothing anyone could do once stuff reached the internet.

---

"I think we can declare the situation officially out of control," Sanika said glumly as they fortified themselves with Virgin Marys and Piña Coladas to go with their dinner at the Thai restaurant that was situated smack in the middle of their respective homes.

"1.5 lakh views and over fifty thousand shares," Mira supplied the latest numbers. "Seriously, was it really that good? I mean, haven't we seen more ribald and interesting ones before?"

"Yeah, but we've never kept track of the likes or shares of such stuff, right?" Shruti shrugged. "People have lives to lead and this one will get its fifteen minutes of fame and die away just like the ones before and the ones after." They clinked their glasses on that note. "Anyway, this whole thing has finally got Runal and me talking. Her name is Zara."

"Oh, Good God!" Mira and Sanika stared at their friend aghast. "I'm so sorry, Shratz. What are you going to do now?" Mira asked. "He's a damn stupid dumbass if he chooses some other female over you." Sanika looked totally pissed off.

Shruti shrugged and tried to smile. Sanika always had the ability to make her smile. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, buddy, and I'm not going to do anything for now. He says he hasn't been unfaithful to me."

"And you believe it?" Sanika asked doubtfully.

Shruti ran a finger over the rim of her glass. "I have been doing some thinking since last night. I realise I'm not completely blameless, you know." At her friends' twin stares of disbelief, she asserted. "I said all that on camera about his cheating. Maybe I should have said it to his face first, not to the whole internet."

"We don't see you having an EMA," Mira scowled. "Or even tempted to have one," she added.

"I didn't say we're equally at fault. Just that I'm not completely blameless. I haven't been neglecting myself, but I haven't made any efforts to be attractive to him either. Before, I used to dress up for him, but now I dress up for others while he gets the tracks and nighties."

"Yeah, well, if that's his complaint, I can only say that he is watching way too many Ekta Kapoor shows," Sanika said dryly. "Home is where you can chill out for God's sake, not deck up in designer wear and perch yourself on the couch!"

Mira didn't comment. She felt she had no right to, since she herself had been one of those women who decked up to please their men until recently. "And if you are talking about appearances," Sanika continued, "does he make that effort? Does he dress up in anything other than his PJs or shorts when he's at home?"

Shruti conceded the point but couldn't help verbalising the rest of her thoughts out loud. "We were best friends before we became lovers. But now I hardly talk to him. I bounce off my thoughts and ideas with you guys instead of with him. I give him the cook and the housekeeper instead of lover and partner. That's not the way it's supposed to be, right? Maybe that's why he got bored."

"When is he ever there for you to talk to him? He expects you home before him, but does he make an effort to spend time with you? Come early once in a while, plan an outing, something?" Sanika asked gently.

"I don't understand why for every single thing that goes wrong in a relationship, a woman ends up taking the blame for it. You're not sharing things with him, correct. Has he been sharing?"

Mira stabbed her fork for emphasis. "You know, sometimes I think for all the lack of modernity, the previous generations had been better off. The roles had been clearly defined. Man, the breadwinner, and woman, the homemaker. Now we're brought up with ideas of equality drilled into us from the cradle. But our parents don't tell us that the fate of that equality lies in the hands of our partners. We're their equal only if they think we're equal."

Sanika started cutting her starter to pieces with more force than required. "Especially since most of those men's mothers are housewives. They see their mom and expect their wife to be like their mom. But at the same time this equality thing pops into their messed-up heads. So at the end of the day they want their wives to work and be the perfect homemakers." She opened her mouth to add more but snapped it shut at the last second.

Shruti saw that and giggled. "Out with it, Su. I promise I won't mind."

"I don't want to be accused of equating your husband to a dog." When Mira looked confused, Sanika had no choice. "I was about to say dhobi ka kutta, na ghar ka na ghaat ka." Roughly and politely translated: neither here nor there.

"Now don't you dare take out your phone, Si," Shruti warned. "I can't take another video going viral."

"What, you think I'm crazy? This one has traumatised me enough. I don't even login to Instagram or X anymore." Mira shuddered.

"Any peep from Karan the toad?" Shruti shifted the topic to Mira.

"Yeah, he thinks I recorded that video to take revenge against him." The other two rolled their eyes. Men and their egos! "I said yes, what I said was aimed at him. Most importantly the parts about faithfulness and gaslighting."

"Way to go, girl!" Sanika clapped, and Shruti blew an air kiss.

Sanika's phone rang before the conversation could continue. "Hello?"

A slightly familiar ghostly whisper spoke. "You won't get the man but you will die!"

The line went dead. Fury rolled through her. What the hell! That was the second time that day. She quickly pressed the callback button, and just then Mira's phone rang. She watched her friend's face turn red and then white. And before she could ask her, Shruti's phone rang, and the next moment even she wore a similar expression.

"I got this call this morning too," all three chorused at the same time.

"What's happening here?" Sanika asked, frowning. Worry slowly replacing dismay.

"With the kind of creeps that are popping up these days, who knows whose chain we've yanked with that video," Shruti looked equally perturbed.

"Oh, come on!" Mira shook her head. "That's just crazy. I mean, things like that happen in the movies. Or maybe for some famous chicks. We're three normal women."

"Who posted a rather bold video airing all the things men have done to us," Shruti added. "It could be a crank call, but I don't think any of us can afford to brush it off," Sanika insisted. "Someone got our numbers and has called us twice. Said the same thing twice. It was the same thing, right? You won't get the man but you'll die, or something like that?" The other two nodded.

"So it is related to that video. The words are too similar to be a mere coincidence." She scrolled back to check her caller list. "And he called from two different numbers."

"If he got our numbers, he could get our addresses too."

"But how did he get our numbers in the first place?"

"I don't think we should think about the how. The fact is he got it and maybe he knows where we live too," Sanika's heart thudded with the first trace of fear.

"Runal comes in late and Mira lives alone," Shruti voiced her fears. "The security in our apartments is not great, but at least it's there. But Su, you live alone in that house."

"Aren't you two overreacting? Getting scared like kids telling ghost stories?" Mira asked.

"Question is -- can we afford to brush it off?"

"What do we do now?"

All three looked at each other, their minds drawing a blank.

---

End of Chapter Five.

---

"Can your cop friend help?" Shruti asked after a few nail-biting moments.

"Yeah, I guess I can ask him when I get back... Hey wait, he gave me his card yesterday and I saved his number."

"Then call him."

"Now?"

"Guys, maybe we should just wait? It could be nothing." Mira said doubtfully.

"We can't brush this incident as a coincidence, can we? It must be the same person. At least the cop will tell us what to do." Shruti insisted.

Sanika tapped her phone before Shruti finished talking. "Uh, Samar, hi. This is Sanika. Your neighbour."

"Don't tell me you kicked someone again!" The background score accompanying his voice indicated that he had the company of several honking cars and bikes. Probably stuck in traffic, as was the Pune norm during weekends.

"No. Because I'm on the phone with the person I really want to kick," came her sweet reply, making him laugh out loud.

"So what's this about?"

"We, my friends and I, have gotten a few crank calls since this morning. Some guy saying that we won't get the man but we will die."

Every trace of humour got wiped out of his tone. "Where are you right now?" he asked quietly.

She named the restaurant. "I know we're probably panicking for no reason, but they were from different numbers. Landline."

"Give me the numbers from which you got the call," he ordered in what she could only term as his cop voice. All three of them checked their phones. Sanika messaged them to his phone. "OK. Got it," he said. "Keep your cellphones with you. I mean with you. Not in your handbags or on the table. With you. Stay together and don't leave the restaurant until I get there or call you back. Understood?"

"Yes," she replied, somewhat irritated at being ordered around but knowing this was not the time to argue.

"One more thing. When you leave the restaurant, you leave together. Not one by one. Together. I'll try to arrange for a patrol vehicle in all three areas. Give me some time."

"Thank you, Samar."

His voice changed. Softened, just barely. "Keep yourself safe for me until I reach you, Sanika Joshi."

The call ended. Sanika sat very still for a moment, processing the last sentence, before looking up to find both friends staring at her with raised eyebrows and identical expressions of I told you so.

"Oh, shut up," she said, and took a very large sip of her Virgin Mary.

---

They stayed together that night. All three of them went to Sanika's house, reasoning that it was the largest and had the best locks. Sanika activated every security measure the house possessed -- the alarm system her eldest brother had installed, the motion-sensor lights her father had added after a string of break-ins on a nearby street, and the old brass padlock on the back gate that had been there since her grandmother's time and was too stubborn to yield to anything short of a blowtorch.

They changed into pyjamas, made hot chocolate, and settled in the living room with every light in the house blazing like a Diwali celebration. Sanika's living room was the most lived-in room in the house -- her mother's taste evident in the embroidered cushion covers and the brass lamp in the corner, her father's in the bookshelf that took up an entire wall and was stuffed with everything from engineering textbooks to Agatha Christie. The sofa was old but deeply comfortable, the kind you sank into and didn't want to leave, and the coffee table bore the rings of a thousand cups of chai.

Shruti tucked her feet under her and wrapped her hands around the warm mug. The chocolate was Sanika's recipe -- dark cocoa, a pinch of cardamom, and a spoonful of honey instead of sugar. It tasted like safety. "Do you remember the first time we did this?" she asked. "Stayed over at your place?"

"Mira's birthday," Sanika said immediately. "We watched three horror movies and then none of us could sleep, so we ended up reorganising my kitchen at 3 AM."

"And your mother came downstairs in the morning to find all her spice jars rearranged alphabetically," Mira added with a laugh that was only slightly wobbly at the edges. "She didn't speak to you for two days."

"She still brings it up every Diwali. 'Remember the time your friends destroyed my kitchen.' She makes it sound like a natural disaster."

They talked about everything except the phone calls -- Shruti's marriage, Mira's breakup with Karan, Sanika's neighbour (which was the only topic that generated any laughter). Mira did her impression of Samar's stern cop face, which involved pulling her chin down and squinting until she looked like a constipated owl, and even Shruti laughed hard enough to spill her hot chocolate on the cushion.

"He doesn't look like that!" Sanika protested.

"Oh? And how exactly does he look?" Mira wiggled her eyebrows.

"Like a pain in my ass. Can we change the subject?"

"Defensive," Shruti observed to Mira in a stage whisper. "Classic sign of--"

"I will smother you both with these cushions."

Around midnight, they heard the unmistakable growl of a Royal Enfield pulling into the driveway next door. All three froze, then relaxed when they heard his gate clang shut. The familiar sound -- the engine cutting off, the creak of the gate, the heavy footsteps on gravel -- was oddly reassuring, like a guard dog settling into its kennel for the night.

"Your knight in shining armour has returned," Mira whispered.

"He's not my anything. Go to sleep."

They didn't sleep much. Every creak of the house, every rustle of wind against the windows, every distant dog bark made them stiffen and exchange glances. At some point Sanika heard the faint rumble of a vehicle on the street and peeked through the curtain to see a police patrol van cruising slowly past. She exhaled. Samar had kept his word.

---

Saturday morning, Samar updated Sanika during their run.

"PCOs," he said, keeping his breathing even despite the pace. "Public call offices. The calls came from two different PCOs -- small grocery shops where people sometimes come in to make calls. Two different areas, two different shops, neither of which had any kind of security cameras."

"PCOs?" Sanika stopped her run to stare at him. "I didn't know there were any of those anymore. I mean, even my maid has a cellphone. Hell, even the guy who comes in to buy old newspapers has a cellphone."

With a firm hand on her back, he got her running again. "Yeah. This one is not a traditional one. More like a small grocery shop. Apparently people sometimes come in to make calls. And no, no cameras."

Hearing her sigh in frustration, he asked, "Did you get any more calls?"

She shook her head. "My landline rang a few times but got disconnected when I picked up. Do you think someone was playing a prank? Straight answer, please."

"It's a strong possibility."

"Why do I hear a but in there somewhere?"

"I've learned not to ignore my gut feelings," he said with a shrug.

"And your gut says this one is not a crank call."

He gave a brief nod. "One, why the PCOs? Why not just a prepaid cellphone? Two, you said you guys don't display any of your contact info on social media, so how did this guy get your number? He could be a hacker, of course, but again, as you said, you're extra careful. You didn't enter your phone number anywhere. How did he get it? Three, disguising the voice implies you would recognise it if spoken normally. So it's someone you might know." He waited a heartbeat before asking, "The calls to your landline. Did the other two get them too?"

"I'll ask."

"How are they?"

"Fine. Mira spent the last two nights with her cousin who lives close by. Shruti has some issues going on in her personal life, so pretty much stayed at home."

They stopped once they reached his gate. "Thanks for the patrol vans and uh, well, thanks for everything."

Head tilted a little to the side, he studied her intently. "You don't have to thank me for anything. I didn't do it for you. I did it for myself. I never want to see Sanika Joshi scared. Of anything. Or anyone."

Sanika swallowed and forced herself to look away. "You said you were in the middle of something nasty. All wrapped up now?"

"Things don't get wrapped up so fast, especially when the suspect list is a mile long."

"Don't you get frustrated by this whole system? The loopholes in the law, the delay in justice... I mean, witnesses die or get sold out, evidence disappears, lawyers push for trials and retrials..."

"I can't afford to get frustrated. My focus is on the criminal. In catching him and making sure he or she doesn't do it again. I don't look at the loopholes. I look at the cases that are solved despite the loopholes. Cases that slide through them are remembered, but people read the solved ones, say good riddance, and forget. You know how many terrorist attacks have happened in this country, but you don't know how many we've managed to stop, because those things never come out." He gestured towards the road and changed the topic. "Want to have breakfast? We can go to that new place a couple of streets away."

Not wanting to come across as an admiring, besotted fool, she forced her gaze away from him. It was just breakfast, she told herself. "Let me dunk myself in the shower and we'll meet in fifteen minutes?" He nodded. "Oh, after that dinner, it's your turn to pay and I want masala dosa."

She ran into the house with his laughter following her.

---

Over the weekend, a cold frustration settled over the neighbourhood like fog.

Sanika's phones had been creep-free since Saturday morning. Mira reported the same. Shruti too. The patrol vans continued their rounds, the WhatsApp group had a strict mark-your-attendance policy, and the three of them had started carrying pepper sprays in their bags -- Sanika's idea, enforced with the authority of a woman who had once punched a drunk on her own street.

But the silence was not comforting. It was the silence of a predator waiting.

Samar had breakfast with her at the new place around the corner -- the one with the spectacular masala dosas and the chai that almost matched his mother's. Almost. He watched her demolish her second dosa with the focused intensity of a woman who hadn't eaten in a week, though he knew she'd had dinner barely twelve hours ago. It fascinated him. Everything about her fascinated him. The way she ate with her fingers, tearing the dosa into precise pieces and scooping up the chutney with efficient movements. The way she talked with her mouth half full, not caring about manners, not performing femininity the way most women he knew seemed to. The way she frowned when she concentrated, creating two vertical lines between her eyebrows that he wanted to smooth away with his thumb.

"Stop staring at me while I eat," she said without looking up.

"I wasn't staring."

"Yes, you were. You have this way of looking at people like you're memorising them for a line-up. It's disconcerting." She looked up and caught his eye. "Also, you haven't touched your coffee."

He picked up the tumbler, keeping his eyes on hers. "Better?"

"Marginally." She wiped her fingers on the napkin and pushed her plate away. "So. Any update on those calls?"

"My team is still looking into it. The PCO angle is a dead end for now -- too many people use those shops. But I've asked for the call records from the last month. If there's a pattern, we'll find it."

"And if there isn't?"

"There's always a pattern. People think they're being clever, but they always leave traces. It's just a matter of knowing where to look." He sipped his coffee. "In the meantime, the patrol vans will continue. And you three need to keep doing what you're doing -- staying alert, staying together, marking attendance."

"I feel like I'm in a hostel again," she grumbled.

"Better a hostel than a hospital," he said, and the lightness in his tone didn't quite mask the steel beneath it.

Sanika studied him for a moment -- the set of his jaw, the way his hand rested on the table, still and controlled but ready to move at a moment's notice. This was a man who lived with danger the way other people lived with traffic noise -- constantly, in the background, never quite tuning it out.

"You really think this is serious, don't you?" she asked softly.

"I think we can't afford to assume it isn't."

She nodded slowly. "OK. But Samar? If you're trying to scare me into being careful, you should know that fear and I have a very complicated relationship. It usually ends with me doing something stupid out of spite."

He almost smiled. Almost. "I've noticed."

---

Shruti spent Saturday morning cleaning the guest bedroom that was now hers. She moved her things methodically -- clothes into the smaller cupboard, toiletries into the attached bathroom, her laptop and books onto the writing desk by the window. She made the bed with fresh sheets, arranged her pillows, and placed her reading lamp on the nightstand. When she was done, she stood in the doorway and surveyed the room.

It looked like a hotel room. Functional, neat, impersonal. Nothing in it said Shruti lives here. Nothing said this is where a married woman sleeps alone because her marriage is slowly bleeding out.

She sat on the bed and called her mother.

"Everything OK, beta?" her mother asked, the way mothers do when they can hear in their daughter's voice that everything is most definitely not OK.

"Yeah, Maa. Just... calling."

A pause. "You know I'm here, right? Whatever it is."

"I know, Maa." She swallowed the lump in her throat. "How's Papa?"

"Your father is your father. Currently arguing with the newspaper boy about why the paper was late by three minutes." Shruti smiled, and her mother heard the smile, and both of them took comfort from it.

After hanging up, she sent a message to the group: All clear here. No calls. Going to spend the day reading and not thinking about men, posts, or murder threats. You're welcome to join the not-thinking.

Sanika replied: I'm in. Currently not-thinking about a specific man who bought me breakfast and looked at me like I was the menu.

Mira: TMI, Su. TMI.

Sanika: Says the woman who put "knows how to use his hands" on a public list.

Mira: I meant for cooking!

Shruti: Sure you did.

For a few minutes, in the rapid-fire exchange of messages, everything felt normal. Like the old days, before the video, before the calls, before the fear. But then the messages stopped, and the silence crept back in, and Shruti sat alone in her hotel-room bedroom and stared at the wall.

---

Frustration added a new dimension to hatred and fury. It made the eyes redder and the tick on the jaw was almost a permanent fixture. As was the pacing. Everything had been planned so meticulously. Sanika lived alone because her parents were visiting her brother, and Mira too lived alone. Oh yeah, she had had a thing going with a guy, but apparently she had broken off with him. Prisma gossip was pretty reliable if one paid attention to it. Poor guy was tried and discarded. Her apartment security was laughable. They hadn't even installed the CCTV cameras which were compulsory these days.

Shruti. Now that had been difficult to think and plan, because Shruti's apartment complex was huge and guests had to sign in and all that nonsense. But where was it written that she had to be killed in her home? Bottom line was she had to die. They all had to die. Unlike the previous girls, mere threatening or hurting would not do. These three were different. What they did hurt. The bitches would learn their lesson. Would know how much it hurt to read that trash of theirs. And they would pay with their lives.

Yet nothing worked out as per plan. Two nights wasted. Friday night and Saturday night. Sanika had some guests over. Lights had been on all over the house and music was heard. Not the loud blaring kind but more in tune with family gatherings. And the patrol vans had been an added hurdle. Mira's apartment lights had been off and her bike was missing from its spot. Where did she go? Was she trying out someone else for size? That must be it.

Knocking on Shruti's door was anyway ruled out, and that bitch didn't come out of her apartment on Saturday. Dedicating the days and nights to teach them a lesson was regrettably not possible. There were responsibilities. Obligations. Family. Family of course came first. But this couldn't go on. Something had to be done.

---

Sunday night.

Mira was home. She had been at her cousin's for two days, helping her with the wedding planning, and was exhausted. She had marked her attendance in the WhatsApp group, updated her friends on her plans, and was about to settle in for the night when her phone buzzed with a message.

It was from Karan.

I thought about what you said the other day. You are right. I've been an ass and I'm sorry. But if you give me another chance I promise, I'll make it up to you. I want to talk to you Mira. Really talk. Please.

She blinked and sat up in shock. Karan was apologising? He wanted to talk?

Her doorbell rang before she could process the information. She stared at the door in disbelief. He wasn't even giving her time to think before he came knocking! Wiping her suddenly damp palms, she inhaled deeply and quickly ran her hand through her hair, wishing she had taken time to wash it. Just as quickly she pushed away that thought. He should like her for who and what she was. Not just because she looked beautiful or dressed in a certain way.

Inhaling deeply, she opened the door.

---

End of Chapter Six.

---

Killing had been overwhelming.

It had not been easy. It had been tough and tiring. And draining. Even a little bit scary. But the wild rush of joy, the sense of achievement had been ecstatic. It made everything worthwhile. Most importantly, it brought back the sleep that had remained elusive until then. Deep, dreamless sleep. The kind of sleep that had been impossible for weeks -- months, really -- as the rage built and built, a pressure cooker with no valve, no release, no way to let the steam escape without something breaking. Now the steam had escaped. Something had broken, yes. But not inside. Outside. The thing that broke was another person, and the breaking had been... satisfying. More than satisfying. Necessary. Like scratching an itch that had been driving you mad, like drinking water after days in a desert, like finally, finally being heard after a lifetime of being ignored.

The bathroom mirror showed a face that was almost unrecognisable. Not because of guilt or horror -- those were feelings for people who had done something wrong, and this was not wrong, this was justice -- but because the tension that had knotted every muscle for weeks had finally released. The jaw was relaxed. The eyes were clear and bright, no longer bloodshot from insomnia and fury. The skin looked better. Even the bleeding gums had stopped. The body knew, even if the mind hadn't fully processed it yet, that something fundamental had shifted. A threshold had been crossed, and there was no going back, and the body was glad.

Mind was fresh. Time to get ready and go to work. Prisma would probably be buzzing with the news.

The thought brought a frightened frown. Would anyone know? No, of course not. How would anyone know? There were no clues left behind. Everything that was used had been brought back. The knife, cleaned and returned to its drawer. The gloves, washed and dried and folded. The clothes, run through a hot wash cycle at 3 AM, now hanging innocently on the drying rack alongside last week's office shirts. The shoes -- ah, the shoes had been a problem. Blood had seeped into the sole treads, into the tiny grooves that no amount of scrubbing could fully clean. They had gone into a plastic bag, then into the boot of the car, and would be disposed of on the way to work. Dropped into one of those large municipal bins near the market, the ones that were emptied every morning by the PMC trucks. By afternoon, they would be in a landfill somewhere, anonymous among tonnes of the city's waste.

The frown cleared. Everything had been thought of. Everything had been planned.

Killing Mira had been necessary. There hadn't been any choice. Eyes closed to relive every moment of the previous night. The shock in the bitch's eyes, the crunching sound as the rod connected with her head, the flailing of legs as the rope tightened around her neck. The knife was just to make sure. But it was the one that gave the most thrill. The sensation of the sharp blade digging into the body, messing with the organs. There had been no movement though. Mira hadn't felt the pain. The rope had done the job.

The next one would have to be planned better.

Oh, this was so much better than scaring those school girls off or threatening the mean bitches in college. This one took away a little of the hatred. It worked and was way more powerful. Yes. Power. That was what had been missing before. Not anymore though. Not anymore.

One down, two to go. One down, two to go.

Feet tapped in sync with the lyrical words as fingers grabbed and pulled a light brown shirt from the hanger.

One down, two to go-o-o. One down, two to go-o-o.

---

Monday morning, Sanika was humming to herself as she entered the lift and pressed the button that would take her to her floor at Prisma. She had to accept it. Her mornings were definitely better these days. Uninterrupted sleep -- well, reasonably uninterrupted. The lights and music were still on, although on a low key. But she had worked her way around it. She kept one room dark and used it for sleeping. Since she was not blaring her speakers with rock bands, the music didn't bother her. She in fact liked it. Found it soothing and relaxing.

And last but most definitely not the least, her early morning exercise regime. That morning her phone alarm had pinged at its usual time and as usual she had snoozed it. But the next moment it had started ringing. Eyes still closed, she muttered a sleepy, "'lo."

"Time for our run, Sanika Joshi. Move it," came the voice from the other end.

She had blinked and sat up. "W-what?"

"I plan to run a couple of extra kilometres today and you're coming with me. Be ready in five."

"Goddammit, Samar!"

"Good morning to you too," he had laughed. He had actually laughed at her curse before ending the call.

And she had been out of her gate in six minutes. Not bad at all, considering she had answered the nature call, brushed her teeth, changed her t-shirt, and got on her socks and shoes. They did run those extra kilometres too. But she could tell he looked tired and frustrated about something. That nasty business he'd mentioned was probably still on. She didn't press for details and he didn't offer them. Her silent companionship must have worked because by the time they stopped for some coffee at one of those roadside stalls, he had been back to his usual self. Which was a combination of a hero and a jerk.

She had felt wide awake and quite refreshed as she got ready in one of her most favourite work outfits. Cream-coloured trousers with a black full-sleeved shirt. The cuffs, when rolled up once, had the same cream colour on the inside as her trousers, and so did the inside of her collar. A tan-coloured thin belt around her waist and a black-strapped wristwatch. Oh, and thick gold earring loops. She sighed in satisfaction as she stepped into the foyer.

She was the first one at the office. She did like being the first. Getting a jump-start on the rest of the lazybones, she thought with a grin. As she walked through the foyer, she crossed paths with Patel.

"Hi Patel, how's it going?" she asked.

"Uh, what, yeah, fine, OK," he mumbled distractedly before ducking into the elevator, his fingers busy on his tablet. Her grin turned into a chuckle when she remembered Patel's notorious social awkwardness.

There was other good news that day. She had come across quite a few of her colleagues on her way to the elevators and even in the parking area. None had mentioned or even hinted at the damn video. Maybe the craziness was dying down and people had finally moved on to something new, Sanika thought, silently crossing her fingers. No nasty calls to her phone and no snide comments to her face. So far, so good.

The budget meeting took longer than usual and everyone, including the CEO, was glad when it finally ended. He was not happy, but neither was he pissed off enough to slash their paycheques in half. But no more new recruitments unless the performance and profit graphs picked up in the next couple of months. HR was so not going to be happy rescheduling and cancelling the campus interviews, Sanika thought with a grimace, as she went back to her seat.

And that reminded her that she and Mira were going to go apartment-hunting that evening. Frowning, she took out her phone. After having said her hello in their group, she had put it in silent mode and gone to the meeting. The hello was a signal that she was alive and kicking. Shruti had put on a raised-hand emoticon marking her attendance a little after that, but so far no Mira.

Frown deepening, she called her number. It rang about six times before going to voicemail. Shaking away her uneasiness, she left a message.

"Si, where are you? Call me at the first chance you get."

Her inbox popped up with a new message regarding an upcoming investors' meet, and before she knew it, it was lunchtime and still no word from Mira. But there was a message in the group from Shruti asking where Mira had disappeared.

Biting her lip, she made her way to the HR department. Mira's seat was empty and her manager had been trying to reach her since morning. Heart thudding loudly in her ears, she called Shruti.

"Shratz, Mira didn't turn up to work."

Shruti sounded equally perturbed. "I tried both the mobile and landline numbers, Su. She's not answering. Hope she didn't have an accident or something on the way to work."

"Or..." Both of them became silent as neither wanted to voice their increasing terror.

"OK, let's not get ahead of ourselves. Best-case scenario is she lost her phone and is probably stuck in traffic somewhere, or her bike gave a problem. Worst-case scenario is she had some accident and is in a hospital." Shruti said, making her way to the elevators. "I'll meet you at the canteen."

"I'm coming there. I think I'll call Samar. He might be able to help us." She ended Shruti's call and speed-dialled Samar's number. "Hey, sorry to disturb you."

"I could use a break," came his reply.

"Listen, it's probably nothing, but we're not able to contact Mira. She hasn't come to work, not picking up her phone... maybe she was in an accident or something. How do we check the hospitals and stuff? What do we do?"

"Where are you now?" He had that cop voice on. Sanika ruefully wondered if they had some kind of special training for that too. "At work."

"Shruti?"

"At work," she repeated.

"I'll check with the traffic police. Message me her complete address and I'll have someone check her apartment. Stay put until you hear from me. Don't go anywhere alone. Either of you. Is that understood?"

"Yes." Her throat worked as she swallowed. "Samar, she would be fine, right?"

"I'll let you know. Take care of yourself for me."

---

Samar didn't take time to think after talking to Sanika. Even as a new recruit in the police department, he'd learnt not to discount his gut, and it was screaming at him that Sanika was not overreacting. She was not the type to panic over nothing either. He swiped his finger on his phone.

"Salim, I'm sending you one address. It comes under your jurisdiction. I want you to go and check it out, but don't go alone."

Salim knew Samar long enough to not waste time asking questions. "Want me to break in?"

"If the door is not answered, then yes. Call me when you know something."

A quick check at his phone -- he saw Sanika had sent him Mira's bike name, model, and registration number. He passed them on to the traffic section and asked them to let him know of any accidents involving the two-wheeler and the woman.

Forty-five minutes after calling Salim, his friend called back. "Boss, do you know this woman?"

Samar strode towards the police jeep. "Is she alive?"

"No. Samar, it's bad. Do you know this woman?" he repeated his question.

Scribbling the area name to the driver, he switched on the sirens. "I've never met her but I've spoken to her." He slammed his fist on the dashboard. "Dammit! I told her to be careful. She is Sanika's friend." Tyres screeched and horns blared as the Scorpio cut through the traffic.

"It's been more than twelve hours is my guess."

"COD?"

"Tough to say. I've called it in. Does she have any family?"

"Her parents live in Kolhapur. She has a cousin somewhere in Pune but right now is out of town attending some wedding."

"We would need your Sanika to identify the body then," Salim said quietly. "I'll start talking to the neighbours. Ask them if they saw or heard anything."

Samar closed his eyes. Dammit! Dammit! Dammit! "I'll be there in a few."

---

Samar and Salim remained silent as the medical personnel shifted the body into the waiting van. Mira had lived in a single-bedroom apartment consisting of a small hall-cum-dining area, kitchen, and a bedroom with attached bath. Nothing looked out of place at first glance.

Mira had one whole wall of her hall filled with photo frames. Mira with her parents, both of them beaming with the particular pride of parents who have raised a good child. Mira with Sanika and Shruti on her birthday, probably -- cake on the table and the three of them with jaunty birthday caps on their heads and huge grins on their faces. Another one was probably during an office Christmas party. They were wearing red dresses, with their glasses raised in a toast. Another one was of the three of them in their nightwear, laughing into the camera, probably taken at Sanika's house. He recognised the furniture.

Samar and Salim looked at the markings in the hall. Her body had been laid sprawled. Samar had Mira's phone with him. He had read Sanika's and Shruti's messages in their group. The latest one from Sanika said: I've called Samar and if I know him right, he's going to have someone at your place ASAP. If you're hurt Si, sit tight. Someone will be there to help you shortly. There were a couple of missed calls from Mira's mom and a couple from someone named Karan. There was a message from Karan too, wanting to talk to her.

Dammit!

"What are you thinking?" Samar asked.

He pushed his feelings out. Just as he ignored the odour. Lots of people knew that dead bodies smelled bad. But he knew from experience that the smell varied depending on the stage of decomposition. Freshly dead but intact, they smelled of meat. Disrupted, they smelled of bowel, stomach, and bladder content. Burned, they smelled the same but with a porky barbecue tang. Decomposed, they smelled sweetly cheesy in an overpoweringly sickly, vomit-inducing way. This one was a combination of disruption and decomposition. The first time he had witnessed a similar scene, he had puked his guts out. The medical examiner had rolled his eyes and hustled him away from the mortuary. Now he was a bloody expert in tuning out his feelings along with the odour and tuning his objectivity in.

"That whoever did this, it's a first for him," Salim said. As usual, his thoughts ran similar to Samar's. They often completed each other's sentences and always had each other's backs. No matter what. That kind of trust in their profession was rare. And precious.

Samar walked around the markings, seeing the body in his mind's eye. "Head injury, knife wounds, strangulation. It's as if he couldn't decide what to do or how to kill. Hatred and rage drove him until that point but he probably didn't realise the effort it requires to actually take a life. To kill the object of his hatred."

"Yup." Salim pointed to the place beside the door. "He probably hit her on the head as soon as she closed the door behind her. Whoever it was, she knew him, opened the door for him. She fell unconscious probably, or just down on her knees. He then dragged her here--" They followed the blood trail that stopped in the middle of the hall. "Tried strangling before going for the knife. Or used the knife first?"

"Or tried the knife first, then switched to strangling and switched back to knife."

"Or strangled and later used the knife just to be sure. Or for the hell of it. We won't know until we get the postmortem report. She had her nightie on, so can't say about sexual assault."

If the bastard left any DNA on her, he was nailed. "It's going to hit Sanika hard," he muttered. "I have to tell her. She has to identify the body, notify Mira's parents... dammit! I told them to be careful. I told them..."

"Them?" Salim frowned. "Is there something I should know? This is not a small thing. The crowd within this small apartment complex has been relatively easy to handle so far but once the reporters enter the field..."

"Yeah," he could see the circus. "I'll tell everything I know tonight. Come by my house once you're done here. Meanwhile I'll handle the body identification and see if I can put a rush on the postmortem." He paused before adding, "This one might be the bastard's first, and if we don't figure out who did this soon, it won't be his last."

"Dammit, Samar, that is so not reassuring. If I have to walk up to the Commissioner and tell him that we have some kind of serial killer on our hands..."

"A killer with specific targets. For now." Because once a guy got the taste of it and started to enjoy it, he would find reasons to strike again and again until he was stopped or killed. And it didn't help his fury that one of those specific targets was the one he loved.

Both of them saw the news vans rolling down along the road. "You see to them. I'm out of here." Cap in hand, Samar strode towards the waiting jeep.

---

Sanika was ready to tear her hair out. Lunchtime had come and gone. Neither she nor Shruti had been able to swallow a bite. The longer Samar took in contacting her, the more she got agitated. Something was wrong. Definitely wrong. She stopped herself from calling him. If he was in the middle of saving her friend, she didn't want to distract him.

It was almost four-thirty in the evening by the time he called.

"You still at work?" he asked without bothering with pleasantries.

"Yes," she swallowed. Now he had called and she didn't want to ask. Didn't want to know.

"I'm at the Prisma car park. Beside your car. Can you and Shruti come down?"

She didn't waste time asking questions. "We'll see you there in five minutes."

Having discarded his cap, he had pulled on his black leather jacket over his uniform shirt. He was leaning against his Scorpio and straightened when Sanika burst into the basement and strode towards him the moment she spotted him. Her eyes were stark with fear as she studied his expression. He had on his cop face, an expressionless mask, but she went white.

"Tell me," she whispered in a choked voice.

He sighed and opened his arms. "I'm sorry, Sanika."

She stumbled and fell into them on a choked gasp. She clutched his jacket tight. He felt her shaking and held her tighter. "She's dead, isn't she?" she said in a trembling whisper. "Si is dead," she repeated on a choked gasp. It wasn't a question. She knew.

---

Sanika had cried so much her eyes were swollen almost shut. Samar simply held her tight through the storm of weeping in the basement car park of Prisma. Then she had gained a bit of control until Shruti ran up to them and it had started all over again.

Samar, this time, had gently but firmly hustled them into his jeep and told the driver to take off from the premises. He didn't want to draw attention to the women. They sat in the back while he took the seat beside the driver, held on to each other, and cried for their friend.

"W-we need to call her p-parents," Sanika's voice was thick as she fumbled for a tissue. Samar extended the box that was in the jeep. She pulled out a few and blew her nose and wiped her face. Shruti grabbed the rest to do the same.

"Is her cousin back from the wedding?" Samar asked in that quiet voice of his.

"I-I don't think so. I don't know. S-Mira said three days and we don't have her n-number."

"I need to call Runal," Shruti said, swiping the screen of her phone. "Hello, Runal?"

"I'm in a meeting," his reply was curt before he disconnected the call.

Gritting her teeth, she tapped the callback option. This time she didn't give him a chance to say anything. "I just called to say that my friend Mira is dead. We're on our way to Sahyadri Hospital now. I don't know when I'll be home."

"W-what? Shruti, wait!" But she didn't wait. Just silenced her phone and threw it into her handbag. Her friend was dead. She had no business feeling bad that her husband had no time for her. Despite everything that had gone wrong between them, she had wanted him to be with her. Wanted him to hug her and tell her that he was there, that everything would be alright.

"I have her parents' number," she said to Samar. "Should we call them? What do we tell? How do we tell?" Tears streamed down her face again. How do you tell parents that their daughter was murdered? How do you say the words that would destroy their world?

Samar's jaw tightened. "I'll make the call. Give me the number."

---

The identification was the hardest thing Sanika had ever done.

The hospital mortuary was cold -- not just in temperature but in the way cold places absorb human warmth and give back nothing. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead with the indifference of machinery that had witnessed too much death to register it as anything other than another Tuesday.

They had covered Mira with a white sheet. When the attendant pulled it back, Sanika heard a sound come out of her own mouth -- a sound that was neither a scream nor a gasp but something animal, something that belonged to a part of the brain that existed before language.

Mira's face was bruised. There was a gash on her temple, crusted with dried blood. Her eyes were closed, and her expression was... peaceful. That was the word the attendant probably used with every family, and it was a lie. There was nothing peaceful about being beaten and strangled and stabbed in your own home by someone you trusted enough to open the door for.

"That's her," Sanika whispered. "That's Mira Patil."

Samar's hand was on her shoulder. Steady. Present. She leaned into it without thinking, without caring about appearances or propriety or the fact that a DCP's hand on a civilian's shoulder in a mortuary was not standard police procedure.

"I want to go home," she said.

He took her home. Not to Shruti's apartment, not to a hotel, not to anywhere neutral. He took her to her own house, the one with the chrysanthemums in the garden and the alarm system and the motion-sensor lights and the brass padlock on the back gate. He walked her to the door, waited while she fumbled with the keys, and then followed her inside.

"You should eat something," he said.

"I can't."

"Try."

"I said I can't, Samar." Her voice cracked on his name. She stood in her own living room, in the house she had grown up in, surrounded by her father's books and her mother's prayer corner and the photographs of her family, and felt absolutely, completely alone. "She opened the door for whoever did this. She knew them. She trusted them. And they--" She couldn't finish.

He didn't try to finish it for her. Didn't offer platitudes or promises or the standard we'll catch him that cops are trained to deliver. He simply walked to the kitchen, heated water, made two cups of tea -- finding the supplies with the ease of a man who had spent enough mornings in her house to know where things were -- and brought one to her.

"Drink," he said.

She drank. The tea was too sweet, the way her mother made it when someone was in shock.

"Alarm system is good but it won't stop a determined killer," he said, after she had finished half the cup. "So until this is resolved, either you move into my house or I move into yours. Choose one."

"What? No. I'm not moving in with you."

"Then I'm moving in with you." He said it the way he said everything -- as a fact, not a negotiation. "The couch is fine. I've slept on worse."

She opened her mouth to argue and found she didn't have the energy. "Fine. But you're taking the guest bedroom, not the couch. I don't need you waking up with a back problem and blaming me for it."

The ghost of a smile crossed his face. "Deal."

---

End of Chapter Seven.

---

Runal closed the door behind Sanika and her cop friend. Samar had been in civil clothes but he had his weapon tucked into his waistband. Legal or not, he wished he had one too.

With a deep sigh, he rubbed his palm over his face. Damn! Talk about life turning upside down in the blink of an eye. Just the previous night he had mocked his wife for overreacting. He had been at dinner with colleagues -- Zara among them, her perfume lingering on his sleeve like an accusation he hadn't yet been confronted with -- when Shruti's message had arrived. My friend Mira is dead. We're on our way to Sahyadri Hospital now. I don't know when I'll be home. He had read it three times. The first time, the words didn't register. The second time, they registered but he rejected them. The third time, something cold and heavy settled in his stomach and didn't leave. He had excused himself from the table without finishing his beer, driven home at twice the speed limit, and waited in the dark apartment for his wife to return.

She had come home at midnight, supported by Sanika on one side and the cop on the other. Her face was swollen from crying, her eyes vacant, her body moving with the mechanical stiffness of someone operating on autopilot. She hadn't looked at him. Hadn't acknowledged his presence. Had walked past him to the bedroom and closed the door, and the soft click of that latch was the loudest sound he had ever heard.

He had stood in the hallway for ten minutes, his hand raised to knock, before lowering it and going to the guest room instead. He didn't sleep. He lay on the narrow bed and stared at the ceiling and thought about Mira -- a woman he had never particularly liked, whose laugh he had found too loud and whose influence on his wife he had resented -- and felt a grief that surprised him with its intensity. Not grief for Mira herself, he was honest enough to admit, but grief for his wife's pain. For the world that had just become darker and more dangerous. For the stark, terrifying realization that the people you love can be taken from you between one heartbeat and the next.

When he thought about her curt message that she was going to see her dead friend, it was like he'd been hit in the solar plexus.

His glance fell on Shruti. She was sitting on the couch with her feet tucked in under her and head resting on her arm, staring into space, her gaze vacant. The ravages of grief had left her pale but she was dry-eyed. Like there were no more tears left in her. Someone out there was trying to kill her? Because of that stupid video? It was too bizarre to contemplate. Things like that happened in movies. Not in real life. Did they? Sure, the video had made him angry, but as Shruti had rightly said, it was already forgotten. Not by everyone, apparently.

He made his way into the kitchen and heated up the food. The maid had cooked some misal pav that morning. He heated it in the microwave and transferred it into two bowls and carried them into the hall. He wasn't any hungrier than she was, but they needed to eat. If what Samar said was true... he shook his head, not wanting to contemplate the scenario. They would think and make decisions tomorrow morning. Not when she was in pieces, ravaged by grief.

"I'm not hungry," she said, looking at the bowls in his hands.

"You need the energy, buddy. Eat at least a few spoons. Please." He kept his voice low and soothing and suppressed a relieved sigh when she took the bowl and started eating quietly. Reluctantly.

True that he'd never liked her friends, but he wasn't a complete bastard. He knew she loved them to pieces and that had been one of his main gripes. He had been jealous of the time she gave to her friends. Mira and Sanika had taken the place that had once been exclusively his. She smiled with them, laughed with them, went out with them, and shared her thoughts and secrets with them. It was as if once he became her husband, he was no longer her best friend.

Yeah, right. You expected her to give you something that you yourself were not giving her. Time.

But now she had lost one of her friends and she looked... broken. For her, it was like losing a close family member. It would be a while before she recovered.

And while she recovered, he could use that time to rebuild their relationship. He didn't know how they had lost touch with each other. No. He knew. He had not been ready to compromise on his work or the time he spent with his friends but expected her to do it for him. He had wanted her to work but work around his schedule so that his life remained unchanged. Undisturbed. He left her alone to balance both her professional and personal lives and on the occasions when her professional life took precedence, he resented it. And her.

The innocent flirting at work with Zara had started to seem more important. Or maybe it had not been so innocent. Once he had started comparing everything Shruti did and said to Zara, who never nagged and always went out of her way to accommodate him, it had stopped being innocent. Shruti was his wife, for God's sake! She had the right and the freedom to nag him and push him, to demand his time. He had ignored her demands and pleas until she finally stopped. Until she gave up. And resented her some more because she gave up.

And he knew what finally made her give up. It was the day his mom had asked about kids. His mom was a traditional woman who wouldn't understand a guy needing time. She would nag and hound him. So in his attempt to wheedle out of that, he had kept mum, not realising that she would start on the blame game.

He had loved Shruti since he was nineteen years old. How had he lost sight of that -- of what they had together? Why had it taken the terror of realising that a killer was behind Shruti and her friends for him to realise that there would be no life for him without her?

He wanted to make it up to her. But would she let him? For the past few days, ever since she'd asked about Zara, Shruti had pulled away from him. Did she really believe he had been unfaithful to her? He had tried to imagine how he would feel if she had flirted with one of her colleagues. If she went out on not-so-professional lunches. The food he'd been trying to swallow stuck in his throat.

"You didn't have to leave your work. I would've managed," she said in a voice that had turned raspy from all the crying.

"I wanted to be with you. I'm sorry I snapped the first time you called. I'm sorry."

"For what?" she asked, making her way into the kitchen to deposit her half-eaten bowl.

"For everything. For not being responsible. For not supporting you. I love you, Shruti, and I can't live without you." He wanted to hold her. As if sensing that, she took a step back.

"What about your girlfriend?" She couldn't even dredge up her anger or pain as she asked the question. She was numb.

"I know you don't believe me, but I swear I didn't... I was never..." He rubbed his hands over his face. "I flirted a little but nothing more than that. Not ever. It... It didn't feel right. I knew what I was doing was wrong but I let my ego get the better of me. But I never crossed any lines, Ritu. Not once."

It had been so long since he'd called her by that name. He was the only one who'd ever called her Ritu. She was Preet to her parents and Shratz to Sanika and Mira. Only Sanika now. Her eyes teared up again at the thought of Mira.

"I can't think right now, Runal. I'm just... I can't think."

"I just wanted you to know the truth." He paused. "Can I sleep with you, Ritu?"

"You want to have sex." It was a tired statement.

"No." He controlled his wince at her assumption that he would want to have sex at a time like this. "I mean sleep with you in my arms. In our bed. I want to hold you."

Shruti couldn't deny him that. Truth be told, she wanted to be held by him. She got her blanket from the guestroom and curled up into his waiting arms.

---

"How is Sanika?" Salim asked the moment Samar stepped into what could only be termed as their den at the police headquarters.

"As well as can be expected. Prisma is closed today in mourning so I dropped her off at Shruti's place."

"Is that wise? If everything we've discussed last night is true, the guy might take it as a chance to off both women in one shot."

"Shruti's husband has taken off from work. He'll be their shadow until we make a proper plan. Did you talk to the big guy?" Samar asked, perching on the edge of Salim's table. They referred to the commissioner as the big guy. Not because he was their boss. The guy was really big. He had a big face, broad body, and a tummy that made it impossible for the man to see his big feet. He was also a man who had the ability to see the bigger picture and didn't hesitate to bend the rules if it meant catching the criminal. That was what mattered to Samar.

Salim had come to Sanika's house the previous night and Samar had updated everything that he knew while Sanika slept in the next room. And since technically this one was Salim's case, he left it to his friend to keep the big guy in the loop.

"Yup. Since the threat comes under speculation, he thinks we should keep it close to the chest and treat it like a single-incident murder case."

"I got that when I read the news." Samar nodded. There had been no mention of anything other than the fact that the girl was an IT employee and police were investigating. "Have you tried calling Karan Malhotra?"

Salim got up from his seat with a grin. "I did one better. He's inside," he said, thumping towards the interrogation room. "Thought I'd let him sweat it out a little."

"Hope it worked." Samar fell into step beside his friend. They had various methods to break a suspect. Depending on the evidence, the methods changed. Less evidence, they started out mild and tightened the screws figuratively as well as literally as the clues piled up.

They entered the ten-by-four interrogation room where Karan was restlessly pacing. Salim took a chair while Samar opted to stand ominously in front of Karan until the guy went and sat facing Salim.

"So, Mr Karan Malhotra, you were at the airport this morning. Going somewhere?"

"No. My plane had just landed. I was on my way to my apartment. What's this about? What did I do?" Karan's bewildered gaze swung between both the cops.

"I don't know. You tell us. What did you do?" Samar asked almost casually.

Karan tried to smile but it was awkward and nervous. "I jumped the signal a couple of times last week. Is that what this is about?"

"Do we look like traffic police to you?"

"Then... I'm sorry. What's this about?"

"Do you know a girl named Mira Patil?"

Karan frowned. "Of course I know her. She is my girlfriend. Why?"

"You consider her your girlfriend even after she broke up with you. Possessive, huh?" Samar said, circling around Karan like an eagle ready to plunge and grab the snake by its neck.

"Well, yes, she did but..." He sighed. "Yes, I know Mira, we have been lovers for the better part of a year now, she lives in an apartment opposite to mine but she spent more time in my apartment than hers." His wary gaze shifted to Salim as he reluctantly added, "Until she broke off things with me. You need to tell me what this is about. Why are you asking about Mira?"

"Where were you on Sunday night?" Salim counter-questioned.

"I had been to Lucknow along with my sister and her family. They had come from the US last week and my parents had planned a family gathering over the weekend. Sunday night. So I attended that and got back this morning."

Salim darted a quick glance at Samar. They would verify it of course, but if what he said was true, then there was no way he would've killed Mira. Unless he flew in on Sunday evening, offed her, and flew back to Lucknow again to attend the party. Again, that could be easily verified.

"Why did she break off with you?" Samar asked when Salim left the room to do just that.

Karan exhaled in a soft grunt. "Because I was an ass. I was a selfish bastard and hurt her with my stupid behaviour. But after she left, I... I missed her. I wanted her back in my life. I was with my family but everything felt wrong without her. I told my mom about her... I sent her messages begging her to... why are you asking me these questions? Please, could one of you explain?" He pleaded.

Samar pulled up another chair and sat. Salim came back into the room a few minutes later and gave a subtle nod.

"Mira was attacked on Sunday night at her home," he told Karan as gently as he could.

"Mira was attacked? Where is she now? Which hospital? Is she OK?" Karan fired the questions as he shoved the chair back and got up.

Looking at him, Samar realised the news was going to hit him pretty hard. But he deserved to know. "I'm sorry, Mr Malhotra. Mira didn't survive the attack."

"Didn't survive?" Shock flared in his eyes and he staggered back. "She... she's dead?"

Salim nodded. "I'm sorry."

Karan stood stunned for a long moment, then slowly began to collapse until he was down on his knees. He buried his face in his hands and sobbed. Giving the broken man a few minutes of privacy, both of them walked out of the room.

"There goes our most probable suspect," Salim muttered.

"Mira spoke to Sanika that night." Samar said, thinking aloud. "She was attacked the same night, probably minutes after the call. No sign of forced entry. She knew the killer. Felt secure enough to open the door to him despite the threatening calls. And the attack had been personal. Clumsy but characterised by rage and hatred. The killer knew her contact details."

"And you're surprised? Do you have an Instagram account?" Salim asked derisively. "Wow, what a way to start a day," he tried to emulate an enthusiastic speaker. "Sitting in my balcony, watching sunrise with my new coffee mug. Hey, hubby got me this new dress, how do you like it guys? OK, off to Phoenix Marketcity for shopping and movies. I'm no longer part of a couple. Status changed to single." Samar couldn't hold back his grin. "Their whole life stories and routines are posted out there. One just needs to know how and where to look. That's it."

"When are we going to get the postmortem report?"

"I've put a rush on it. Will let you know."

---

Sanika winced as her phone rang again. Checking the caller ID, she threw it aside with a groan. People from Prisma had been calling either one of them on and off all morning. They stopped answering after the first few but didn't have the luxury of silencing or shutting off their phones. What if Samar or his friend tried to call? What if Mira's parents wanted to speak?

Sanika had called them from Shruti's house. They were staying with Mira's cousin who had cut her trip short after getting the news. They were in shock, hardly able to form a coherent sentence, their thoughts and words circling around two questions. What happened and why did it happen.

Her fauji dada had called in the morning to make sure she was fine and it had taken everything in her to act and speak normal when her parents had called.

"You slept last night?" Shruti asked, settling herself beside Sanika on the couch with her tea cup. Runal was working from home that day and was in the study, but he was the one to open the door whenever the doorbell had rung. Once it had been the maid and second had been the car-wash guy.

"Yeah, I didn't think I would. Had a killing headache by the time I reached home. Samar wanted me to move in with him but I refused."

"He doesn't seem like a guy to take no for an answer. What did he do?"

"Oh, he took it alright." At Shruti's raised-eyebrow look, Sanika admitted the rest of it. "He moved in with me instead." Both of them grinned a little. But their humour felt incomplete without their third partner.

"He stretched out on the couch while I slept in the downstairs guest bedroom. I suggested he take up another room. He gave me that cop look. I was too tired to even feel the weirdness of it all so took a painkiller for the headache. I remember closing my eyes and the next thing I know it was morning and he was looming across the doorway, prodding me to wake up."

Sanika sipped the last of her tea before shifting the topic. "Things seem to be changing for you too."

Shruti's smile was rueful. "Yeah, guess a psycho killer wanting me dead tends to rearrange priorities real fast. I didn't expect to sleep the night either but..." she shrugged. "I needed to be held and he did that. Just wish the circumstances were different. I mean, it could easily have been me," she bit her trembling lip and breathed deeply until she could get her voice working. "I think that scared him. You think we should've told her parents about the video?" she asked suddenly.

Sanika shook her head. "We don't know it for sure, right? I mean, the thought that she was killed because of a video that we made sounds insane, doesn't it? What kind of a nutjob would kill someone just because of a video? Who does that?"

"So we wait for Samar to tell us if the murder and those calls are related?"

"That would be wiser, I think."

---

That night, when Samar dropped Sanika back home on his bike, she noticed a car parked on the far side of the road. A car that she didn't recognise as belonging to any of the neighbours. The windows were tinted dark. She couldn't see inside.

She didn't think much of it. Lots of people parked on their street.

Samar noticed it too. He noticed it the way cops notice things -- automatically, instinctively, the way a surgeon notices a limp or a musician notices a flat note. He filed it away and made a mental note to check it in the morning.

Inside, one pair of eyes watched through the tinted glass. Hands gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled fury. There she was. With her cop boyfriend. Walking into the house together. Laughing, probably. Living, definitely.

No one can protect the two. No one. They would have to die. Just like Mira. They would have to die.

Fists banged on the steering wheel in frustration. A police jeep stopped right behind the bike and a couple of cops got down and saluted the guy before taking up positions discreetly near the house.

No. No. No.

But patience. Patience was key. The first one had been practice. The next ones would be art.

---

End of Chapter Eight.

---

Sanika was the first one to wake up on Wednesday morning. Her glance fell on Samar who was asleep on the rolled-up bed in the hall. She could call out his name or shake him awake, she supposed. But there was no fun in that. What was fun was tip-toeing into the kitchen to fetch a steel plate and spoon and banging them together near his face.

He woke up alright. But she didn't get a chance to relish his startled exclamation for more than a fraction of a second. That was all it took for him to topple her and pin her to the ground. Both her hands imprisoned in one of his and his torso holding her immobile. Then her identity registered.

"That was a damn stupid thing to do, Sanika Joshi," he gritted, releasing her just enough to allow her to breathe.

"Do you react the same way to whoever dares to wake you up?" She was breathless and startled but not scared. She knew he would rather cut off his arm than hurt her. Or rather, the cop in him would cut off his hand than hurt her.

"No. I reserve it for women stupid enough to startle me when I'm trying to protect them from a psycho maniac."

Some of the light in her eyes dimmed and flickered on the brink of extinguishing, making him instantly regret reminding her of that. But this was his Sanika. A woman with more guts than some of the cops he'd met. She stiffened her spine and her chin rose. "Can we not talk about that?"

"Sure," he readily agreed, making no attempt to let her go. They were both breathing hard, with her looking up at him and him looking down at her, their noses only inches apart. Contrary to his big, tough body, his eyelashes were long, making her wonder if they touched his cheeks when he closed his eyes. Cursing herself inwardly, she forced herself to look away from the deep, dark pools of his eyes. They were sucking her in and she had no intention of getting sucked into anything or anyone.

He was a cop. A good cop. And her neighbour who was just being kind and helping her in a tense situation. Nothing more. Nothing less. They were two very different people whose lifestyles didn't match.

Still, for a dizzying moment she thought of how life with him would be like. She enjoyed being with him even when he annoyed the hell out of her. He challenged her, just by being himself. She was hurt and grieving over the loss of her friend but she could feel life coursing through her veins in a way it hadn't done ever before. Had he done that or was it the prospect of the looming danger that was sending her hormones haywire?

"What are you thinking, Sanika Joshi?" he asked, even though he could read her thoughts on her face. Well, maybe not all, but he could decipher the general direction.

"Am I under arrest?"

He grinned. "Tempting thought, but no." With that he slowly released her and got to his feet, extending his hand to her. She took it and pulled herself up.

"I don't want to run today," Sanika stated with her arms folded in a gesture of resolute stubbornness. "It took you less than a second to have me helpless under you. I want you to teach me how to defend myself."

"You did alright with those thugs a few days back," he said softly.

"Still..." she shook her head. "So will you? Teach me, that is."

"Have you had any formal self-defence training before?"

"Nothing formal, but dada taught me some stuff after that Nirbhaya case."

Samar's nod was brief. "Rape prevention mechanisms. Your fauji dada?" She nodded. "OK. Any in-depth training will take time. You can't just get it in a day or two but I'll teach you a few things. You're in good shape already. That helps."

"You don't think I'm average?" The question popped out of her mouth. "That's how most people describe me. Average height, average build, average looking..."

Most people or one of the three idiots, he thought but didn't ask. Instead he answered her question. "There is nothing average about you. Now, are we going to start this thing or stand here discussing your sexiness all day?"

You think I'm sexy? The question hovered on the tip of her tongue but she bit it back. Quite literally. "You take the bathroom downstairs and I'll take the one upstairs."

When she came back downstairs after freshening up and changing from her pyjamas into a pair of shorts and t-shirt, she found the hall's furniture pushed to the walls and the centre occupied by a three-inch-thick mat that her elder brother had bought for their father. It was foldable and made a good base for yoga. Samar, in his sleeveless white vest and tracks, was on it, already doing push-ups.

"That isn't thick enough," she pronounced even as her greedy eyes absorbed the bulging, flexing muscles of his arms.

"It's thick enough. I'm not going to be dropping you on your head," he said, pulling himself to a vertical position with the ease of a ballet dancer.

"It's my butt I'm worried about," she muttered, toeing off her slippers.

"I promise to take good care of that too," he winked.

He was as good as his word. The workout didn't involve getting tossed around or twisted into a pretzel. "First, don't try to take anyone down. You aren't good enough. The best you can hope to do is get away, so that's what you need to focus on. You have the advantage of surprise on your side because men like this bastard don't expect a woman to fight back, and you are small--"

"I'm not. You just said I'm not average," she glared. "I'm most definitely not--"

He cast his eyes towards the ceiling. "You're smaller than most men," he amended.

"But I'm..." she thought for a moment. "I'm sinewy."

"Theek hai." OK. He laughed. "Where, I don't know, but I'll take your word for it. As I was saying," he continued when she got ready to argue further, "he probably expects you to cry and plead for your life."

"And you're going to teach me how to make him cry and beg for his life."

He moved until he was standing in front of her, his eyes direct as they met hers. "Always remember, Sanika Joshi. Try to escape. If you feel that you can't, then fight." She nodded. "And no matter what you do, don't give up. Never give up. You give up and you lose before you start."

She lifted her head proudly. "It's not in me to give up, Rane."

"Good. Let's get started."

Courtesy of her brothers, she already knew some of the basic stuff. Samar refreshed her on how to break the hold of someone who grabbed you from the front -- bring your arms up hard and fast inside the assailant's. A quick, stiff-arm jab of the palm up and into someone's nose, if done hard enough, would cause enough pain to put him down on his knees. So would slapping cupped palms over his ears, a move designated to rupture the eardrums. A jab of stiffened fingers into the eyes or throat was disabling. He showed her how to grab the throat for crushing the trachea. Even if she couldn't manage crushing power, the blow done properly would disable the opponent.

She needed to remember why they were doing this. A friend was dead. A killer was loose. This was survival training, not--

They moved around on the mat, into different positions and scenarios. By necessity, the drill was close contact, and close contact with Samar Rane was a particular kind of torture that no self-defense manual had prepared her for.

He grabbed her from behind -- a simulation of an attacker's hold -- and his forearms locked across her chest, pinning her arms. She was supposed to drop her weight, stomp his instep, elbow his ribs. Instead, for three stuttering heartbeats, all she registered was the iron band of his arms across her breasts, the hard wall of his body pressed flush against her back, the heat of his breath on her neck, and the sheer size of him surrounding her. His chest was damp with sweat and it soaked through her thin t-shirt, making the fabric cling to her skin. She could smell him -- clean sweat and sandalwood soap and something darker, something male and warm that made her stomach clench.

"Sanika. Stomp." His voice was low, controlled, right against her ear. She stomped. Elbowed. Twisted free. Her face was burning and it had nothing to do with exertion.

They grappled on the mat, and her body catalogued every point of contact with mortifying precision. When he pinned her face-down and straddled her hips to demonstrate a ground hold, the weight of him on top of her sent a bolt of heat straight between her legs. When she twisted underneath him, trying to buck him off, his thigh pressed between hers and the pressure against her core made her bite the inside of her cheek to keep from gasping. When they rolled and she ended up on top, straddling him, his hands gripping her hips to show her how to resist being thrown -- she looked down at his face and saw his jaw tighten, saw his eyes darken, saw the rapid pulse at the base of his throat, and she knew with absolute certainty that she wasn't the only one affected.

His hands on her hips. Her thighs bracketing his waist. The thin layers of workout clothes between them doing absolutely nothing to disguise the fact that both of their bodies were responding to this proximity in ways that had nothing to do with combat training. She could feel him hardening beneath her and the knowledge sent a flush of wet heat through her that she was powerless to control. Their eyes locked. Neither of them moved. The air between them was thick enough to choke on.

Then he lifted her off him in one smooth motion, set her on her feet, and stepped back. "Again," he said, his voice rougher than before. "From the top."

They trained for another twenty minutes and it was the most exquisite agony she had ever experienced. Every hold, every grapple, every time his body pressed against hers was a reminder of what she wanted and couldn't have. Her breasts ached where his forearms had pressed against them. The skin of her neck tingled where his breath had landed. Between her thighs she was slick and swollen and throbbing, and she prayed to every deity she could name that he couldn't tell.

He could tell. She was almost certain he could tell. But Samar Rane was a man of discipline, and he didn't cross the line. Not by a millimetre. Every touch was instructional. Every hold was clinical. And that, somehow, made it worse -- because the restraint was its own kind of seduction. A man who could have you and chooses to wait is infinitely more dangerous than a man who simply takes.

"Enough," she moved away from him, distancing herself emotionally as well as physically, her legs unsteady, her underwear embarrassingly damp. "Let's continue this tomorrow. I need to get to work." And, weather be damned, have a cold shower. A very long, very cold shower.

He nodded and stepped back, giving her the space that she seemed to so desperately need. "One of my guys is right outside so I'll go and get ready. We'll leave together."

"Bike ride." She grimaced.

"You don't like?"

"What's not to like?" Her eyes turned dreamy with sarcasm. "Dust, smoke, not to mention inability to wear skirts or saris, sitting on that narrow seat with no room to move for an indeterminate amount of time in the rush-hour traffic..." She clapped her hands. "Oh, I can't wait, DCP saab!"

Samar ambled towards her, eyes alight with laughter, his forefinger running over his moustache. "So you're saying you didn't like riding with me the other night? Was that why you seemed put out last night when I came in the Scorpio?" He didn't wait for her answer. Instead, cupped her cheek.

He had touched her before. Of course he had. She had hugged him while crying for Mira's loss, hugged him from behind while riding his bike, not to mention the morning's training. But this small, simple gesture caught her off-guard. It seemed... intimate. It felt intimate.

"Go and have your cold shower while I have mine. You're not the only one, you know." He winked, turned, and left before his statement completely registered in her befuddled brain.

---

"Sanika back to work?" Salim asked when he saw his friend enter the den.

"Yes. Murder still on the news?" Sanika had been avoiding the TV and newspaper, so he couldn't get a chance to catch up on the front.

"Yup. I'll need to give them the ME report ASAP. Speculations and discussions are going on as to whether the victim was raped or not."

Samar swore. It was nothing new but since he knew the victim... "Has the body been released to the family?"

"Yes. Her father and a couple of others collected it. Cremation is this evening, I suppose. I'm not sure."

Sanika will want to go there, he thought, and quickly messaged her the information. She would coordinate and let him know, and he would take her there.

"So, what's the report?"

"COD is strangulation. Knife wounds were postmortem, probably done with a carving knife or something similar. Head injury anti-mortem. No sperm. No sexual assault at all."

"Just like we thought. So the knife wound was to make sure." Though it was not a question, Salim nodded. "It was overkill. He needed to stab only once or twice to get his confirmation. All those lacerations on the chest... her abdomen was sliced open."

"He did it once, liked it, and kept doing it?"

"He has chosen his weapon to kill then."

"You're sure this is going to turn into a serial? I know we've seen weird things, nasty things, but boss, killing over that funny video goes beyond that."

"The bastard has made a song out of it, Salim. One down, two to go. He called them both and taunted them with it. Another number. I sent our guys again. They turned up empty. Another PCO kind of a thing with no cameras of any kind. He is a warped guy so his logic would be warped too. All or few or one of the points have got him all twisted." He ran a rough hand through his crew-cut hair. "Any prints at the scene?"

Salim picked up another file. "One fingerprint on the inside doorknob. It's partial but clear enough. We're running it now. If the guy has had any priors, he'll be in our system, but otherwise..."

"Why didn't he rape her and kill her? Why not prolong the torture?"

His thought process would probably shock others, but Salim knew what he was asking. They had to think like a criminal to catch him. It was the best weapon. Criminals dehumanised their victims, and he humanised the killers. Get into their head, get ahead of them, and catch them. Or kill them.

But something about this murder was bothering him. He couldn't say what. It would come to him sooner or later but until then he wouldn't stop thinking about it. And once it came to him, he got tunnel vision until he had the guy behind bars or on the mortuary slab, depending on the situation.

"Maybe he can't get it up. He's impotent. Did you watch that video? The things they said about what men should be capable of -- even I can't manage half of that," Salim said, looking pained at the admission. "And you're in love with one of the girls who said all that in the first place. Ya Khuda! Good luck, Rane!"

"Thanks," he said with a grin, thinking of her stubborn, sexy eyes on that slightly triangular face with that cropped hair and that determined tilt of her chin and those sinfully tempting lips.

He had fallen for her the day he saw her punching the guy who'd tried to manhandle her, and he had no hope or desire to get up. Ever. She attacked life with guts. He had never met anyone so annoying, funny, and sharp. As much as he enjoyed that morning, she drove him crazy. Touching her during her self-defence lessons -- he had to have lost his mind to subject himself to such torture. But she delighted him with her grit; he couldn't bring himself to stop.

She was aware of him. Oh yeah, he had seen the way she looked at him while he was doing his push-ups, seen the effort she made not to stare. She trusted him with her life. Not her heart, courtesy of the three idiots. Their different backgrounds weren't helping matters either. But damned if he'd let anything happen to her, even if that meant he had to become her shadow.

"You know what bugs me?" Samar leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. "The no-rape thing. Every case I've studied where a male offender targets women -- especially when the motive is rage or perceived humiliation -- there's almost always a sexual component. Control. Domination. Power expressed through violation." He tapped his pen against the desk. "But this guy didn't touch her. Didn't even try."

"Maybe he panicked. First kill, remember. Things don't go as planned."

"Maybe." But his instinct was nudging him somewhere else, somewhere he hadn't quite articulated yet. The absence of sexual assault was a data point, and data points formed patterns, and patterns told stories. He just hadn't figured out which story this one was telling him. Not yet.

Salim pulled out a stack of printouts. "I've compiled the list of male employees at Prisma who work in the same building as our three women. Two hundred and thirteen people. I've cross-referenced against anyone with a prior record -- came up with four. Two minor traffic violations, one drunk and disorderly, and one domestic complaint that was withdrawn."

"The domestic complaint. Who?"

"Arnab Das. Senior VP. His wife filed and then withdrew it six months later. They're still married."

Samar made a note. "And the rest?"

"Clean. But clean on paper doesn't mean clean in the head. I've started pulling social media profiles. Most of these tech guys have everything online. Their whole lives, there for anyone to see." He shook his head in wonder. "I mean, I'm from the old school, boss. I don't even post my lunch."

"You don't eat lunch, Salim. You inhale it."

"Point taken. But what I'm saying is -- this guy, if he works at Prisma, he's probably smart enough not to leave a digital trail."

"Or he's not on social media at all," Samar said slowly. "Think about it. Someone who hates women this much, who's this socially dysfunctional -- would he be posting selfies and sharing memes? I doubt it."

Salim caught on immediately. "So we look for the absence instead of the presence. The guys who don't have profiles. The ones who keep to themselves."

"Exactly. Start there."

"Have you told her yet?"

"Gappa band kar!" Shut up! Samar looked peeved. "She just lost her friend. Her own life is in danger. Proposal is not high on the list of my priorities right now." He sighed. "Back to the case. It is someone who works in that company. Attack was too personal and he knew too much of their personal information."

"But this kind of insanity wouldn't go unnoticed, right? And it couldn't have developed overnight either. And we've seen worse stuff than this video."

Another point clicked and fell into place. "This guy is socially incompetent. I doubt he would have things like an Instagram account or X account. And no, this kind of behaviour can't go unnoticed. He hates women and that would've come out somewhere. Complaints lodged by co-workers, warnings from management..."

"If he is not active on social media..."

Samar slapped his palm flat on the table. "The video made it to the Prisma mailing list. That's how he saw it, watched it, and knew the identities."

"And he flipped?" Salim asked doubtfully.

"Probably, or maybe there has been some recent stressor. His colleagues and team members would not be comfortable working with him and it's sure to have made the management consider an intervention of some kind. Either through a warning or a suspension."

Salim nodded slowly. "I'll ask the admin at Prisma for records of any complaints, warnings, or disciplinary actions in the last six months. Anyone who's been flagged for behavioural issues."

"Good. Also, check if any employee has a history of violence. Previous employers, police records, anything."

"That's a lot of people, boss."

"I know. But we narrow it down. Start with the department where the three women work. HR knew about the video, right? It circulated on the company mailing list. Who has access to employee personal details? Phone numbers, addresses?"

"HR, obviously. Admin. Maybe IT."

"Start there. And Salim?" His friend looked up. "He'll try again. Soon. The calls have stopped, which means he's either given up -- unlikely -- or he's planning."

---

End of Chapter Nine.

---

Both Salim and Samar had attended Mira's cremation. So had a few others from Prisma, including their CEO. And Sanika and Shruti of course. Salim had talked to Mira's parents, assuring them that no stone would be left unturned until they caught the guy who did this.

Samar used the opportunity to talk to the CEO, Pramod Gadkari, a man in his early fifties with sharp eyes and a deceptively congenial expression. Predictably, the man hadn't been convinced of someone from Prisma being the killer and very politely told Samar that if he wanted personal information files, then he needed to get a warrant first. A time-taking process, especially with the current evidence. But there was no way around it, so Samar told Salim to get started on the process.

He had spotted Karan Malhotra too. The guy had looked shattered, broken to pieces as he introduced himself to Mira's parents before placing a huge bunch of roses of various colours beside the large framed photograph of Mira. As Harriet Beecher Stowe once said, the bitterest tears shed over graves are for words left unsaid and deeds left undone. Karan's tears reminded him of that.

---

The days after Mira's cremation blurred together for Sanika like watercolour left out in the rain. She went to work. She came home. She ate when Samar put food in front of her and forgot to eat when he didn't. She answered emails, attended meetings, and smiled when people offered their condolences, and through all of it there was a hollow space behind her sternum where Mira's laugh used to live.

It was the small things that ambushed her. Reaching for her phone to text the group chat and remembering that the group was now two. Walking past the Thai restaurant where they used to have their Friday dinners and seeing three chairs at a table and knowing one would always be empty. Finding a hair tie in her bag -- one of Mira's, the pink elastic kind she favoured -- and having to lock herself in the office bathroom for ten minutes because the tears wouldn't stop.

Shruti was no better. The dark circles under her eyes had deepened to the colour of old bruises, and she had developed a habit of starting sentences with "Mira used to say..." before catching herself and falling silent. They clung to each other at work, eating lunch together at Mira's favourite spot in the cafeteria courtyard, under the neem tree where she used to park her bike. Neither of them mentioned the empty third chair. They didn't need to.

Samar noticed. He noticed everything, the bastard. He didn't offer platitudes or tell her time would heal. Instead, he made sure there was hot tea waiting when she came home. He adjusted his schedule so their morning runs overlapped, and he ran in companionable silence beside her, matching his longer stride to hers, saying nothing and saying everything. Once, when she stumbled on the uneven footpath and he caught her arm, he held on for three seconds longer than necessary and she let him, and that small contact was more comforting than any words could have been.

On Wednesday evening, almost a week after Mira's death, Sanika was sitting on the floor of her living room, surrounded by a mess of photographs she'd been sorting through. Pictures of the three of them -- Mira, Shruti, and herself -- spanning nearly four years of friendship. Birthday parties, office picnics, weekend brunches, one disastrous attempt at a road trip to Mahabaleshwar where they'd gotten lost and ended up at a wedding reception and somehow stayed for the entire event.

Samar found her there when he came to check on her. He didn't say anything. He sat down on the floor beside her, picked up a photo of Mira making a ridiculous face at the camera, and smiled. "She looks like trouble."

"She was," Sanika whispered. "The best kind."

They sat there for an hour, not really talking, just existing in the same space while she sorted through her grief and her photographs. When he finally left, she felt lighter. Not healed -- healing was a long way off -- but lighter, as though someone had taken a small portion of the weight she was carrying and placed it on their own shoulders.

---

It was a Thursday -- pizza night, as it had somehow become. Samar had ordered from the place around the corner, the one that made its dough fresh and used real mozzarella instead of the processed stuff. Sanika had declared that if she was going to grieve, she was going to grieve with carbs, and he had no argument against that logic.

"So, almost everyone you know had come to convey their condolences," Samar stated after hearing her debrief of the day at Prisma. Sanika nodded. "Anyone unexpected? Or stayed longer than necessary? Any undue interest in what you're going through...?"

"Not really. Everyone just seemed normal and concerned. Sympathy from my boss had been unexpected, so was Arnab from Shruti's department. Oh, Shruti said even Ruhi had come to convey her condolences. She is one prissy lady, I tell you. Hell, even Patel opened his mouth to actually form a few sentences. He is a geeky kid, but ask him to talk and he pales." She sighed and stated, "It's weird that I'm eating a pizza." She bit into the veg exotica pizza slice. "It's weird that I'm even feeling hungry. Don't you think so?" she asked with her mouth still full.

The pizza box sat open between them on the coffee table, filling the room with the warm, yeasty scent of fresh dough and melted cheese. Outside, the Pune evening had settled into that particular shade of amber that came just before the streetlights kicked on, and through the open window she could hear the distant honking of traffic on the main road, the chatter of the neighbour's TV, and the rhythmic thwack-thwack of someone beating clothes on a washing stone.

Samar guzzled the Coke from the bottle before extending it to her. "A few years back, Salim and I were working a case. A group had killed a whole family. Husband, wife, three kids, and elderly parents. The whole house had been awash in blood and gore. We sent the bodies for postmortem, did the initial round of investigation, and you know what we did after that?" She shook her head, curious. "We went and had our lunch." He paused, letting his statement sink in. "We had to catch the guys who had barely left behind any clues. We needed our minds and bodies to be alert. For that we need food. Starving doesn't solve anything except make us weak and sloppy. You are eating. Doesn't mean you are insensitive."

Sanika chewed slowly, considering this. She watched him as he ate -- efficiently, without self-consciousness, the way he did everything. His hands were clean but calloused, the knuckles still bearing faint scars from that encounter with the politician's bodyguard weeks ago. There was a small scar on his left forearm that she hadn't noticed before, a thin white line running from his wrist to his elbow. She wanted to ask about it. She wanted to ask about a lot of things.

"Do you ever have nightmares?" she asked instead. "About the cases?"

He was quiet for a moment, finishing his slice before answering. "Sometimes. Not about the cases themselves, but about being too late. Arriving a minute after. Seeing what could have been prevented." He met her eyes. "That's why I don't sleep much."

"That explains the 5 AM runs."

"Among other things." A ghost of a smile. "The runs help. The work helps. Having someone to come home to helps." He said it simply, without emphasis, but something in his tone made her breath catch.

---

"You know, I never asked you before -- what did you study before you became a cop?" Sanika leaned forward in her chair, propping her elbows on the table.

"B.Com," came the bland reply. "Passed in third class," he added, polishing off his third pizza slice.

Sanika, about to pick up her second slice, stopped and stared before thrusting one leg up towards him. "Here, pull the other one."

He bit back his shout of laughter. "What? You don't believe me?" Her reply was a grunt as she resumed eating. "How did you know?" he asked curiously.

"Your English is too good for a guy who struggled to clear his B.Com. Out with it."

His grin broke free. "Psychology MA and BL."

"You're a lawyer too?" Her eyes bugged out.

"I didn't enrol in the bar."

"Knowledge is power. I get it. But psychology!"

He shrugged. "Nothing is easier than denouncing the evildoer."

"Nothing more difficult than understanding him," Sanika finished the Dostoyevsky quote, grinning at his look of surprise. "Which university?"

"PU."

"You studied in Chandigarh?" He nodded. "Salim too?" His eyebrows shot up, so she shot a look heavenward and elaborated. "You two talk in that silent code language. I saw it that night he came to your house and also today."

He grinned. "We used that code language while we had been together in the academy and mastered it during the first couple of postings. Same city. And you? You joined Prisma soon after your studies?"

"Yeah. Campus recruitment. Initially I was excited that I would be back in Pune until the daily traffic battle registered." She ran a hand through her cropped hair. "Hence the haircut. Saves time."

"I like it. It suits you."

"I thought most south Indian men liked women with long hair."

"I'm not most men."

As if she didn't know that, she thought with mild amusement. "So were you guys able to catch the guys after having the lunch?"

He gave a brief nod. "Not immediately, but yes. We caught them. They were a pack."

"A pack? Like wolves?"

"Like wolves. They worked together, killed together. Had a leader who directed everything from somewhere else. Took us six months to nail the bastard."

"And during those six months?"

"We didn't stop eating." The ghost of a smile played on his lips, but his eyes were serious. "Sanika, you're going to have bad days and worse days. You've lost your friend, your life has been threatened, and the world has gone mad around you. But you don't stop living because of it. Mira wouldn't want that."

She put down the pizza. "How do you do it? See what you see, deal with what you deal with, and still... function?"

"Because if I don't function, the bad guys win. It's as simple as that."

---

"You better brace yourself for a Spanish inquisition when your parents return," Samar said later, slipping the window curtain back into place. "Your neighbours have started giving us disapproving looks."

Sanika strolled into the hall, one hand rubbing her wet hair with the towel slung over her shoulders and the other one carrying a small tray with two steaming mugs of tea. "What did you expect? This is a residential area and my parents have been here for more than two decades."

They had been drenched down to their shoes by the time they reached home on his bike, but Sanika had never enjoyed a bike ride more. It hadn't been a heavy rain. More like a continuous drizzle and surprisingly not much traffic for a Friday evening. They had even made a quick stop at the police station because he had to talk to someone. He had asked her if she wanted to trade the bike for a Scorpio and grinned at the crestfallen expression she'd tried to hide. So they had ended up coming home on the bike.

Now both were once again dry and warm. She in a purple V-necked t-shirt over a pair of dark grey capris, while he was in a grey and dark blue striped collared t-shirt over a pair of dark blue jeans.

"I'm surprised they haven't asked you what is going on," he said, taking one cup.

"The aunty two doors down to our right did ask me," she replied, picking the second cup.

"And?"

"I told her," she shrugged and sipped her tea.

"Told her what?"

"That the case would be filed and investigation would be carried out on the two guys you arrested that day only if I..." she gave a meaningful pause, "agreed to your... conditions."

He looked aghast, his face resembling that of a thundercloud, before it sank in that she was pulling his leg. Something in his expression must have clued her in because she carefully placed her cup back on the table, preparing to run.

"Thamb, Sanika Joshi," he muttered, pouncing on her. Oh no, you don't.

She was fast, he had to give her that. And as slippery as an eel. Twisting out of his arms, she ran, putting the couch between them. As if that would stop him, he scoffed before leaping over it and effectively caging her between the wall, the couch, and himself. Trapped and nowhere to go, her eyes darted this way and that before she careened into him, fingers racing over his abdomen and waist, tickling him for all she was worth.

Caught off-guard, he stumbled back, trying not to squirm under those merciless fingers. Her eyes lit up with pure devilry.

"You're ticklish!" she laughed, unerringly going back to the same spot that made him yelp and convulse in suppressed mirth. "I can't believe Samar Rane, DCP Crime Branch, nightmare for the criminals, can be tickled like a three-year-old."

"Sanika, s-stop," he backed out and howled as her fingers found that spot again.

"I wonder what would happen if they knew," she advanced towards him and laughed when he backed up. "They don't have to use their fists. No hitting," she was overcome with hilarity. "Only tickling."

Sanika didn't know how it happened. One moment she was tickling him and the next, both her hands were gripped and pulled over her head, her chest mashed against his, and she was staring into his disturbing dark eyes that were filled with laughter and a promise of retribution.

Laughter died as she noticed how much she had to look up at him. His shoulders and chest dwarfed her, and again she wondered what sort of work he had done that had developed his torso to that degree. Slowly he reached out, and his hand touched her hair. Everything in her became still while his fingers sifted through the short strands. He didn't say anything. He lifted his other hand, and his palms cupped her face, his fingers gliding lightly over her forehead and brow, down the bridge of her nose, over her lips and jaw and chin before sliding down the length of her throat. Her breath had stopped, but she didn't notice.

"Samar, no," she whispered, but her eyes were closing as warm pleasure built in her, her blood beating slowly and powerfully through her veins.

"Kitee soft." So soft. His voice roughened even more than normal. He felt her softness, her warmth, and the gut-wrenching pleasure of her breasts flattening against the hard planes of his chest.

"We shouldn't do this," she managed to say, turning her head aside, evading his lips at the last nanosecond. She brought her hands down and pushed lightly at his shoulders.

"Why not?" he murmured, tracing her cheek with slow kisses. His tongue touched the sensitive hollow below her ear, and her hands tightened on his shoulders as wonderful little ripples of pleasure radiated over her skin.

Her sense of self-protection made Sanika push at his shoulders again, and this time he slowly released her. "I can't do this," she said in a low voice.

"Why?"

"I'm not interested in affairs," she stated, hoping the tremor in her body was not obvious in her voice.

"And you think I am?" He looked angry and offended. "Goddammit, Sanika!" He didn't get a chance to finish as his phone rang. With a soft curse, eyes still locked on hers, he answered. "Yes?" Sanika watched shutters fall on his eyes, his body tightening, moving away from hers. "When?" the question shot out like a bullet. "Where?" He gave a small nod. "We're on our way."

Sanika straightened, a chill creeping up her spine. He said we. Why did he include her? Unless... Unless...

He ended the call and looked at her. She had her answer.

Shratz!

---

End of Chapter Ten.

---

The hospital was a blur of white corridors, antiseptic smells, and fear.

Ruby Hall Clinic's emergency wing smelled of iodine and desperation. The fluorescent lights were the kind that made everyone look slightly dead -- ironic, given the number of people here fighting not to be. A child was crying somewhere down the corridor. An old man in a wheelchair was being pushed past by an attendant who looked like he hadn't slept in days. A woman in a nurse's uniform walked by with the brisk, purposeful stride of someone who had long ago learned to separate other people's emergencies from her own emotional equilibrium. This was a factory of crisis, operating at full capacity twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, and the only people who noticed the horror of it were the ones who hadn't been here before.

Runal was pacing. His shirt was spotted with blood -- Shruti's blood -- and his hands wouldn't stop shaking. The blood had already dried to a dark brown, stiffening the cotton, and every time he moved, he could feel the fabric pull against his skin like a second layer that he couldn't remove. He had tried to wash it off in the hospital bathroom, standing at the sink with water running pink down the drain, scrubbing at his sleeves with paper towels that disintegrated in his hands. He had given up when a man walked in and stared at him with the wide-eyed alarm of someone who has just encountered a potential murderer in a public restroom.

He had been in the car when it happened. Right there. Twenty feet away. He had seen a figure jostle against Shruti on the pavement, seen her stumble, seen her fall -- and then he was slamming the brakes, tyres screeching, the bonnet coming to a halt mere inches from her face. For one horrifying moment he thought he had hit her. Then he saw the blood pooling beneath her and knew it was worse.

A knife. Someone had stabbed his wife and shoved her onto the road.

The image replayed on a loop behind his eyes -- Shruti crumpling, the blood spreading across her cream blouse like a flower blooming in time-lapse, the way her mouth had opened in surprise rather than pain, as if the knife had moved faster than her nerve endings could register. He had caught her before she hit the ground. He remembered that much. He remembered her weight in his arms, lighter than he expected, and the heat of the blood soaking through his shirt, and the sound she made -- not a scream, not a cry, but a small, bewildered oh, as if someone had bumped into her on the metro and she was about to apologise.

He had screamed loud enough for both of them. Screamed for help, screamed for someone to call an ambulance, screamed her name over and over as if the force of his voice could keep her conscious. People had materialized -- bystanders, security guards, a woman who said she was a nurse and pressed her scarf against Shruti's wound while barking instructions that Runal couldn't process. The ambulance had arrived in eleven minutes. He knew because he had been counting. Eleven minutes that felt like eleven hours, during which he held his wife's hand and watched the colour drain from her face and bargained with every deity he had ever dismissed as superstition.

Now she was in surgery and he was pacing, and Sanika was sitting in the plastic chair beside him with her arms wrapped around herself, and the cop -- Samar -- had asked his questions and left to investigate the scene. An hour had passed. Maybe two. Runal had lost all sense of time.

"I was so pissed off at you, you know?" Sanika said quietly, breaking the silence. "For a long while, I was just so mad and..." She gestured with her hands. "Shratz had been with me through some of the worst days of my life. Shratz and Mira. They always have been my pillars of support. Unquestioning, unwavering."

She smiled ruefully. "I'm not sure how it happened or why. Destiny, probably. Three of us had joined Prisma around the same time, became friends within a month. She had been a bubbly, cheerful woman with that dry sense of humour, blushing whenever we ragged her about you two. She used to get that dreamy look whenever she talked about you." Her smile turned into a grimace. "She lost all those things. Especially the last one year. Mira was the patient one, always advising her, stressing on the importance of relationships, what you guys had..."

Her fingers dug into her hair, messing it up some more. "But I'm not like that. I guess I'm more cynical when it comes to relationships and stuff."

"I think you have a reason to be," Runal inserted in a quiet voice.

Surprise held her silent for a few moments. She certainly hadn't been expecting him to be understanding. "Maybe. Or maybe I'm like a horse. You know, they tie those things to a horse so that it can't look sideways and get distracted?" Runal nodded with a wry smile. "All I could see was that she was not happy. That you were not making her happy. That she was always the one doing the compromising. But the last few days, she's been happy again, Runal. Despite Mira's death, despite our tears and loss and fear, she has been happy. She told me it's like having her Runal back. The one she had fallen in love with."

Runal swallowed. It would do no good to bawl like a baby even though that's all he'd been wanting to do for more than an hour. The tension was killing him. The not knowing was killing him. He had called his parents and hers. He didn't tell them anything except that she had been in an accident and was in surgery. Her parents were going to take the first flight out.

"I hated you too," he said. "You and Mira, both. Ritu never had many friends before. We had been best friends long before we became lovers, and suddenly someone else had taken my place. She stopped talking to me, sharing things with me. You two took up her every free minute. You were the reason she smiled, laughed. So I resented you. And the more I resented, the more I lost her until it became a vicious cycle. In the middle of that, she said she wanted kids. All I could think was, I won't have even that little of her." He shrugged. "Selfish, I know. But I promised myself that I would change. I would make her fall in love with me a-again..." His throat clogged up.

Sanika laid her hand on his shoulder. "Hey, d-don't worry. She's going to be fine. She's going to be just f-fine. I mean, she's a fighter and she has a lot to fight for. She... she is going to walk o-out of here..."

It was past midnight by the time they heard the voice they had been waiting for. "Excuse me?" Both of them stood up and faced the surgeon. He was still in his scrubs, his face haggard. Sanika felt the icy claw of dread and, judging by Runal's cold fingers gripping hers, she was not alone.

"I was told that it was an accident case," the surgeon said.

"We don't know. The police are looking into it right now. He'll be back to talk to you," Sanika replied quickly.

He nodded. "I think she's going to make it," the surgeon said, and smiled a smile of such pure personal triumph that she knew there had been a real battle in the OR. "I had to remove part of the liver and resection her small intestine. The wound to the liver, I'm presuming some kind of knife, is what caused the extensive haemorrhage. We had to replace almost her complete blood volume before we got things under control." He rubbed his hand over his face. "It was touch and go for a while. Her blood pressure bottomed out and she went into cardiac arrest, but we got her right back. Her pupil response is normal, and her vitals are satisfactory. She was lucky."

"Lucky," Runal echoed, still dazed by the combination of good news and the litany of damage. "So... she is going to be fine?"

"She needs to be in the ICU and the next forty-eight hours are extremely critical as there is a high risk of secondary infection setting in. At this point I can only be cautiously optimistic."

Runal's knees buckled. Sanika caught his arm before he could fall and guided him to a chair. Then she pulled out her phone and called Samar.

"She's out of surgery. Surgeon says cautiously optimistic."

"Thank God." She heard the exhale. The relief in his voice was real and immediate. "I'm wrapping up here. Scene's been contaminated by the rain. There's nothing left."

"What about..." she couldn't say it. Couldn't ask if there was any evidence that would lead them to the monster who had killed one of her friends and nearly killed another.

"We'll talk when I get there. Don't go anywhere."

"I'm not going anywhere," she said, and meant it in more ways than one.

---

Two down, one to go-o-o. Two down, one to go-o-o.

The rocking motion continued without a pause. The hand holding the carving knife was still red. With blood. Her blood. Head tilted to the side, studying the knife and the hand. Eyes glinted with disappointment. It had been too rushed. The bitch hadn't known who was doing it and what was happening. She hadn't known or felt the pain for long. It had been too quick.

But what else to do? There had been no other way. The two of them had gotten themselves those muscle-bound bodyguards. And punishing them couldn't be delayed until everyone relaxed and forgot about it. What would be the point then? Yes. It should not be delayed. And patience was an overrated virtue.

Bottom line, they had to die. They would die. They are dead. Two of them. One more left.

Satisfaction quickly replaced the disappointment. Fingers formed into fists. Red. Blood. Her blood.

Eyes closed, thinking back to the moment when the knife pierced her insides. Deep. Slashing and slaughtering the organs. The temptation to keep going, keep digging into her again and again had been so overwhelming. But the car had been right behind and so were the group exiting from the Prisma building.

The rocking motion slowed down. There was still one more to go. No time to relax. No time to celebrate. Not yet. Not just yet. The sharp steel turned in the fingers, glinting in the light. It had to be cleaned up and sharpened again. It had to be ready to get red again.

Sinister laughter echoed off the empty walls. Ready to get red. Ready to get red. Laughter got cut off as abruptly as it had begun. Two down, one to go-o-o. Two down, one to go-o-o.

---

"One brutal murder, one attempted murder which could turn into another murder if that girl dies in the hospital, another girl lined up, no evidence, no clues, no witnesses." The big guy growled, as he paced the confines of his cabin. "If the press gets hold of this..."

"Sir, for now, people assume that Shruti Gokhale stumbled and fell in front of the car and has been rushed to the hospital. The quick arrival of the ambulance has helped us in more ways than one. Let's keep it that way for now. Let's not give out the details unless absolutely necessary." Salim suggested quietly.

"You mean don't let people know that there is a serial killer on the loose in the city?" The commissioner looked dubious. In his twenty-six years of service, he had seen many cops. Good, bad, dirty, and downright bastards. But Samar and Salim were among the very few he was truly proud of. They, especially Samar, excelled at understanding the twisted mind of criminals.

"This guy is not a random killer. He has specific targets. I've made sure Sanika is safe."

"Who is Sanika?" The commissioner frowned at the seemingly abrupt change in topic.

"Sanika Joshi," Samar clarified. "The third girl among the three friends."

"You know her?"

"He is going to marry her," Salim imparted the news gleefully. Never mind that there was a killer out there. He couldn't resist sharing that titbit with their boss.

"But you told me a few days back his girlfriend is his neighbour."

"Yes, sir. And he is going to marry his neighbour."

He glanced at both his men, bewildered and slow on the uptake. "You just said he wants to marry this Sanika Joshi."

Samar looked heavenward, as if praying for divine intervention. "Sanika Joshi is my neighbour, sir. She also happens to be one of the three friends."

"You want to marry one of the girls who made that video? God save you, Rane!" he muttered. "Stop looking at me like that. My daughter watched that video, rejected two good alliances because of it." Samar bit back an involuntary smile.

"Provided we keep this latest thing out of the press, how are we going to go forward with the investigation? What do we have now?"

He had been to the crime scene. Not that there was much of it left, with the rain washing away any evidence left by the killer. To attack again so soon after Mira's murder meant the guy was totally out of control. For now he was operating on a particular agenda, a particular target. If that hadn't been the case, he was sure there would have been a bloodbath in the city.

"This at least proves that it's someone from Prisma. The attack happened at the entrance. Technically within the Prisma campus."

"Security cameras?"

Salim shook his head. "Nothing in that area. The one at the security gate is too far. Either it was a coincidence or he is cleverer than we thought."

"Humph!" Like most cops, the big guy wasn't big on coincidence. To know where the security cameras were located and plan the attack according to that, it had to be an insider. Someone who knew the company inside out, had been working for a very long time.

"I'll see if I can get a warrant." He looked frustrated and tired.

Samar's phone rang, interrupting the commissioner's rant over the increasing crime rate. Samar frowned at the unfamiliar number. "Yes?"

"Samar Rane?"

"Yes?" His frown deepened at the slightly familiar voice before clearing. He knew this one.

"This is Pramod Gadkari, CEO of Prisma," he confirmed. "I just heard. It wasn't an accident, was it?"

"No."

"Did she survive?"

"She is in surgery. Chances are 50-50."

Pramod sighed, running a hand over his face. "I have to accept I didn't want to believe that one of my employees is a killer. I still don't want to believe it. But I can't deny the possibility anymore. And I don't want this thing to go to the press. I'm a CEO, so that's my immediate thought. And I most definitely don't want a psychopath working at Prisma and killing my employees."

"I understand. We're trying to keep the press out of it at this point."

"How can I help?"

"We need access to your employee details."

"Give me your email address. I'll personally email you right away. That way there would be no leak. If he does work for Prisma, a court order might alert him, so let's skip it. I'll leave it to my legal team to think of the repercussions."

Samar started to like the guy. "That would really help." He passed on his email and thanked the CEO before ending the call.

"Any luck with the fingerprints at Mira's residence?"

"Still processing," Salim replied. "And no, they are not Mira's," Salim added before Samar could ask the question. "The partial print has blood on it. Mira's blood. The killer must've missed a spot while cleaning up because there was nothing else on that door, not even Mira's prints. Considering that she would've held the knob to open it..."

They had a killer who acted on his own weird rules without leaving any evidence behind. An intelligent killer was tougher to catch than one operating on rage or impulse. He wasn't even sure if the partial fingerprint would do any good if the bastard wasn't in the system.

The commissioner saw both his juniors eyeing his brand-new laptop. "Take your eyes off my laptop," he snapped. "I'll tell the guys to lend you a couple from the outer office."

Both of them grabbed a laptop each and got to work. The Prisma employee database was massive.

"Damn, I'm exhausted just looking at the size of the attachment," Salim grumbled.

"Just be thankful the women were so careful with their privacy settings. Imagine our suspect pool if we had to wade through their Instagram and X accounts." Salim looked horrified at the mere thought. "Let's first filter out males and females, then you take half and I'll take half."

"Thank Allah we only have to do the men."

Samar nodded absently, his attention already on the downloaded document. "Focus on the complaints, grievances, feedbacks, that sort of thing. This one has behavioural issues, especially with regard to women, and that's bound to have come out somewhere and it would have increased significantly in the last couple of weeks."

They worked through the night, the silence of the office broken only by the click of keys and the occasional grunt. By dawn, they had narrowed the list from over three thousand male employees to forty-seven with some kind of disciplinary record. Of those forty-seven, twelve had complaints related to women -- inappropriate remarks, refusal to work with female colleagues, complaints from female team members about hostile behaviour.

Of those twelve, three had complaints filed within the last six months. And of those three, one name kept coming up with a frequency that made both cops sit up straight.

"Salim."

"Hmm?"

"Look at this."

Salim came around to look at Samar's screen. "Multiple complaints from different departments. Refusal to work with female team members. Disciplinary warning six months ago. Another warning three months ago. Request to change groups denied. Performance reviews flagging 'interpersonal issues.' And look at this -- transferred from the Pune office two years ago."

"What was the reason for transfer?"

"Doesn't say. But I can find out."

Samar leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. Something was bothering him. Something about the case that he couldn't put his finger on. The way the killer acted -- the rage, the hatred, the specific targets, the use of a knife, the deliberate avoidance of sexual assault. Everything pointed to a man. The profiling, the statistics, the pattern -- it all screamed male.

And yet.

"Salim, pull up the complete file on Ruhi Sharma."

---

End of Chapter Eleven.

---

Thank God it was Saturday, Sanika thought, lying face down on the bed. She couldn't imagine how it would have been if she had to go to work after a day -- and a night -- like that. She and Runal had been allowed into the ICU separately for five minutes. She could barely recognize Shruti in there, hooked up to all those tubes, lying on the bed, looking so... still. Almost lifeless. The constant beep from the monitor had assured her that her friend's heart was beating. For now.

The ICU had its own particular horror -- the mechanical rhythm of it, the way human suffering was reduced to numbers on a screen. Heart rate: 68. Blood pressure: 110/70. Oxygen saturation: 96%. As if Shruti -- brilliant, warm, stubborn Shruti who wrote love letters to a man who didn't deserve them and made the best chai in three postcodes and could sell ice to an Eskimo because she believed in what she was selling -- could be captured in a few digits flickering on a monitor. The tube in her throat made her look like a marionette whose strings had been cut. Her skin was the colour of old parchment, her lips cracked and colourless, and the surgical dressing on her abdomen was thick and white and obscene against the fragile brown of her skin.

Sanika had stood beside the bed for her allotted five minutes and held Shruti's hand -- cold, limp, not squeezing back -- and talked to her in a low, steady voice about nothing at all. About the weather. About a new Thai place that had opened in Koregaon Park. About the fact that Mira would have been absolutely furious at Shruti for getting herself stabbed without having the courtesy to get stabbed somewhere photogenic. She talked because the alternative was silence, and silence in an ICU sounds like the space between heartbeats -- the terrifying gap where anything could happen and nothing could be undone.

No. Sanika immediately rejected the notion. Shratz would pull through. She had to. The universe did not get to take both of them. That was not a deal Sanika was willing to make with any deity, any fate, any cosmic arithmetic. One was already too many. Two was not an option.

She had been there the whole night and most of the morning, talking to Runal, each helping the other in staying positive. Something had shifted between them in that waiting room -- something quiet and permanent. They had started the night as strangers yoked together by circumstance and a shared woman, and by dawn they were something closer to friends. Not the kind of friends who socialise or share jokes, but the kind who have seen each other at their worst and decided not to look away. Runal had told her about the perfume on the shirt -- not as a confession but as a statement of fact, the way you report damage after a storm. I was losing her, he said, staring at the floor. I was losing her and I was too stupid to notice until someone tried to take her permanently. Sanika had not offered absolution or condemnation. She had simply handed him the coffee and said, Then don't lose her again.

But even as she said it, something about Runal's transformation had nagged at her. It wasn't the devotion -- that was real enough, raw enough. It was the way it manifested. He had taken Shruti's phone from her bag and charged it, then kept it with him "in case the hospital calls." He had intercepted the nurse who came to update them, positioning himself between the nurse and the waiting room as if Sanika couldn't be trusted with medical information about her own best friend. When Shruti's colleague from Prisma had called to ask about visiting hours, Runal had answered Shruti's phone and told them she wasn't taking visitors yet -- a decision that wasn't his to make. Small things. Things that could be explained away by shock, by love, by a man desperately trying to hold together what was falling apart. But Sanika had watched three fiancés carefully enough to know the difference between a man who protects you and a man who controls the narrative. She filed the observation away without comment. There would be time for that conversation later, when Shruti was well enough to have it.

But by eleven in the morning Sanika had started feeling claustrophobic. The walls were closing in on her. A part of her wanted to stomp her feet and scream like a tantrum-throwing five-year-old that she wanted to go home. And the relief when she spotted Samar walking towards them had been staggering. He hadn't said anything about the case other than that they were investigating. After promising Runal that she would be back later in the day, she had gratefully slumped behind Samar on the bike and got home. A long, hot shower, a steaming cup of hot coffee and being force-fed two sandwiches by Samar the Relentless, later, here she was. Literally fallen face down on the bed. She didn't have the energy to talk or even think.

After giving her a long, intense look that made her feel like a bug under a microscope, he left her alone with a brisk, "I'll be in the hall if you need anything."

She inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly, repeating the process, willing her body and mind to relax. Her eyes slowly drifted shut. Blissful oblivion enveloped her.

Until she felt the wetness on her palms and lifted them to see. Blood! Scared, she tried to scream only to realize someone had gagged her mouth. Oh God! She was tied up and someone was coming to kill her. She could hear the sound of boots on the tiled floor. Mira! Shruti! Where were they? She had to warn them. Samar! Her phone was lying beside her and it was buzzing. It was Samar. She had to tell him. Hands and legs were tied but she tried turning on to her side and dragging herself towards it, squirming uselessly to at least release one of her hands. The phone stopped ringing only to start again. Samar. Something touched her back. She rolled and found herself staring into Mira's sightless gaze, her head caved in from behind. She tried to scream. There was another body sprawled a little distance away. She tried to scream again. No. Not Shruti. No. She didn't want to die. She felt hands gripping her arms, pulling her. She didn't want to die. Samar! Help!

"Sanika! Jaanu! Uth!" Sanika! Sweetheart! Wake up! Firm hands cupped her face and shook her. "I'm right here Sanika! Wake up! Open your eyes Jaanu! Look at me."

With a startled gasp, she opened her eyes, her terror-filled ones meeting his determined ones. "That's it. Look at me. I'm right here. It's not real. You're having a dream Jaanu. Just a dream." The grip on his t-shirt tightened even as the horror started to fade from her mind.

"I..." She swallowed, tears leaking out of her eyes, her body wracked with tremors. "I don't want to die. I don't..."

"Shhh... Gappa band kar." Shut up! "You are not going to die. Not as long as there is breath in my body."

"D-don't let me go," she pleaded, hiding her face in his neck. Later, when she was back to her rational, cynical self, she would probably cringe at the memory but in that moment, she didn't care.

"Not in this lifetime Jaanu. Main tumhe kabhi jaane nahi dunga," he promised, pulling her deeper into his arms, surrounding her. Not in this lifetime sweetheart. I will never let you go. He pulled her back enough to look into her eyes. "It was just a dream. OK?" She nodded, her pulse slowly returning to normal. "I knew this would happen. That's why I waited for you to talk about it." His lips tilted into a half smile. "But you are one independent hussy, refusing to accept that you're scared."

That got a little of her spirit back. Her spine stiffened. "I wasn't scared." As his smile threatened to turn into a grin, she glared. But the effect was spoiled by her still-wet eyes. "I wasn't," she stressed. "I was just..." her voice trailed off as his proximity registered to her senses. "Scared," she whispered.

Samar had been sitting at the dining table, going through the Prisma files on the laptop when he had heard her scream his name. He had been in her room before her first scream died. Judging by the way she thrashed around, it must have been one hell of a nightmare. And it wasn't even night. It was in the middle of the afternoon. When she was alert and awake, the sharpness of her tongue and the cool intelligence in those bottomless bedroom eyes of hers took most of his attention. Most, but not all, he thought wryly. Right now she was soft and shaking and clinging to him, her baby pink t-shirt rucked up to just below her breasts, exposing the smooth, warm skin of her midriff. One of his knees had ended up wedged between her thighs when he'd pulled her out of the nightmare, and her capri-covered legs were tangled with his. Her arms were locked around his neck, her face pressed into the hollow of his throat, and with every shuddering breath she took, her chest rose and fell against his. He could feel the soft press of her breasts through the thin cotton, could feel the heat of her skin where his palm rested on her bare waist, and every muscle in his body was straining with the effort of not pulling her closer, not tipping her chin up, not doing what he had been wanting to do since the first morning she'd glared at him over the fence about his bike.

She was all softly feminine and curvy but there was a layer of steel just beneath the surface that turned him on like nothing else. She was just perfect. Perfect for him. And she was in his arms, and her lips were right there, parted and trembling, and it was taking every ounce of his willpower not to close the distance.

"Are you alright now?" he asked, his voice a bare rumble. A rumble that came from deep in his chest and vibrated through her body where they were pressed together.

"Yes," she said, not thinking about it, lost in his eyes. Dark, intense, burning with something that had nothing to do with concern and everything to do with wanting.

He didn't hesitate. Didn't give her time to think about it, to build her walls back up, to retreat behind that sharp tongue and those sharper defences. He slanted his mouth over hers and kissed her.

There was nothing tentative about it. Nothing gentle. Nothing polite. He kissed her like a man who'd been starving and had just been given permission to feast. His mouth was hard and demanding, his lips forcing hers apart, and when his tongue drove inside she tasted coffee and something darker, something that was purely him. His moustache scraped against her upper lip and her chin, rough and ticklish and unbearably erotic, and the sensation sent goosebumps racing down her neck, her arms, her breasts, tightening her nipples into hard, aching peaks beneath her thin shirt.

She made a sound -- a whimper, a moan, something shamefully needy that she'd never made before in her life -- and her fingers clenched in his hair, pulling him harder against her mouth. He responded by catching her chin with one hand, tilting her head to deepen the kiss, his tongue sweeping against hers with blatant, possessive demand. His other hand tightened on her waist, fingers digging into the soft skin, then sliding lower to grip her hip, pulling her body flush against his.

She felt him. All of him. Hard and thick against her thigh, straining through the fabric of his trousers, and the evidence of how much he wanted her sent a flood of liquid heat between her legs. Her hips moved against him -- involuntary, instinctive -- and the friction drew a groan from deep in his chest that she felt reverberate through her entire body.

Never before had she been wanted like that. So swiftly, so violently, so completely. Her second fiance had kissed her -- timid, closed-mouth pecks that tasted of paan and obligation. Those were nothing. Less than nothing. This was a man consuming her, claiming her with his mouth, his hands, his body, and every cell in her was screaming yes, more, don't stop. She pressed herself harder against him, feeling the rigid length of him against her hip, and she wanted -- God, she wanted -- with a desperation that terrified her.

His hand slid up from her hip, his thumb tracing the curve of her waist, rising higher, and when his palm grazed the underside of her breast through the cotton she arched into his touch with a gasp. He paused there -- right there, his thumb a centimetre from her nipple, hovering on the edge of a line they couldn't uncross -- and the restraint in that pause, the iron control it took to stop, was the sexiest thing she had ever experienced in her life.

God I love him, Sanika thought dimly, not having the strength to deny that emotion in that moment. Not when her body was on fire and her underwear was soaked and his mouth was still devouring hers and his hand was trembling with the effort of not moving that final inch.

"I... you... we..." The ringing of her phone saved her from bumbling further -- and possibly from doing something that would have made the afternoon infinitely more complicated. Both of them tensed up. She glanced at the caller ID and breathed out. "It's my brother." She answered, trying to inject cheer into her voice. "Hi dada."

"I should've turned you over my knee when you were younger Choti! How could you hide something like this from me?"

"How... I mean... what?" Confusion started to replace the numbness.

"And I would still be in the dark if that Samar Rane hadn't called."

Confusion turned to fury as Sanika processed her brother's words. "Samar called? When?"

"While you were napping," Samar replied calmly. He had taken Captain Saket Joshi's number the previous night when he had dropped her at the hospital but didn't get a chance to talk until this afternoon.

"Which you should've done the minute all this started," Saket interrupted from the other end.

"It's not--"

"Not what Choti? Big deal? Someone makes death threats on my sister, kills one of her friends and tries to kill another..." The sound of his fist connecting something solid could be heard clearly. "How could you hide something like this? I'm calling mom and dad now."

Sanika waited until Samar was out of the room. "That's precisely why I didn't tell. I don't want them to know. They've gone for a vacation. The stress of my broken engagements was getting to dad. You know it."

"Y? ?pan?ra d??a na?a!" he bellowed. That is not your fault!

"Yeah, well, I still feel responsible, thika ?ch??" she screamed back. OK? "Listen dada, you can't tell them. It's my life, my decision," she said in a reasonably calm voice.

"The hell you say," he growled.

"Even if they do come, there is nothing here they can do. They would want me to quit the job, go away somewhere..."

"Which wouldn't be a bad idea," he said reluctantly. Sanika Joshi wasn't a coward and her brother knew it. Running wasn't her style. And being a soldier, it wasn't his either.

"You know better than to suggest something like that dada. Once all this is resolved, I will definitely look for a new job. But not yet. Not when the bastard who killed my friend is still out there. If I leave now, he might get away with it and I can't let it happen. It's as bad as me asking you to run away in the middle of a fight out there." Inhaling deeply, she continued, "Am I scared? Yes. Am I ready to run? Hell no."

Samar exchanged the phone in her hand with a steaming mug of tea. She looked up to find another cup in his hand. "I'm out of tea powder."

"That's why I got it from my house and yes, I added the extra spoon of sugar. Now drink." To Saket, he said, "Saket, Samar here. We are investigating everyone at Prisma. But in the meanwhile I need someone I can completely trust to be with Sanika at all times. That was another reason I called you."

"What was the first reason?" Sanika asked. She was pissed off because she couldn't be pissed off at him for trying to protect her. For thinking of her family. And making the tea just the way she liked it. Apparently nothing escaped those cop eyes.

He sighed and put the phone on speaker. "A crank call, or even a threatening call is one thing. This is something else entirely. Your family must be kept in the loop. At least one of them."

"I'm liking him more by the minute," her brother inserted. Dammit! She was arguing with two males. Two overprotective males.

"But you said--"

Slamming his tea cup on the table, he rounded on her. "Don't you get it Sanika Joshi? It might just as easily have been you instead of Shruti. Yesterday I had come to pick you up at the exact same spot. You had come walking out of the building just as Shruti had. I don't know if the bastard is following some shitty chronological order of his own or Shruti was a victim of opportunity. Either way, you're the only one left. He sure as hell will know about Shruti by Monday morning and this is Saturday evening."

"Couldn't you have--"

Again she wasn't given a chance to complete her sentence. "I need to solve this. I need to solve this yesterday and once your brother gets here, he will be your shadow at work while I do the hunting. He will drive you to work, stay there and bring you back. None of these points are up for negotiation." He paused before asking Saket. "So, is it possible for you to come that fast?"

"I have talked to my CO. I'll be there as soon as I can. I had already applied leave from next week on because I wanted to be there when my parents come back from the US so I might be able to push it a little forward if I explain the circumstances."

"Then I need you to do it."

"Consider it done."

"Great, fine. This involves me but you guys just go ahead and ignore me," Sanika snapped at both the men.

Samar held back his grin. "I spoke to Sanika's CEO. He'll have the visitor pass and security clearance ready for you once you get here," he said to Saket. "You can stay at Prisma with Sanika until this case is solved."

"Samar, thank you for calling me."

"No thanks required."

"I'll let you know when I'll be landing. Choti?"

Taking the hint, Samar returned the phone to her and left the room, closing the door firmly behind him. "Dada, I'm sorry, I know I should've told you. Trust me dada, after... after Shruti... after last night, I was going to call you."

"Has he left the room?" Saket asked in a quiet voice.

"Yes."

"What's going on between you two?"

"W-what? Nothing is going on. Dada! Come on! He is our neighbour, a cop and..."

"And he also knows that you have run out of tea and that you like it sweet." He exhaled. "Listen, we'll talk about this later. For now, until I get there, you take care of yourself. OK? Don't take any chances. Tumi ki bujhat? p?r?ch??" Do you understand? "I'll be there as soon as I can." Sanika could hear him fight for control. "Dammit Choti! How did you land yourself in this mess?" he gritted out.

"It was not my fault so don't you dare say that!" she screeched, before dashing away the tear that dared to escape from one eye. "I didn't do anything w-wrong, you hear me? None of us d-did anything wrong."

The shock of hearing his sister hiccup as she strove to control her tears, held him silent for a few moments. "Sanika, hey, sis, come on now. Of course it's not your fault."

"Don't patronize me!" she yelled. "And I'm not crying. I never cry."

If anything, Saket softened his tone even more. "I'm not patronizing and I know you never cry. You are my brave sister. I watched that video. It's naughty, even a little raunchy but as Samar rightly pointed out, we've seen far worse things online without blinking an eye. It's no one's fault except the creep who has targeted you. Don't let anyone say anything different. Now, have that tea and I'll see you soon."

"Love you dada. Runal Hind."

That drew a pleased laugh from him. "Runal Hind."

Her good mood lasted until the phone rang again. Gesturing to Samar she answered the call from another unfamiliar number. "Yes?"

She heard the same ghostly voice. "Two down, one to go-o-o. Two down, one to go-o-o."

Even knowing it was futile, Samar dispatched a team to the location from where the latest call had originated. She watched him clench his jaw, the tendons in his neck rigid with barely suppressed rage. The call had been made from another PCO. Untraceable.

"He's taunting us," Sanika said flatly.

"She," Samar corrected quietly, almost to himself. But the thought hadn't fully formed yet. It was just a whisper in the back of his mind, a nagging inconsistency that he couldn't quite grasp.

---

The killer was seething.

The bitch had survived. The knife had gone deep enough -- of that there was no doubt. Even with the rain and the time shortage, the memory of it digging into her organs was vivid. And how did the car stop before running over her head? That was just not possible. Her skull should have crushed under the wheel. Eyes glittered at the image that thought provoked. Yes. That was what should have happened. But it didn't. Why? Why?

Two down...* the humming seized as abruptly as it had begun. *One down, two to go-o-o. One down, two to go-o-o.* No. The previous one had a better tune. *Two down, one to go-o-o.

Fury and hatred was flooding and spreading. Something had to be done. But what? What? Take an off. Yes. That would give a chance to be in the vicinity of Sanika without the responsibilities of work hampering every step. Half of the day was already wasted. Never mind. There was still half a day left.

---

It was six thirty on Monday evening when Samar leaned on his bike just inside the Prisma main gate and looked casually around, not letting his gaze rest on anyone in particular but noting every face and matching them with the names and corresponding photographs in the Prisma database. He had what the experts call a photographic memory. A voluptuous woman, her breasts all but spilling out of her skin-tight top, slowed down when she spotted him. He ignored her interested glances and flirtatious smile as she strolled by him. For all her lack of subtlety, she was no fool. Scanning twice at his impassive face, she turned and walked away without a backward glance.

His gaze swept the surroundings once again and he went still when he spotted Sanika walking out of the building along with another woman. He straightened and with his gaze locked on her, the back of his forefinger running over the edge of his moustache, he started walking towards her. He didn't miss the grief flickering in her eyes despite her obvious effort to smile at something her colleague was saying. He dealt with grief on a regular basis. He knew Sanika would recover because the kick-ass spirit wouldn't let her stay down for long, but he also knew it would take weeks or even months before the shadow of pain disappeared from her eyes. Before loss ceased to be debilitating and became a part of her. Before the wound healed and she was left behind with just a scar. And a memory.

"No, really, how are you Sanika?" Pallavi asked.

Sanika tried to smile but it was more of a grimace. "OK. Going on. It hasn't been an easy week na."

"I still can't believe Mira is gone. Her seat in HR is still empty you know. And how is Shruti doing? What's happening yaar! Prisma has seen one death and one major accident in less than a week!"

"Still in the hospital. I think she'll be OK. They stopped the internal bleeding and pumped some more blood into her."

"Hope she comes through," Pallavi said sincerely. "And if you ever need to talk, I'm always here." She turned and her round eyes went rounder. "Holy cow! That your boyfriend?" she asked. Sanika saw Samar. For a moment he looked like a predator. Severe, dangerous, his gaze focused on her like a laser. "Man! What I wouldn't give to have a guy look at me the way he is devouring you. Your man to die for?"

Sanika barely registered Pallavi's question. She wasn't prepared for the sudden impact of sensation, like a punch in the stomach. The element of danger had always been a part of his personality and the full strength of it was blasting her now as his gaze swept down her before locking on her own. She swallowed in an uncharacteristic display of awkwardness. "Hey," she said, trying to appear casual. She tried to look away from him but couldn't. His eyes smiled in response.

After a polite round of introductions and farewells, they walked back towards the bike. "Your guy left?" she asked, referring to the cop who had been assigned to her that morning.

"Yeah, I sent him once I got here. How was your day?"

"Tiring. I was too sleepy to pay attention and boss put me on a wringer. I didn't want to talk about Shruti so I laid low and took it." Once he had his helmet on and started the bike, she hopped behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist, something in her relaxing for the first time that day. She sighed then remembered. "There is a supermarket beside Prisma. I need you to stop there for a minute."

He did stop there but when he got down along with her, she shook her head. "You can wait here. It won't take me more than a minute."

"I think I'll come along," he said in that cop voice of his.

She looked around and decided only bluntness would work with him. "I need to buy sanitary napkins. Do you still want to come along?"

That stopped him short as if he didn't know what to do or say. She grinned. Yeah, bluntness definitely worked. She took two steps into the store before he caught her arm, halting her. "I'll be at the billing counter. I'll see you there in half a minute."

Sanika grabbed a basket and flew through the aisles until she found the right one. She tilted her head up and went on her toes to reach the pack that she wanted. Then spotting a similar one on the lower aisle, she quickly bent and grabbed it when she felt a sudden burst of pain on her lower arm and a body jolting her from the side.

She turned swiftly in that direction and holding on to her bleeding arm, screamed, "Samar!"

And found herself wrapped in his tight bear hug before her scream ended. "Did you see anyone?" he asked, rapidly scanning the surroundings.

---

"Are you sure you didn't see anything else?" Samar asked for the fourth time, pacing in the hall as she sat on the couch back at her home.

"Someone pushed me. When I turned, all I saw was a figure disappearing to the next aisle. Dark grey jacket with a hood. That's all I could get," she repeated for the fourth time, closing her eyes tiredly. It was raining outside again, she thought distractedly. At least she wouldn't have to feel guilty of neglecting her plants. Nature was taking care of them.

To say that she was shaken up was putting it mildly. Tremors had been wracking her body all the way to the hospital where the doctor had given a local anaesthetic before placing four neat stitches on her forearm. She really didn't know what happened. One minute she was picking up her regular brand of sanitary napkins and next was holding on to her bleeding arm while Samar blocked all exits of the supermarket before calling Salim into the scene. Other customers had gathered around, watching the spectacle.

Ruhi had been a surprise. She had rushed forward and held her hand in an effort to stop the bleeding before quickly wrapping her scarf around it. Once Salim entered the scene, he and Samar had conferred with the store manager for a few minutes before the manager led Salim towards the back of the store. Thanking Ruhi, Samar had hustled Sanika to the nearest polyclinic.

Sanika fingered the bandage on her arm. It wasn't hurting. Probably because of whatever the doctor had given her but tomorrow was going to be a real bitch, she thought. She opened her eyes to look at his stern face, flashing eyes and ticking jaw.

"It's not your fault," she said gently.

He got to his feet. "Someone tried to hurt you. I was right there, not twenty feet away when it happened. Don't tell me it's not my fault."

"Considering that you ended up buying those things for me along with the doctor's prescription, I should've just let you come along with me," she mumbled. "Has he been following me? How would he know otherwise? I mean I didn't tell anyone that I would be going there."

He resumed his pacing. "Something is not right. I had an eye out. Didn't notice anyone following us. And even if someone did, it was awfully stupid and extremely bold to attack you in a supermarket with so many people milling about, not to mention the security cameras."

"You think the cameras would've caught anything?"

"I didn't find a camera in that aisle. But I think there are six of them including the ones near the billing counter. Salim is looking at them right now."

Sanika nodded and tried to smile. "Thank you Samar. Some neighbour I've turned out to be, huh! You know when you moved in and used to come in at odd hours on that bike, not allowing me to sleep or do my gardening in peace, I thought you were out on a mission to destroy all my joy. But now looks like..." she shrugged. "You were being the good cop and a neighbour, helping me out a little not realizing what you were getting yourself into--"

"Stop!" he said. It was like the crack of a whip. Crouching down in front of her on his heels, he cupped her face between his hard, calloused palms and looked into her eyes. "I am not being neighbourly so put that thought out of your head Sanika Joshi. I know you are not ready to hear this. I know this is not the time or the place. But I'm going to say it anyway. I have fallen in love with you."

Shock almost felled her. She jerked in his arms but he didn't let go. So she caught and held on to his wrists. "No. I..."

"Shut up and listen to me. I know I'm not the only one. You feel it too but you don't want to acknowledge. You're so sure we don't have a future together that you won't even consider the possibility of one. But get something into your head right now. You think once this case is solved, we'll be back to being just neighbours." He shook his head without taking his eyes away from hers. "Not going to happen. I love you and soon, you will learn to trust me."

Sanika pushed his hands away and got up, fear riding her high. It was one thing to fear for her life. Quite another to fear for her heart. Right now she was in danger of losing one or both. "I-I don't. I don't love you."

"Look at me while you say it and I'll back off," he stated calmly. She tried. She really did. She looked at him and opened her mouth. But the words just wouldn't come.

Point made, he swiped his thumb over the screen. "Salim. Anything?"

"I was just about to call you. You better come."

"Who?"

"Vijay Khandekar, Pravin Patel and Arnab Das."

"All three?"

"Yes. When is her brother scheduled to arrive?"

"His flight landed. He's on his way."

---

End of Chapter Twelve.

---

Shruti kept surfacing to consciousness, like a float bobbing up and down in the water. At first her awareness was fragmented. She could hear voices in the distance, though she couldn't make out any words, and a soft beeping noise. She was also aware of something in her throat, though she didn't realize it was a tube. She had no concept of where she was, or even that she was lying down.

The next time she bobbed up, she could feel smooth cotton beneath her and recognized the fabric as sheets. The next time she managed to open her eyes a slit, but her vision was blurry and darkness engulfed her once again. There was pain, but it was at a distance. The tube was gone from her throat now. She vaguely remembered it being removed, which hadn't been pleasant. She thought she saw a flurry of white coats. Hospital. She was in a hospital, she realized. Lights were sometimes very bright and dull at other times.

Gradually her dominion over her body began to return, as she fought off the effects of anaesthesia and drugs. With the return of consciousness, though, came the pain. It crept ever nearer as the fog of drugs receded.

She managed to make a weak gesture by moving her fingers, and croak out a single word. "Runal."

Someone, a nurse, smiled at her and said in a low soothing voice. "Welcome back. Your husband is right outside. Just hang in there and I'll send him in."

Shruti tried to nod but gave up as it seemed to take too much of an effort. Her drooping eyelids fluttered as the door made a slight swishing noise and she saw a figure slowly walking towards her. Her eyes widened. It was Runal but it didn't look like him. Dark circles under his sunken eyes, unshaven face that looked thin, almost gaunt, wrinkled clothes... My God! What happened?

She moved her lips to talk but all she could croak was the same one word. "Runal."

He came closer, closer still. Until he was standing right beside the bed. As she watched, his eyes filled up. Lifting a trembling hand, he touched her forehead. "Hey."

Shruti tried to smile. Wetting her dry, parched lips, she uttered, "Hey!"

The hand on her forehead slid until it was cupping her cheek. "Welcome back!"

"Wha' 'appened?" she accompanied the question with a slight hand movement.

"You met with an accident," Runal kept his voice low, soothing, not wanting to scare or confuse her. He wanted to pick her up and hug her tight, smother her face with kisses, run his hands over her to reassure that she was here. Back with him. He didn't do any of those things. "Don't worry," he said instead. "You'll be back to normal in no time."

"Accident..." Shruti tried to recall but her mind was too slow and numb with the drugs. She gave up after a few moments. "When?"

"Friday night. Today is Tuesday morning."

Unbelievably her lips formed a smile that spread across her face before reaching her eyes. She blinked, gesturing him to come closer. He leaned forward, taking her hand, the one that wasn't attached to the IV, into his and placed a tender kiss on her open palm. "You seem to look worse than I do," she observed, and looked pleased that her speech was clearer. Then her brow wrinkled as tension crept back. "Were you hurt too? Is that why..." her fingers left his hand to trace his thin, pale face.

"Shhh. Relax. I'm fine. Not a scratch I promise you. Hey, your mom and dad are here. Want to see them? They're right outside," he sought to divert her.

"Must've been bad if they're here too," she tried to smile, drowsiness already drawing her back into its embrace. "You need to shave," she mumbled, eyes closing.

---

Sanika smiled her good morning to one of her colleagues at Prisma, hoping it covered her frazzled nerves. She had worn a full-sleeved navy blue shirt to hide the bandage on her arm. Tan coloured trousers, flat sandals and slim wristwatch completed her attire. Her fauji dada was right beside her, trying his level best not to look out of place in the corporate environment. But one look at him, even a rank stranger would spot him for what he was. Army. The erect posture, not to mention the army hairstyle were a dead giveaway. Added to those was the way he looked at others. Like a sniper searching for his target to lock on and press the trigger, oh so slowly. He was almost as tall as Samar, but not as broad. Since he specialized in hand-to-hand combat, she wasn't worried about that. But it didn't stop her from wishing none of this had ever happened.

"Don't worry about me, I have my tab and newspapers," Saket said, pulling up the chair opposite to hers to park himself. "Do what you gotta do and try to forget that I'm here."

"Easier said than done," she muttered.

"How is your friend Shruti doing? That was her husband on the phone, right?"

Sanika's smile was relieved. "Yeah. She is conscious now. Spoke to him too." Runal's relief and joy had been obvious when he had called her. Your friend is going to be OK Sanika. I'm going home now for some shower and shave. Wife's orders, he'd said laughing. "What were you and Samar talking about just before we left?"

He shrugged. "Just some last-minute instructions."

"What do you think of him?" she asked abruptly.

"Samar?" He asked. She nodded. "Quiet. Intense. Watchful. A warrior who uses his brain and brawn. Can't say much since..."

"He proposed," she said, not looking at her brother, instead choosing to busy herself with her laptop.

Saket leaned forward. "When?"

"Yesterday. Just before you came."

"Did you say yes?"

She scoffed, but the scoff came out strangled. "Of course not."

"Of course not," Saket repeated drily. "But you're thinking about it." When she remained obstinately silent, he leaned back in his chair with a small smile playing on his lips. "Look, I've known you my whole life Choti. You've turned down how many proposals now? Three? Four? And you've never once looked the way you do right now."

"And what way is that?"

"Terrified."

Before she could retort, her phone rang. Samar. She answered, deliberately casual. "Yes?"

"Tell your brother to stay alert. We're following up on the three suspects from the video. I'll update you tonight."

"OK."

"And Sanika?" A pause. "Be careful."

"I'm always careful," she said, and hung up before the warmth in his voice could undo her.

---

Runal opened the door of his apartment to find Shruti's mother in the kitchen, warming up breakfast. She had been worried sick not only about Shruti but also about Runal. He had been in pieces and no amount of pleading, reasoning, even scolding would make him move away from that ICU.

"I've put a load in the washing machine," she said, folding the dried clothes. "We can leave for the hospital whenever you are ready." She got up and went into the guest bedroom. When she came back, she had something in her hand. "Beta, this was in that hospital cover, along with Shruti's clothes," she said and extended a silver bracelet.

Frowning, Runal took the bracelet. "In the hospital cover?" His mother-in-law nodded. "Maybe the hospital people put someone else's in the cover by mistake."

Maybe. Or... Was it... "Maaji, are you sure this one was in that cover?"

"Yes Runal. The dress was totally ruined so I wanted to throw it away. When I emptied the cover, this one fell out along with her watch and earrings."

"And those were hers?"

"Yes. The earrings you had gifted her for the wedding and the watch, her dad had given her when she got the job. I remember them well. I've kept them both... Runal, what happened?"

Leaving the food half eaten, he got up. "Nothing Maaji. I just need to make a call. We'll leave soon after that." Without another word he took the bracelet and went into his study to call Samar. "Samar? Runal here. Yeah, Shruti is fine. Listen, I'm sending you the picture of a bracelet. It was among Shruti's clothes that she wore on that day. But it's not hers. Her backpack was put in my car before we shifted her into the ambulance so it can't be that she found someone else's and took it with her to return it or whatever. Yes, I'm 200% sure it's not hers. It's a silver bracelet and Shruti is allergic to silver. Yeah. I'm sending it now."

Samar disconnected the call and opened his WhatsApp to check the image. Runal was right, he thought, zooming the picture. Silver bracelet with interconnecting butterflies. Definitely not something a man would wear.

Thoughts raced one after the other. It was not Shruti's and it wasn't a man's. Either Shruti had someone else's bracelet in her hand at the time that she was pushed or... she had grabbed and pulled it from the killer's hand just before she fell. If she was allergic to the metal why have it with her at all? That meant... holy shit!

"Where is Mukund?" he shouted at the whole room.

Mukund grabbed something from the printer and ran up to him. "Fingerprints sir."

Samar snatched the paper and scanned it quickly. The print does not match anyone in the system. However, basing on the epidermal ridge density found in the partial fingerprint left at the scene of crime, it can be concluded with 75% accuracy that it belongs to a female of Indian origin.

"A woman!" he said to himself.

"What?" Salim looked up from his report.

Samar waved the report. "The fingerprint belongs to a woman. And we just found a bracelet in Shruti's belongings that doesn't belong to her. A feminine bracelet."

There was dead silence in the room; then Salim said, "You gotta be kidding!" After being in the police service for so long, pretty much nothing surprised them anymore but this one had come out of nowhere. "You're saying a woman... Ya Khuda!" Salim looked lost for words and Samar knew he was thinking about the way Mira's body had been mutilated. "We excluded the female employees," he said, aghast. "But why would a woman... That video was a pro-woman one."

"We need to go back to the supermarket video footage," Samar muttered, striding towards the video room. He stopped abruptly and whirled towards Salim. "There was a woman from Prisma who helped Sanika. Wrapped her scarf around the wound, held her hand... Fucking son of a bitch I thanked her Salim!"

Salim sidestepped Samar and started the video. "Let's see where she was during the attack."

"Ruhi," Samar got the name out of his memory bank. Mukund, reading his thoughts, ran back to get his laptop. Scrolling through the list from the Prisma database, he found two Ruhis. The first one was over fifty-five, married with two kids. He struck that one off and clicked open the second one. "Ruhi Anuj Sahni. Age, 36, single, works in HR." He looked up. "That's how Mira knew her. That's why she opened the door for her. Ruhi was her colleague. And that's how Ruhi got all the contact information. It was practically at her fingertips. She had spoken to both of them after Mira's death which Sanika found pretty surprising because social niceties were not her thing." He read through the file. "There are several complaints regarding her attitude. Mostly from women. Damn!"

"Samar," Salim called out, his attention already on the screen. Both of them watched the videos from different cameras. They saw Ruhi enter the supermarket, her head swirling this way and that, searching for something. Or someone. "Grey coat with a hood," he noted. Then she disappeared. Only to appear later at the billing counter where Samar had taken Sanika after her attack. There was no jacket though. She must have dumped it in the clothes section, he thought. They watched her grip Sanika's hand and tie the scarf on the injury.

"There, stop," Samar said at the point where he had thanked Ruhi and walked away with Sanika. "Zoom in on her Salim. A little more. There. See that?" Both of them saw Ruhi, head tilted to the side, looking at her hand.

"It's as if she is fascinated by the blood on her hand," Salim observed.

"Sanika's blood."

"And she seems to be in no hurry to clean it off. Damn Rane, this one is crazy in more ways than one."

"Sanika is at Prisma," Samar said, alarm clawing his gut. Both men looked at each other before running towards the jeep, calling out to the rest of their team. Samar took out his phone with one hand while he jabbed the sirens on with the other. He had to reach Sanika. Or Saket.

---

"Talk is that my boss is quitting," Sanika said, coming back to her seat after a small chat with a few of her colleagues. "What do you guys do when someone quits? Hire a totally new person or promote the one next in line?"

"Depends. Our boss plays musical chairs most of the time," she grinned. "Everyone's role gets changed then and everything is all over the place for a couple of weeks because everyone is new to their role."

"So your role is going to change too?"

"Yeah. If he goes ahead with his resignation then I'll be taking up the role of GM."

"Promotion then," Saket smiled. "That's great Choti!"

"Let's not count the chicks before they hatch dada. And I'm thinking of a job change too. Anyway, let's see..."

She was scrolling through her emails when Saket cleared his throat in a way that she recognised from childhood -- the sound he made when he was about to say something he'd been sitting on for a while. She looked up.

"That cop of yours. Samar." He was doing the thing where he pretended to read his newspaper while actually watching her over the top of it. "You know I ran a background check on him."

"You did what?"

"Don't look at me like that. You're my little sister and some guy moves in next door and starts running with you at 5 AM. Of course I checked." He folded the newspaper with military precision. "IPS, 2012 batch. Psychology MA from Panjab University, BL from Symbiosis. First posting in Mangalore, transferred to Pune Crime Branch three years ago. Decorated twice. One commendation for the Hinjewadi kidnapping case. No complaints, no controversies, no social media presence whatsoever." He paused. "Clean. Too clean, actually. Guys like that either have impeccable character or are very good at hiding things."

"And which do you think he is?"

"The first." He looked at her directly. "I watched him with you, Choti. The way he positions himself -- always between you and the door, always with a clear sightline to the exits. That's not a man being protective of a neighbour. That's a man protecting someone he considers his own."

She stared at her screen, not seeing the words on it. "He told me he loves me."

"I know."

"How do you--" She stopped. "You were listening."

"I was in the next room. Army hearing." He shrugged without apology. "Want my opinion?"

"Not particularly."

"He's a good man. And you're terrified."

"I'm not terrified. I'm cautious. There's a difference."

"There really isn't. Not in your case." He held up a hand before she could argue. "All I'm saying is -- you've been burned three times. That's enough to make anyone gun-shy. But don't let the idiots of the past ruin someone who might be worth the risk."

Sanika opened her mouth, closed it, and opened it again. "Since when did you become a relationship counsellor?"

"Since my little sister started blushing every time her phone rings."

"I do not--" Her phone rang. She looked at the caller ID and felt heat climb her cheeks. Saket raised one eyebrow with devastating effect. "Oh, shut up," she muttered, and answered the call.

---

Afternoon brought a lull. The office settled into its post-lunch drowsiness -- keyboards clicking slower, conversations muted, the air conditioning humming its steady white noise. Saket had positioned himself in the chair opposite Sanika's cubicle, close enough to intervene but far enough not to hover. He had a gift for stillness, her brother. He could sit in one place for hours without fidgeting, his eyes alert even when his body was relaxed. It came from years of border postings, she knew -- those long nights in forward bunkers where the difference between life and death was whether you noticed the shadow moving against the treeline.

"Sanika?"

Sanika found Ruhi standing beside her cubicle, twisting the handle of her handbag, looking more than a little agitated. In the last few days, especially after the way Ruhi had helped her out the previous evening, Sanika's opinion of her had started to change a little. Soften a bit. "Hey Ruhi. Everything OK?"

"Yeah, I mean... Can you come with me to the restroom please?" She darted a quick look at Saket. "I... I need some help."

Sanika studied her for a moment. Ruhi's face was flushed, her eyes darting between Sanika and the corridor. Her fingers were white-knuckled around the handbag strap. She looked like a woman on the verge of tears. Or something else that Sanika couldn't quite identify.

"What kind of help?" Sanika asked, not unkindly.

"It's... personal. I can't talk about it here." Ruhi's voice dropped to a whisper. "Please. It'll only take a minute."

Something about the request nagged at Sanika. Ruhi had never sought her out for anything personal before. They weren't friends. They were barely acquaintances who'd been forced into proximity by circumstance. But the desperation in Ruhi's eyes was convincing, and Sanika had always been the kind of person who couldn't turn away from someone asking for help. It was both her greatest strength and, as she was about to discover, her most dangerous vulnerability.

"Sure," Sanika agreed although she was confused. What kind of help did this woman need that she wanted her to come to the restroom along with her? Female problem? Shrugging, she got up to follow her. Seeing her dada fall into step beside her, she stopped. "We're going to the restroom," she muttered. "You can't come in there."

He merely shrugged. Then eyeing both women, he backed off a little. "I'll wait in the corridor."

"Yeah, you do that."

Saket watched them walk away -- his sister with her characteristic confident stride, the other woman moving with quick, jerky steps like a bird that had spotted a cat. Something about the way the woman held her handbag bothered him. She was clutching it against her body, angled away from Sanika, as if protecting its contents from view. He filed the observation away and settled into the corridor chair.

With a small wave and a wink, Sanika went with Ruhi while Saket sat in one of the chairs in the corridor with a crossword puzzle. He had solved the third one when he heard a few women grumbling about the locked restroom door but ignored it until it struck him that the restrooms in corporate offices resembled those in a mall. A hall with washbasins and mirrors and cubicles with doors. His train of thought scattered when his phone rang.

"Yes Samar?"

"Where is Sanika?"

"In the restroom. Why?"

Samar's breath sighed out in relief. "Listen. The attacker is a woman. Her name is Ruhi and she works in the HR. I'm on my way..."

Saket shot out of his chair. "Sanika just went into the restroom along with a girl named Ruhi."

---

End of Chapter Thirteen.

---

The bottom dropped out of Samar's stomach.

With one hand he gestured the driver to plough through the traffic, a distant part of his mind thanking the fact that they were in the Hinjewadi office that day and not at the HQ, which was in Shivajinagar. And people in recent times were more conscious and reacted positively to the sound of a siren. Three police jeeps wailing simultaneously one behind the other certainly got them moving real fast. Signals were ignored while autos and two-wheelers sidestepped and four-wheelers either stopped or got out of the way.

How much time has lapsed? Samar checked his watch. Thirty seconds since Saket disconnected the call. Was Sanika safe? Mira died from strangulation. According to the postmortem report, even if she hadn't been strangled and stabbed, the initial blow to the head had been so severe that she wouldn't have survived for more than a few hours. He tried not to think of what Ruhi had done to Mira with a knife. And it had taken just one slash and Shruti had been fighting for life.

With a vile curse, he told Salim to direct an ambulance to Prisma premises and made another call. To the CEO. He quickly outlined the situation. "Get someone out there as fast as you can. Saket is already there. If Sanika is alive, the ambulance is on the way." He had to force himself to breathe before he could continue. "If she is not..." he squeezed his eyes shut, locked his jaw and completed the sentence. "If she is not, make sure no one tampers the evidence. Ruhi is armed. Warn your guys."

"OK." Pramod Gadkari didn't waste time with more words. Thirty seconds later, the security personnel were split in two groups. One took the lift while the second one ran towards the stairs that would take them to the fifth floor and the restrooms located in the corner of that floor. The head of security locked down the rest of the building, including the elevators.

---

Stupid dumb bitch, Ruhi silently snickered. Sanika fell for the ruse so easily! And no one had been able to guess. Not even that guy who was now in the corridor waiting patiently for them to come back. Who was he? Another pitiful lover, she dismissed. Of the three bitches this one was most like that woman who had been called her mother. Vandana. Not caring what the others thought of her, did whatever she liked and damn the consequences her family was left to face. Sanika was the same. Just look at the way she shamelessly went about even after making and breaking off with three different men! Four if you counted that muscle-bound bodyguard. Five if you add the one in the corridor. Making poor men trust her and use them until she had her fill before discarding them like yesterday's trash. And making a checklist as if the men were machines with no feelings.

That hurt. That hurt so much. And whoever dares to hurt her or her father would be punished. Should be punished. Vandana was out of her reach. But as Ruhi grew up she realized there were a lot of women like Vandana. Mean, selfish bitches who hurt people without an ounce of regret. Like these three bitches. But no more. Now she had found a way to silence their bitchiness permanently. From now on whoever dared to hurt her would know how it felt to be hurt. They would know the same pain but in a way that would give her pleasure.

Her body slowly started to rock back and forth. Controlling it was not easy but she did it. She always did. She had work to do. Her fingers went into her handbag, tightening around the handle. She frowned at the dampness of her palms. Of course she wasn't scared. She did it before, didn't she? Twice. But the other two hadn't been looking at her the way Sanika was. Straight, unwavering, slightly frowning.

Sanika didn't know what Ruhi wanted. She wanted help but now the woman was zoning out on her. Reminding herself that Ruhi was the one who had helped her, she summoned her patience and even managed a smile.

"So, what do you need Ruhi? I have a couple of napkins in my bag if that's what your problem is." Sanika frowned as she saw Ruhi rocking back and forth like she was about to fall. But she didn't look sick. She looked... angry. What the hell! "Listen, either talk or I leave. I have work to do."

"You shouldn't have done it," Ruhi's voice was low. Almost like a whisper.

"Shouldn't have done what?" Unease slithered through Sanika's spine. She took an involuntary step back. "What are you talking about?"

"You shouldn't have made that disgusting video!" Whisper became raspy. Eerily familiar. Unease quickly turned into blind terror. Sanika knew that voice. She stared at the long, deadly looking knife in Ruhi's hand. She heard the same ghostly voice again coming out of Ruhi.

"Punished. Shameless women won't go unpunished. You need to be punished."

"You?" Sanika half-whispered. "It is you!" She darted a glance at the door to freedom. It was bolted at the top. And Ruhi was standing between her and the door, a creepy glitter in her eyes and a twisted expression on her face.

"You shouldn't live," she rasped. "You should die. People like you shouldn't live."

Sanika darted another glance at the knife. It trembled in Ruhi's hand before firming. Sanika inched to the side, trying to move towards the door. If she could just get herself to the other side of Ruhi... Her dada was right outside but he didn't know. Samar was just a phone call away but he didn't know either. Everyone including herself thought it was a guy. She only had herself to protect herself from the monster who had killed Si and almost killed Shratz.

No, she wasn't alone. She had the training Samar had taught her.

She wasn't going to give up. Time for Sanika Joshi to take care of herself, she decided. The vision of Mira's lifeless body in that mortuary and Shruti hooked up to all those machines in the ICU filled her with so much rage that it almost consumed her.

Always remember, Sanika Joshi. Try to escape. If you feel that you can't, then fight. And no matter what you do, don't give up. Never give up. You give up and you lose before you start.

Sanika wasn't aware of lunging forward. Ruhi raised the knife, ready to slash. Bending low at the waist, Sanika ploughed into Ruhi, making her stumble and scream in rage. Sanika felt the first slash of the knife on her back as Ruhi swung it in an arc. But the angle of attack didn't give her a chance to plunge it into Sanika. Ruhi stiffened and recovered her balance only to have Sanika straighten up and deliver a solid punch to her face.

Ruhi screamed in agony and fury.

Ignoring the screaming pain of her back, Sanika used that split second to try to run for the door. Ruhi's arms grabbed her from behind, one arm still holding the knife. Sanika reacted, driving her elbow back into Ruhi's gut as hard as she could. Ruhi whooshed out her breath in a violent explosion. Sanika ducked out of her hold, whirled and poked her in her eyes. She didn't have a proper angle but managed to connect squarely on one eye.

Ruhi attacked her simultaneously. Sanika felt another slash on her upper arm. As Ruhi covered her injured eye with one hand, Sanika caught hold of the one holding the knife and bit into it with all her strength. The taste of blood in her mouth made her want to retch but she controlled it and in the next moment found herself stumbling back and then forward as Ruhi caught hold of her shirt collar, turned and threw her against the wall, the knife still firmly in her now bitten and bleeding hand. Sanika's forehead hit the wall and bounced back. Her vision went dim. But she recovered enough to turn and lunge sideways before the knife could pierce her a third time and landed another punch to Ruhi's ribs.

Growling, Ruhi went down, pulling Sanika along with her. Tangled together, both of them struggled. Sanika pinned Ruhi's hand, the one that was holding the knife, with one of her hands. Ruhi twisted wildly, trying to break free, the fingers of her free hand going for Sanika's neck. Sanika reared back, away from those clawing fingers, a distant part of her mind registering repeated loud noises, like something hard forcefully hitting something that was equally hard. Someone was trying to break the door open.

Bracing her legs on either side of Ruhi, Sanika pushed herself to standing position and started to run towards the door only to flail her hands helplessly in the air before landing hard on her front as Ruhi caught hold of her ankle and pulled. Twisting, she lifted her free ankle and kicked Ruhi in her face with her sandalled foot. Hard. Ruhi's howl of pain coincided with another loud crash. Sanika swirled her head in time to see the door splinter and fall apart. Before she could blink her dada was upon them both. He disarmed Ruhi, shoved her onto her stomach, wrenching her arms behind her back, tying them together with a nylon rope that he pulled out from his pocket.

Dazed, she could only sit there and ask, "Where did you get the rope from?"

"One of the last-minute instructions from Samar," he said. His smile of relief disappeared just as quickly. Blood was oozing rapidly from the wounds at her back and upper arm. "I need help!" he shouted for the group of people rapidly gathering in the corridor. He left Ruhi to the security personnel who were streaming in, totally ignoring her loud screams, and crouched in front of Sanika. "Choti, you're bleeding," he said, pressing his hand to the wound at her back. A girl from Sanika's team pushed through the crowd and barged in, quickly tying her dupatta around her waist to stop the blood flow while Saket tied his handkerchief around her arm.

Sanika yelped, "Hurts dada! Everything hurts," she muttered. "Samar," she whispered, closing her eyes.

She was vaguely aware of being stretched out on the floor, then being lifted and laid down again, this time face down. Someone was slicing open her shirt at the back. She tried to move but realized she couldn't. Then she felt herself floating, jolting, moving. She heard Ruhi's hoarse cries and curses. Everyone was talking simultaneously, the words jumbling in her head. Then Samar was there, his face pale as he grabbed her hand and held it tight in his. Sighing, she gave in to the darkness that was sucking her in.

The next time she came to, she was still on her stomach, her hand was still in Samar's and sirens were blaring somewhere real close. She tried to move again and winced again.

"Samar," she moaned.

"I'm right here Jaanu," he said, bending low, bringing his face into her line of vision. "You're in an ambulance. We're taking you to hospital. You'll be fine."

"R-Ruhi," she whispered, still numb. "It's Ruhi."

"I know Jaanu," his fingers brushed the side of her face that was turned towards him, tracing the bump on her forehead where she had hit the wall. "Salim has arrested her. He's there now. You just relax. We got her. We got her," he repeated.

"I did it," she said. "I did just like you told me to. I didn't give up. I stayed and fought Samar."

"I know," he bent and kissed her forehead. "You did great Sanika Joshi. I'm proud of you."

"Dada tore the door open," she said, her lips tilted in a small half smile.

"It's a wonder I didn't kill that bitch." Sanika heard her dada's voice from the other side of her.

"Dada?" she said, trying but unable to turn her head to the other side.

"I'm right here. Don't try to move Choti. You'll set off the bleeding again." His arm touched her shoulder gently before withdrawing. Her breath shuddered out and she closed her eyes, letting the blessed darkness envelope her once again.

Saket looked at Samar who was gazing at his sister with a tortured expression on his face. "Don't beat yourself up," he advised quietly.

"I didn't figure it out until it was almost too late," Samar rubbed his face, his voice raw. "We assumed it was a guy. That was our biggest mistake."

"Yeah but you put it together and came up with the name in time to warn me and the security guys. You called in the ambulance. Most important of all, you took the threats and calls seriously from the beginning. You taught her how to defend herself. In my book you've done a great job." Samar didn't acknowledge the praise but the tightness around his eyes slowly relaxed. Saket saw his sister moan in pain, her grip on Samar's hand tightening. "You better not hurt her Rane or I'll pull out your guts and use them as fish bait," he warned.

"Fair enough," Samar agreed.

---

"Yes, I remember the Sahni family," Prince said, his voice shaky with age.

Samar exhaled. Finally someone who could shed some light into Ruhi and her convoluted behaviour. Irrespective of the method of interrogation, they couldn't get anything out of Ruhi except that she was a demented female who firmly believed the three women didn't deserve to live. Evidence was airtight so not many were actually interested in the woman's thought process. But Samar couldn't let go of the why in her behaviour. He began digging into her background and it led to this small town in Bihar. The only one whom he could get hold of was the man Prince. Retired firefighter, who had been in active duty around the time Ruhi and her parents lived in that town. It had been a long shot but it worked.

"I felt sorry for the father and daughter but there wasn't anything anyone could do about it," he continued.

"Can you explain further? I understand it was a very long time ago but..."

"Some things can't be forgotten very easily if you know what I mean. Anuj Sahni belonged to a rich, well-educated family. He came up in his life on his own capabilities. Modest, hardworking and very humble. Never one to hesitate in giving a helping hand to people in need. He was the one who recommended two of my nephews and got them into good jobs so I was on a first-name basis with him." He stopped to clear his throat. "He fell in love and got married to a woman named Vandana. A beautiful woman. Initially everything had been fine. They even had a daughter."

"Ruhi Sahni."

"Yes. Ruhi. But his wife Vandana... she wasn't a good woman. About a year after Ruhi was born, her affairs started. She didn't divorce Anuj. She wanted his money, I guess." Samar could feel the old man shaking his head. "I will never understand some people. Anuj and Vandana were among those. Her affairs never lasted long and every time she went back to him he took her back." Prince coughed some more, ending with a wheeze. "You have to understand. This is a small town and almost twenty years back... people talked. I asked Anuj why he stayed with that woman. Why couldn't he just divorce her? Lord above wouldn't blame him. But he was obsessed with her. You wouldn't understand the kind of love I feel for my wife, he said. She loves me, that's why she keeps coming back, he insisted. Then one day she left him and their daughter and never came back. Started living with another rich guy in this very town."

Samar could imagine what that would have done to the man and his daughter.

"Not long after that, that guy and Vandana died in a fire accident. Anuj lost his mind after that. He kept insisting his wife would come back for him. Refused to leave his house, refused to talk to anyone, his only link to the outside world was his daughter Ruhi. She had been all of fourteen years old I think. Yes. I remember. She was to give her board exams the year her mother died. He was rich so I guess that took care of her education costs and things like that but it also meant she and her father were tied to this town. She had been too young to manage anywhere else on her own."

"They didn't have any other family?"

"I... uh... I don't know much about Vandana's family although I heard that her father passed away after her marriage. And once her behaviour came to light, his family distanced and disappeared from the picture."

"So Ruhi was left alone to take care of her unstable father," Samar concluded.

"Yes. People in this town didn't do her any favours either. Mostly women. I never can understand that nature you know? In my opinion if men are physically crueller, women are definitely meaner. The child was left to face their taunts and snide remarks. Her resemblance to her mother didn't help. Women talk and their daughters listen. There were no friends for her at school or college. Her school years were particularly bad because Vandana had been alive. It was a girls' school and they were mean but as time went by Ruhi became meaner. If anyone taunted or talked bad, especially about her father, she gave it back to them. Tearing their clothes, locking them in the bathrooms, burning their books... you name it, she did it until people learnt to keep away from her." His sigh ended on a groan. "Even after that she didn't stop. If she saw two girls talking and they glanced in her direction in the most casual way, she assumed they were talking bad about her and her father and reacted to it. The day she finished her studies, she packed her bags, took her father and left the town. Far as I know, she never returned. Even their house... she sold it through some real estate guy."

"Thank you for your time sir."

Disconnecting the call he looked up to see Salim walking towards him. "Any information on Anuj Sahni?"

"Yeah," he grimaced. "Father and daughter had been living in that apartment. He was unbalanced but since he kept to himself no one in the complex objected. Then one day he apparently mistook some woman to be his wife and created a huge ruckus. The woman's husband filed a complaint and after that the apartment committee gave her an ultimatum to either get her father admitted or leave the complex." He referred to his notes. "She owned that apartment so guess she had no choice but to get her father admitted in an institution."

"The stressor," Samar stated quietly. He could see it now -- the entire arc of Ruhi's disintegration, laid out like a case study in a psychology textbook. The childhood trauma: watching her mother's infidelity destroy her father, piece by piece, year by year. The social isolation: growing up in a small town where everyone knew her family's shame, where the cruelty of other girls -- other women -- had taught her that females were the enemy, that solidarity between women was a myth, that every smile hid a knife. The coping mechanism: aggression, retaliation, a fortress of rage that kept the world at bay but also kept her trapped inside. And then the final blow -- losing her father to an institution, the one person she had spent her entire life protecting, taken from her by a complaint filed by a woman. Always women. Always.

And then the video. Three women, laughing, crying, airing men's failures with the casual confidence of people who had never known what it was like to watch love destroy everything. The video hadn't been aimed at Ruhi. It hadn't been aimed at anyone. But to a mind that had been marinating in decades of unprocessed trauma, it had felt like a personal attack -- like Vandana herself reaching out from the grave to taunt her daughter one last time. See? This is what women do. They mock. They judge. They tear men apart and discard them when they don't measure up. Your father gave everything, and I discarded him anyway.

The psychology was textbook. The tragedy was not.

"According to her neighbours, the couple who filed a complaint against Anuj Sahni vacated their apartment and moved out within that week. No one knows why." Salim paused, letting the implication settle. Ruhi had likely threatened them, or worse. "As far as anyone could tell, Ruhi Sahni's life revolved around her work and visiting her father every evening. Even on weekends. The neighbours described her as quiet, polite, kept to herself. One woman said she always brought flowers when she visited her father -- marigolds, because he liked them. Another said she sometimes heard Ruhi singing to him through the wall -- old Hindi songs, the kind from the seventies and eighties, the ones their parents would have listened to." He sighed and closed the book. "He committed suicide last night."

The silence that followed was heavy with the weight of things that could not be undone.

Samar stared at the wall of his office -- the wall covered in crime scene photographs, timeline charts, and the red threads connecting victims to evidence to suspect. It was over. The case was solved. Ruhi Sahni would face trial, would be evaluated by psychiatrists, would likely spend years in a facility designed to contain people whose minds had turned against them. The legal system would do what it does -- process, adjudicate, file, archive. Another case closed. Another set of folders transferred from Active to Resolved.

But the questions that mattered -- the ones about loneliness and mental health and a society that noticed dysfunction only after it erupted into violence -- those would remain unanswered. Those always did.

After a few moments of silence, Salim asked, "How did your Mumbai trip go?"

Samar shrugged. Salim knew him long enough to know what that shrug meant. "Does your Sanika know?" This time Samar shook his head. "How is she? Has she been discharged?"

"She's fine," Samar smiled a little. "Discharge is today. In fact, I'm on my way there now. See you later." He took two steps but stopped when he heard Salim's phone ringing.

---

End of Chapter Fourteen.

---

"I can't believe you didn't tell your parents!" Shruti said. She was still very weak and had strict instructions not to get out of the bed but was declared completely out of danger, shifted from ICU into one of the private rooms a floor higher and hoping to get discharged by the end of the week. The only bad moment had been when she had come to know that Sanika was attacked. Runal had had a hard time reassuring her that her friend was absolutely fine. But once he swore by her that Sanika's life was in no danger, she had settled down.

Sanika noticed the changes in the room since her last visit. Runal had reorganised everything. Shruti's phone was charging on his side of the bedside table, screen facing down. The get-well-soon cards from colleagues had been stacked and moved to the windowsill, out of Shruti's reach. When Shruti's phone had buzzed earlier -- a WhatsApp notification -- Runal had glanced at the screen, read it, and put the phone back without mentioning it. When Sanika had asked Shruti if she wanted anything from the canteen, Runal had answered for her: "She's on a restricted diet. The doctor said only what the hospital provides." Shruti had opened her mouth, then closed it. A small thing. But Sanika had seen that particular closing of the mouth before -- in her own mirror, during her second engagement, when Varun had started answering questions on her behalf at family dinners.

The contrast with Samar was stark. When Samar had been protecting Sanika, he had taught her self-defence -- given her the tools to protect herself. He had moved into her house uninvited, yes, but he had never touched her phone, never screened her visitors, never answered questions on her behalf. He had stood between her and danger while making sure she could stand on her own. Runal was building a wall around Shruti and calling it love. The question was whether Shruti could see it -- and whether she would tolerate it once she was strong enough to push back.

"Well, my dada did," she grumbled, drawing a small giggle from Shruti. "Their plane lands tomorrow. Honestly I don't know why he couldn't have waited another week..." she tried to lean back in the chair, winced, straightened and winced again.

Sanika had been brought to the same hospital as Shruti. The injury on her upper arm had been relatively minor, requiring only six stitches. But the knife slash on her back had been longer and deeper, narrowly missing her right kidney, requiring eighteen stitches and a bottle of blood. The bump on her head meant she had been put through a round of CT scan, twenty-four hour observation and two-day hospitalization. All this excluding the minor bruises that she had gained while punching and hitting that bitch who had tried to kill her. But one advantage of being in the hospital was she didn't have to face the media circus that was currently surrounding Prisma. Now that the killer was caught, the whole story was out. Including the damn cursed video of theirs. Sanika was seriously contemplating leaving the hospital in a burka and keeping it on until the heat died down and it became old news.

"He would've been disowned by them if he hid something like this," Shruti retorted with a grin. "Anyway, what's your hero saying?"

Sanika's grumpiness disappeared. "He's been to Mumbai the day after this happened. Had it been only three days?" Sanika asked in surprise. Shruti's nod was wry. So much had happened that she had lost track of time. Her fingers absently traced the thick bandage wrapped around her arm. "Anyway, he went to Mumbai day before yesterday for I don't know what."

"Aaah, so that is the reason for your glum face," Runal remarked with a grin as he entered Shruti's room carrying a bunch of red roses which he extended to his wife and added a gentle kiss on her forehead as his greeting.

Bye-bye marital problems, Sanika thought, looking at the couple. At the naked devotion in his eyes and contented smile in hers. Then Runal's comment registered. "Glum? I'm not glum. Runal Gokhale, there are two injured people here and only one gets the flowers?"

With a grin he brought the hand that had been behind his back forward, extending a small rectangular box of Ferrero Rocher chocolates with flourish. "Since you have no diet restriction..."

"How the hell did you know these are my favourite?" Sanika asked, grabbing the box. "Uh, thank you," she added as an afterthought, making him laugh out loud.

"I don't know... maybe because Shruti gifted you with a huge box for your last birthday?"

"And you remember that?"

Runal exhaled on a grunt. "A 48-chocolate pack that got lost and I had to order it online again? Not easy to forget something like that." Perching himself beside his wife, he said, "Back to the topic at hand, your hero is back and is on his way up. I think your brother is seeing to the discharge formalities."

Shruti waited until Sanika left the room after a round of farewells, get well soon wishes and promises to be on WhatsApp before asking her husband, "Since when did you and Su become friends?"

"Since the night we sat in that hall, waiting, praying for your life," he said, and kissed her. He felt her smile when he gently hugged her.

---

"So she was pissed off because her father had been a devoted husband and yet her mother hadn't stayed with them?" Sanika asked. "She thought we were like her mother? Tearing men apart, discarding them?" She was back home from the hospital, relaxing in the downstairs bedroom. Her dada had gone out to get some groceries and veggies, a time that Samar used to update her on Ruhi's case.

"Yes," Samar said, leaning back in the chair, stretching his legs out. "From what I think, she had become paranoid. In her view, you three were like her mother, wanting someone without any intention of staying with that someone. A man like her father. I spoke to the doctor of the institution where her father had been admitted. They had put him on medication a few weeks back. He had been more aware of the surroundings but when it finally sunk into him that his wife was indeed dead, how he's been all these years..." he trailed off. "Combined with the fact that his daughter, his only connection to the world, was arrested for murder..."

"He killed himself," Sanika said softly.

Samar nodded. "He didn't want to live without the women in his life. Vandana was dead and Ruhi was gone. There was nothing left for him."

Silence wrapped around them like a thick blanket. Sanika's eyes filled, not for Ruhi -- she would never forgive the woman who took Mira from her and nearly killed Shruti -- but for Anuj. For a man who had loved too much and a daughter who had been destroyed by that love's failure.

"That video," she whispered. "That stupid, silly, harmless video. All we wanted was to let off some steam." Her voice cracked. "And Mira..."

He was beside her before the first tear fell, gathering her against him, careful of her back. "Listen to me. You did nothing wrong. The three of you did nothing wrong. That video was raw, it was honest, and the whole world saw it for what it was -- three friends letting off steam. What Ruhi did, she would've done sooner or later. Something would've triggered her. If not that video, then something else. Her hatred towards women had been building for years. You were not the cause. You were the catalyst in a reaction that was inevitable."

She pressed her face into his shoulder and let herself cry. For Mira. For Shruti's months of recovery ahead. For the girl she had been before all this started -- carefree, sharp-tongued, fearless. That girl was still in there somewhere, buried under grief and scars and eighteen stitches. But she would claw her way back. She always did.

"Thank you," she said, pulling back to look at him. Her eyes were red and swollen. Her nose was running. She looked, in Samar's biased opinion, absolutely beautiful.

"For what?"

"For not saying 'I told you so.' For the tea. For the self-defence training. For being the most annoying, overbearing, bossy, infuriating man I've ever met." She took a shaky breath. "And for loving me despite my best efforts to push you away."

He went very still. "Is that an acceptance?"

"It's an acknowledgment. The acceptance has conditions."

One eyebrow rose. "I'm listening."

"One, I am not growing my hair. Two, I will continue to work. Three, I reserve the right to be sarcastic, grumpy, and generally difficult without it being held against me. Four..." she faltered, vulnerability flickering across her face. "Four, don't break my heart. I've already given three men the chance and they all let me down. I don't think I can survive a fourth. Especially not from you. Not from you, Samar."

He cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs tracing the tear tracks on her cheeks. "I will keep your hair exactly the way it is. I will support your career even if it means you move to another city. I will treasure every sarcastic word that comes out of your beautiful mouth." His voice dropped to that rough timbre that made her insides melt. "And I will spend every day of my life making sure you never regret this moment."

"That's a lot of promises," she managed.

"I'm a man of my word Mrs Rane." His eyes crinkled. "Too soon?"

Despite everything -- the grief, the pain, the fear, the eighteen stitches, the four stitches, the bump on her head, the lingering taste of terror -- Sanika Joshi laughed. It was a sound that made Samar's heart stumble and restart in a different rhythm. A rhythm that would beat for her for the rest of his life.

"Way too soon," she said. But she was smiling when he kissed her.

---

Three months later.

"Damn! My butt looks fat Shratz!" Sanika said, staring bug-eyed at her reflection in the full-length mirror, as Shruti giggled, caught one end of the sari and started pulling.

"I think once all these yards come off, your butt will resume its normal size."

Sure enough it did. She was looking like her usual self. Well, her usual self in a blouse and cycling shorts since the nine-yard sari didn't need a petticoat. The jewellery had been the first to go. After the last three days, she probably wouldn't be able to look at saris and jewellery without shuddering. First the Maharashtrian wedding in Pune, then the traditional wedding the next day in Pune, followed by reception, followed by the second night of the post-Maharashtrian wedding, kaalratri, which meant separate bedrooms for the couple. Then Samar's mom wanted them to do some puja before they left for Mumbai but since Samar couldn't spare any more time off and Sanika had to collect her luggage, the venue of the puja got shifted to Pune. This morning they had come back to Pune. She had wanted Sanika to wear her wedding sari again for the occasion. One look at her mother-in-law's hopeful face, Sanika had caved in and agreed. After all, it was just the once. They were going to spend the night at the JW Marriott and leave to Mumbai by tomorrow afternoon flight since that was all the leave Samar could spare. Her job hunting would start once she settled down at her new home in Mumbai.

"Look at it this way. You didn't have to deal with the floral arrangements that go with long hair," Shruti gestured to her own long straight hair.

Sanika couldn't resist rolling her eyes. "I can't believe he picked a fight with his mom about my hair. I mean come on, she is a nice, gentle lady yaar and considering everything, she was warm and welcoming. And that man had to go..."

"You know, I like the fact that his mom and dad speak in English when you're there. It's a small gesture but a sweet one," Shruti remarked with a fond smile.

Shruti had still been in the hospital the day Samar's family had come to meet Sanika and her family, hence missed out on some major fun element of the whole event. Both sets of parents and siblings had been genuinely happy and pleased, not to mention relieved that Sanika was safe and recovering well from her injuries. No one had objected when Sanika and Samar wanted to forgo the engagement and it had pleased them no end when the couple didn't object to getting married twice. First in Maharashtrian style, followed by a traditional wedding. Sanika had wanted to wait until her friend got discharged and recovered well enough to be there. They had been OK with that too.

Everything had been relatively stress-free until his mom had gently asked if she would be willing to grow her hair at least shoulder length. It had resulted in a volley of words between her and Samar. Sanika didn't understand any of it. Her knowledge of Marathi was limited to very few basic words. Samar's brother, Manohar, had laughed at her wide-eyed, slightly tense look.

"Relax vahini," he'd said, "Dada is winning the argument."

"But what are they arguing about? My hair?" He'd nodded. "I don't mind growing it back. Honestly," she added hastily. "This was just more convenient..."

"Save your breath," he replied with a grin. "Dada just said there would be no traditional wedding if you grow your hair even an inch more."

"Point to be noted, he didn't say no wedding," Shruti wriggled her eyebrows, bringing Sanika back to the present.

"As if!" Sanika snorted.

"And I can't believe you wanted to wait until after the wedding to go ahead with you know what. No, wait. I can believe you wanted to wait but him?" It was Shruti's turn to get the bug-eyed look until both snickered. "No re, honestly, we can coin the phrase eating up with his eyes to your Mr Rane, Mrs Rane."

"Oh man! I'm Mrs Rane now, aren't I?" Sanika looked genuinely taken aback. "Wait, isn't there a movie by that name? Mr and Mrs Rane?"

"I don't think there is any resemblance other than the title. She is the Rane in that."

"Well, technically now, so am I and as for him waiting, I hardly said, look but don't touch." And he never lost a chance to touch, she silently added. Well, neither did she. Together they had done quite a lot in the last three months. Just not everything.

"That's worse. Poor guy! Showing him the feast, allowing him a taste but no meal. And thank God you guys got to sleep the previous two nights or all this would've been for nothing."

One look at each other, the friends started their laughter riot once again, this time almost collapsing on the bed but managing to stop themselves at the last nanosecond, instead falling to their knees on the carpeted floor beside the huge king-size bed. Neither wanted to disrupt the temptingly beautiful floral arrangement on it. They weren't die-hard romantics who flapped their hands at gooey stuff but hell, who could resist red roses on creamy white sheets!

In the ensuing hilarity, they totally missed out on the slight sound of the keycard being swiped or the door being pushed open.

"And here I was anticipating a white sari, complete with a glass of milk in hand," Samar drawled, with his hands in his trouser pockets, leaning against the wall. In his dark green shirt and cream trousers, he didn't look like a groom except for the horizontal line of vibhuti and small round kumkum below it on his forehead.

It was a toss-up who screeched louder. Mrs Rane or Mrs Gokhale. "What are you doing here?" Sanika almost yelled, instinctively swirling away, showing him her back, arms crossed over her chest.

Shruti didn't miss the roguish look in his eyes at his bride's very typical feminine reaction. She quickly gathered her handbag and phone. "I think he's the one you're supposed to spend the night with buds and that's my cue to disappear."

Samar extended his hand to Shruti. "Thanks for everything Shruti." They shook hands and then with a small grin, exchanged a small hug. "Runal is waiting for you in the lobby."

"OK. Goodnight to you both and I'll see you... well... when I see you." With a wave, she practically ran out of the room, into the lift and down to the lobby, straight to her husband. "Aaah, so you were assigned the duty of dropping the groom, did you?" she asked with a grin.

"Salim's wife looked as if she was ready to pop out her kid so I offered," he said, looping an arm around her shoulders as they walked to their car. Having become friends with both Sanika and Samar, Runal had actively taken part in the wedding right along with Shruti. He had even laughingly told Sanika that since his wife was on the bride's side, he would be on the groom's.

"You won't believe the scene that greeted Samar up there," she giggled.

Runal covered her mouth. "I don't want to know. I don't need that image, no matter what it is, in my head." Shruti's giggle turned into laughter.

"I miss Mira," she said, her laughter slowly fading, leaving behind a sad smile. "She would've loved all this. She was a sucker for happily ever afters."

His arm tightened, pulling her into an almost-hug. "I know," he said quietly. "I keep thinking about how she would have been the one organising everything. The decorations, the playlist, the embarrassing speeches. She would have made Samar do karaoke."

Shruti laughed through the tightness in her throat. "She would have. And he would have done it, too. For Sanika." She was quiet for a moment. "Do you think she knows? Wherever she is?"

Runal wasn't a man who believed in the afterlife, or in spirits, or in any of the metaphysical frameworks that his own mother embraced with unquestioning faith. He believed in what he could see and measure and verify -- balance sheets, quarterly reports, the tangible architecture of a life built on numbers and logic. But standing in this hotel lobby with his wife in his arms, wearing a suit he had bought specifically for his friends' wedding, having spent the last three months rebuilding a marriage he had nearly destroyed through his own carelessness and cowardice -- he found that his certainties had shifted.

The rebuilding had not been smooth. In the weeks after Shruti's discharge, his protectiveness had curdled into something darker -- something he hadn't recognised until she'd named it. He had started checking her phone "to make sure no one was harassing her." He had insisted on driving her everywhere, then sulked when she took an Uber to meet Sanika instead. He had rearranged her medication schedule without asking, cancelled a physiotherapy appointment because he thought she was "pushing too hard," and once -- just once, but once was enough -- had told her mother that Shruti was "too tired for visitors" without consulting Shruti herself. It had taken her six weeks to recover enough strength to sit him down and say, very quietly, very firmly: You are not protecting me, Runal. You are controlling me. And if you don't stop, I will leave you. Not because I don't love you, but because I refuse to trade one cage for another. The words had hit him like a physical blow. He had wanted to argue, to defend himself, to explain that he was just scared of losing her. But something in her eyes -- the same steel that had made her the best sales manager in her division, the same steel that had kept her breathing while a knife was being pulled from her abdomen -- told him that this was not a negotiation. This was a boundary. And he could either respect it or lose her for real this time. He had chosen to respect it. It had been the hardest and the best decision of his life.

"I think," he said carefully, "that the people who love us never really leave. They become part of how we see the world. Mira is in every Friday dinner you'll ever have. In every bad joke Sanika makes. In every time you laugh so hard you cry." He kissed the top of her head. "She's here, Shratz. She's always been here."

It was a good thing they were moving out of Pune, he thought. His wife needed a change of place and Pune would be a pleasant change. The apartment they had chosen was in Baner -- modern, airy, with a balcony that faced west and would catch the sunset every evening. Shruti had spent hours on the phone with the interior designer, choosing colours and fabrics with the same meticulous attention she brought to her sales presentations. She was already planning a herb garden for the balcony. She was already scouting the neighbourhood for the best vegetable vendor and the nearest temple. She was already making it home, and the fact that she could do this -- that she could look forward to a future instead of being trapped in the past -- was the most hopeful thing Runal had witnessed in months.

Since Sanika and Samar were going to be in Mumbai, it hadn't been hard at all to convince Shruti. She had in fact jumped at the chance. Mumbai was only three hours by train, two by flight, close enough for weekend visits and far enough that the two couples could build their own lives without living in each other's pockets. It was, both women agreed, the perfect distance for a friendship that had survived murder, betrayal, and eighteen stitches.

"You know," he said, "once we settle down in Pune, in that nice apartment you chose, I think we should plan for a kid. What say Mrs Runal Gokhale?"

Her answer was there in her joyous hug and in the smile that chased away the shadows in her eyes.

---

Three broken engagements. A murdered friend. Eighteen stitches and a killer's knife at her throat. Sanika Joshi had survived all of it. And on the other side of all that wreckage, she had found this: a man who had seen her at her most shattered and loved her not despite it but because of it. A man she trusted enough to be naked with -- not just her body, but her grief, her fear, her fierce and terrified heart. Tonight she would give him everything she had left, and for the first time in her life, she was not bracing for the fall.

It was past midnight. Sanika lay naked amid the tangled sheets and crushed rose petals, her skin flushed and damp, every nerve ending singing. A dim light from the lamps outside forced its way through the closed slats of the blinds, painting amber stripes across the bed, across her bare breasts, across the dark marks Samar's mouth had left on her neck and collarbone. A gentle breeze from the air conditioner wafted across her skin, and the cool air on her overheated flesh raised goosebumps that made her shiver. Her body was so acutely sensitive that she could feel the silk of the sheets against every inch of her -- the brush of fabric against her nipples, still swollen and tender from his mouth, the whisper of it between her thighs where she was slick and sore and throbbing. Her heart was beating in slow, heavy thumps, her pulse thick and languid in her veins.

Samar lay sprawled on his back beside her, magnificent and unashamed in his nakedness, his broad chest heaving, eyes closed. She let her gaze travel the length of him because she could, because he was her husband now and she was allowed. The hard ridges of his stomach. The V-cut of his hips. His thick thighs, still gleaming with sweat. The dark trail of hair below his navel. He was half-hard even now, even after everything, and the sight of him made something deep in her belly clench with a hunger that should have been impossible after the last four hours.

Four hours. She pressed her face into his shoulder and breathed him in -- sweat and sex and sandalwood -- and replayed every minute of it in her body's memory.

The first time had been slow. Painfully, achingly slow. He had stood in the doorway of the bridal suite, still in his wedding sherwani, and the look in his eyes when he saw her -- sitting on the bed in the red silk nightgown Shruti had insisted on buying -- had made her breath catch. Not lust. Or not only lust. Something deeper, something raw and reverent, as if he couldn't quite believe she was real and his.

He had crossed the room in three strides, cupped her face in both hands, and kissed her so gently that her eyes stung. Then he had undressed her. Slowly. The nightgown first, sliding the straps off her shoulders, letting the silk pool at her waist, his eyes darkening as her breasts were bared to him. He had cupped them in his large hands, his thumbs brushing over her nipples until they were stiff and aching, and when he lowered his mouth and sucked one into the wet heat of his mouth she had gasped and arched into him, her fingers digging into his shoulders.

He had laid her back on the bed, knelt between her thighs, and kissed his way down her body with a thoroughness that left her writhing. Her ribs. Her navel. The jutting bones of her hips. The soft, sensitive skin of her inner thighs. And then his mouth was on her -- on her, there -- his tongue parting her folds, finding her clit with unerring precision, and the sound she made was not a sound she had ever made before. A keening, desperate cry that she muffled with the back of her hand because there were other guests on this floor and she had some dignity left.

Not much. Not when his tongue was doing that.

He had brought her to the edge with his mouth alone, lapping and sucking and circling until her thighs were clamped around his head and her hips were lifting off the bed in helpless, rhythmic bucks. And when she shattered -- her first orgasm at his hands, at his mouth, on their wedding night -- she cried out his name and didn't care who heard. He worked her through every last tremor, his tongue gentling as her body pulsed, and when the aftershocks faded and she lay gasping and boneless, he rose over her and positioned himself between her thighs.

"Look at me," he said. She opened her eyes. He was braced above her, his arms trembling with restraint, the head of his cock pressing against her entrance but not yet inside. He was thick and hard and she could feel the heat of him against her slick, swollen flesh. "Jaanu. I need you to look at me."

She looked. And he entered her. Slowly, inch by inch, watching her face, giving her body time to stretch and accommodate the size of him. She was wet -- God, she was soaked -- but he was big, and the sensation was overwhelming. A fullness she had never experienced, a stretching, an aching pressure that hovered on the border between pleasure and pain. Her nails dug into his back. Her mouth opened in a silent gasp. And when he was fully seated inside her, their hips flush, his pelvis grinding against her clit, she wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him deeper.

He had moved slowly that first time. Long, deep strokes that withdrew almost completely before pressing back in to the hilt, each thrust deliberate, each angle calculated to drag against that spot inside her that made her vision white out. He kissed her the entire time -- deep, drowning kisses that swallowed her moans. His hand slid between their bodies and his thumb found her clit, circling in time with his thrusts, and the dual sensation built a second orgasm so powerful that when it hit, she clenched around him so hard that he swore against her mouth and came with her, pulsing deep inside her with a groan that she felt in her bones.

The second time had been anything but slow.

She had barely recovered -- was still catching her breath, still feeling the warm trickle of him between her thighs -- when he pulled her on top of him. "Your turn," he said, his voice rough, his eyes dark, and his hands gripped her hips and positioned her over him. He was hard again already -- impossibly, insatiably hard -- and when she sank down onto him, taking every inch, they both groaned. She braced her hands on his chest and rode him. Hard. Fast. Watching his face contort with pleasure, watching his jaw clench, watching his hands tighten on her hips until she knew there would be bruises. She didn't care. She rolled her hips, grinding her clit against his pelvis with every downstroke, and the angle was different from this position -- deeper, more intense -- and she could feel every ridge and vein of him inside her. His hands slid up her body and cupped her breasts, pinching and rolling her nipples between his fingers, and the sharp jolts of sensation went straight to her core.

"Harder," he rasped, and she obliged, slamming her hips down, taking him so deep she could feel him hitting the end of her, and the sound of flesh meeting flesh was obscene and perfect and she never wanted it to stop. She came first, throwing her head back, her inner muscles rippling around him, and he grabbed her hips and thrust up into her -- once, twice, three savage strokes -- and followed her over the edge with a shout that he muffled against her breast.

The third time was against the wall. He had carried her there -- her legs wrapped around his waist, his hands gripping her ass, his mouth on her neck -- and pinned her between the cool plaster and the furnace of his body and fucked her standing up with a ferocity that left scratch marks on his shoulders and bite marks on her neck. She had come twice more, helpless, sobbing, her body wrung out and oversensitive, every thrust almost too much and not nearly enough, and when he finally emptied himself inside her for the third time, they slid to the floor together, shaking and gasping, tangled in each other.

Now, hours later, she was curled against his side, her head on his shoulder, her hand resting on his chest over his hammering heart. Her thighs ached. Her breasts were tender. Between her legs she was sore and swollen and wet with him, and she had never felt more thoroughly, devastatingly, completely fucked in her life. And she had never been happier.

As his breathing slowed, Samar stirred beside her. He rolled onto his elbow, cradling her head in the crook of his arm, and smiled down at her -- that half-smile, lazy and satisfied, the smile of a man who knew exactly what he had done to her. "I missed you," he told her, his fingers ruffling her already destroyed hair, then trailing down her throat, over her collarbone, to close over her breast. His thumb circled her nipple -- already sore, already sensitive -- and even now, even after four hours and three rounds and more orgasms than she could count, her body arched into his touch.

He had to leave for Mumbai a mere ten days after their marriage date got finalized. Though he did make a few trips during the last three months, it had been tough on them both. Her dad had been the only one who understood that and gave them all the privacy that he could despite her mom's flustered objections. If left to her mom, Sanika knew they would have had to content themselves with phone or worse, her mom acting as a chaperone. The phone sex had been good -- his voice alone could make her come, that deep rumble describing exactly what he wanted to do to her, what he was going to do to her the moment they were alone again -- but it was nothing compared to this. Nothing compared to his hands and his mouth and his body and the reality of him.

She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder, her eyes closing as she luxuriated in the feel of him, warm, solid and vital. "I love you Samar," she said softly, kissing his shoulder. She could taste the salt of his sweat on her lips. "Thank you."

His eyes lost their lazy contentment as he frowned. "For what?"

She gave an awkward shrug. "For everything."

"Paagal," he murmured softly, gliding his thumb over her cheek. Mad. But even in the darkness, he could see the shadows creeping into her eyes. Realized her mind had wandered again into the past.

"I miss Mira," she said, her lips trembling before firming. "She would've loved our wedding. She had been with me all through and when I'm finally..."

"Shhh," he said, and rolled on top of her, settling between her thighs with an ease that spoke of how completely her body had learned to accommodate his. He entered her again -- gently, slowly, because she was sore and swollen and tender from the night -- and she caught her breath at the fresh intrusion, her muscles clenching around him, a mix of ache and pleasure that made her eyes sting. He braced himself on his elbows and cradled her head in his hands. "She is with you Jaanu. Will always be with you," he whispered, his voice a deep rumble that she felt vibrate through his chest into hers. Then he looked into her eyes, smiling that half smile of his. "But left to your dadas, I wouldn't have been here now."

She tilted her head to the side, her hips shifting to take him deeper, a movement that was instinct now. "Why?"

"You came here ahead with Shruti and considering that my bike is in Mumbai, I needed someone to drop me. Your dad told your brothers." His body shook with silent laughter, and the movement shifted him inside her, drawing a soft gasp from both of them. "They had this disturbed, slightly horrified look on their faces..."

Her frown deepened. "But why?"

"They are your annas. I'm the guy who is going to see their little sister naked," his hand tracked down her body, fingers tracing the curve of her waist, the flare of her hip, the outside of her thigh. "Not to mention doing other things..." He punctuated the word with a slow, deep thrust that made her eyes flutter shut.

After a look of sheer disbelief, she burst out laughing. And laughed so hard, he slipped out of her. "But this guy is already married to their little sister," she pointed out, smacking his cheek with a loud kiss before running her finger over his moustache, brushing it so it curved just so.

He bent his head, tickling her neck with it, making her squirm and gasp. "A mere technicality Mrs Rane. A mere technicality." His lips tasted her laughter. His love chased away the shadows in her eyes. And when his mouth found hers again, soft and slow and achingly tender after the ferocity of the night, she knew that this was what she had been waiting for her entire life. Not just the sex -- though God, the sex -- but this. This man. This moment. The safety of being held by someone who would burn the world down to keep her whole.

---

End of Chapter Fifteen.

---

Six months later.

The flat in Mumbai was smaller than what either of them was used to, but it was theirs. Sanika had found a job within three weeks of arriving -- marketing head at a startup that valued her sharp tongue and sharper mind. The commute was hell, the hours were long, and the Mumbai rains made Pune's drizzles look like a light misting. But she was happy. Genuinely, unreservedly happy in a way she hadn't thought possible six months ago.

The scars had faded. The one on her back was a thin white line now, barely visible unless you knew where to look. The one on her arm was hidden by her watch strap most of the time. The one inside -- the one Mira had left behind -- that one would never fully heal. But it had stopped bleeding. It ached sometimes, usually at odd moments -- when she heard a song Mira used to love, when she saw someone who walked the way Mira did, when she reached for her phone to share something funny and remembered there was no one to share it with. In those moments, the ache was so fierce it stole her breath. But it always passed. It always passed.

Shruti and Runal had settled into Pune beautifully. True to their word, they were trying for a baby, and Shruti's recovery had been complete -- physically, at least. She still had nightmares sometimes, Runal had confided to Samar during one of their now-regular phone conversations. But they were getting less frequent. She was writing again -- a blog about surviving violence and rebuilding trust. It had garnered a modest but devoted following. She never mentioned Sanika or the video by name, but anyone who knew the story could read between the lines.

Karan Malhotra had left Pune. Someone told Sanika he had moved to Kolhapur, closer to Mira's family. She didn't know if that was true or what it meant, but she hoped he found peace. He had loved Mira in his own complicated, too-late way, and that counted for something.

Ruhi Sahni was in judicial custody, awaiting trial. The psychiatric evaluation had confirmed what Samar had suspected -- severe personality disorder compounded by years of untreated trauma. She would likely spend the rest of her life in a high-security psychiatric facility rather than a conventional prison. Sanika didn't know how to feel about that. Some days she wanted Ruhi to rot. Other days she thought about a fourteen-year-old girl watching her mother burn in a fire started by her own father -- a father who then hanged himself, leaving behind a child whose world had been reduced to ashes both literally and figuratively. On those days, the rage softened into something that wasn't quite pity but wasn't quite anger either. It was closer to grief -- grief for the girl Ruhi might have been, had someone intervened, had someone noticed the darkness growing in her before it consumed everything.

The trial wouldn't be for another year, according to Samar's estimate. The legal system moved at its own glacial pace, indifferent to the urgency of those caught in its gears. Sanika had given her statement. Shruti had given hers, though it had taken three attempts because she kept breaking down. The evidence was overwhelming -- the fingerprint, the bracelet, the supermarket footage, Ruhi's own confession in the restroom at Prisma where she had held a knife to Sanika's throat and whispered, with the calm precision of a woman reciting a shopping list, exactly what she had done to Mira and why.

Sanika still dreamed about that restroom sometimes. The fluorescent light buzzing overhead. The smell of industrial soap and something metallic that she later realized was her own fear. Ruhi's eyes, flat and bright as glass marbles, utterly devoid of the humanity that most people took for granted. The knife against her skin -- not cutting, just pressing, a promise and a threat. And her own voice, steady despite the terror, talking to Ruhi the way Samar had taught her to talk to a cornered animal. Slowly. Calmly. Without sudden movements.

She had survived because Saket had broken through the locked door at exactly the right moment. She had survived because Samar's training had taught her to keep breathing when every instinct screamed at her to panic. She had survived because Mira hadn't, and the weight of that knowledge -- that her survival was built on her friend's absence -- was something she would carry for the rest of her life.

Salim's wife had delivered a healthy baby boy three days after the wedding. Samar was the godfather. Sanika had laughed until she cried when Salim called to tell them, because of course Samar Rane -- the most terrifying DCP in the Crime Branch -- was now going to be responsible for a child's moral and spiritual development.

"Ya Khuda, the kid doesn't stand a chance," Salim had said, and even Samar had cracked a smile.

Her parents had forgiven her for hiding the truth, mostly because her father understood and her mother was too busy planning improvements to the Mumbai flat to hold a grudge. Her brothers still treated Samar with a mixture of respect and the wary suspicion of men who knew exactly what went on behind closed bedroom doors. Samar bore it with the stoic patience of a man who had faced down murderers and knew that overprotective brothers were, in the grand scheme of things, a minor tactical challenge.

It was a Sunday morning. Sanika was in the kitchen, attempting to make filter coffee the way his mother had taught her. She had burned three batches so far. The fourth was currently threatening to overflow.

"You're supposed to let it drip," Samar said from the doorway, his hair still wet from the shower, wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. He looked like something that should come with a warning label.

"I am letting it drip."

"You're pushing it."

"I'm encouraging it."

He walked over and stood behind her, reaching around to adjust the filter. She leaned back against him, feeling the warmth of his skin through her thin t-shirt. His chin rested on her head. They stood like that for a moment, watching coffee drip into the tumbler with agonizing slowness.

"Samar?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you think Mira would've liked you?"

He was quiet for a long time. "I think she would've made my life hell," he said finally. "Based on everything you've told me, she would've interrogated me, background-checked me, and then told you I wasn't good enough."

Sanika smiled. "And then she would've cried at our wedding and taken a thousand photos and posted them all on Instagram with seventeen hashtags."

"Seventeen?"

"At least." Her smile wobbled. "She would've been the best masi to our kids."

Another silence. Then: "Our kids?"

"Hypothetically."

"Hypothetically," he repeated, and she could feel his smile against her hair. "How many hypothetical kids are we talking about?"

"Two. A boy and a girl. The boy will be named after my father and the girl..." she paused. "Mira. If that's OK with you."

His arms tightened around her. "That's more than OK."

The coffee finally dripped to completion. She poured it into two tumblers, the way he liked it -- strong, sweet, with just enough milk to turn it the colour of caramel. They took their coffee to the small balcony that overlooked the Arabian Sea. It was the flat's one extravagance -- that view. On clear days you could see all the way to the horizon, where the sky met the water in a line so sharp it looked drawn by a ruler.

Today was a clear day.

They sat side by side in the plastic chairs that Sanika had bought from the neighbourhood store and Samar had assembled with a torque wrench and an engineer's precision. She tucked her feet under her and sipped her coffee. He stretched his legs out, crossed at the ankles, and did the same.

Somewhere below, the city was waking up. Auto-rickshaws honked. A chaiwallah called out his wares. A dog barked at nothing in particular. The morning azaan drifted from a nearby mosque, layering over the distant chime of temple bells. Mumbai, in all its chaotic, beautiful, impossible glory.

"Samar?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm happy."

He looked at her -- really looked, the way he had that first morning outside their houses when she had been furious about his bike and he had been quietly, irrevocably falling in love. "I know," he said. And smiled.

She punched his arm. "You're supposed to say 'me too.'"

"Paagal." Mad.

"Tu hi paagal hai." You're the mad one.

His eyebrows shot up. "When did you learn Marathi?"

"I have my sources." She grinned and sipped her coffee.

The sun climbed higher, painting the sea in shades of gold and amber. Two people sat on a small balcony in Mumbai, drinking coffee and watching the world wake up. They had survived threats, and loss, and grief, and a killer who had tried to silence them. They had survived their own stubbornness and fear and the peculiar cruelty of hearts that refused to trust.

They had survived.

And this -- this quiet morning, this shared silence, this coffee that was slightly burned and absolutely perfect -- this was what surviving looked like.

This was what living looked like.

---

THE END

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In loving memory of Mira -- who believed in happily ever afters.

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Authors' Note:

Stifled was born from a simple question: what happens when an innocent act of fun triggers something dark in someone whose pain has never been acknowledged? The answer, as it turned out, was a story about friendship, love, loss, and the extraordinary resilience of ordinary people.

This novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The city of Pune, its streets, its traffic, and its weather are, however, very real and very much as described.

We would like to thank our families for their patience, our friends for their encouragement, and our readers for taking this journey with us.

-- Atharva Inamdar, Tanmay Saraf, Manasi Sule, Roshni Bhagwat, Ashwini Erande & Aishwarya Kulkarni

Updated Edition, 2026