"The gaze of eyes pierce through the soul."
The prison cell was dimly lit, its single yellow bulb flickering above like a dying firefly. The metal bed creaked as Vikram shifted, his hands tucked under his head, staring at the cracked ceiling. His eyes didn't blink often, as if he was trying to burn holes through the concrete with sheer thought.
Andrich lay stretched on the cold floor, using his rolled-up jacket as a pillow. The chill of the ground seeped through his spine, but he didn't complain. Instead, he let out a slow, exaggerated yawn that echoed off the damp walls.
"So," he mumbled, voice half-lost in the quiet hum of the night, "what happened with your professor? Fardeen Khanan?"
Vikram didn't respond right away. He made a low humming sound, almost like a growl. "Nothing," he said finally. "He died."
Andrich raised an eyebrow. "I want to know how."
There was a pause. Vikram's nostrils flared slightly. "Why does it matter to you?" he snapped. "He's dead. That's all you need to know. He's not coming back."
The words bounced off the stone walls and settled like dust between them. Andrich frowned, sensing the rising storm in Vikram's tone.
"Why are you so angry tonight?" he asked carefully, adjusting his back against the wall.
Vikram sat up slightly, his muscles tensed, his voice turning guttural. "Why do you care? Why do you always have to talk? Just shut up, Andrich. Shut up and sleep."
Andrich held up his hands as if surrendering. "Okay, okay. Just answer one question, that's all."
Vikram didn't respond. He closed his eyes again, trying to will the conversation away.
Andrich hesitated for a moment, then leaned forward, his voice quieter, but carrying a sharper edge—playful, yet probing. "Do you love Nafisa?"
His tone was almost teasing, the syllables curling like smoke, light but suffocating.
A silence dropped like a sledgehammer.
Vikram's eyes flew open.
His neck turned stiffly toward Andrich, and when their eyes met, Andrich felt it—the weight behind Vikram's stare, the heat that radiated from the bloodshot redness in his gaze. It wasn't just anger. It was something deeper. Something volatile. Something personal.
Andrich's smirk melted away. His throat went dry. He swallowed, but the saliva barely moved. A line of sweat rolled slowly down his temple, tracing the shape of his jaw before dripping onto his collar.
"If you don't want to answer, it's okay," he stammered, trying to pass it off with a half-hearted chuckle. "I was just… asking."
Vikram said nothing. His eyes remained fixed on Andrich, unblinking.
Andrich shifted awkwardly, suddenly aware of how loud his breathing had become. The cell felt smaller now, the air thicker. The silence between them was no longer just silence—it was a warning.
Vikram cracked his knuckles, as if warming up to break Andrich's nose. But instead of a punch, he stretched his arms wide, like trying to shake off sleep.
"Does she love me?" he asked, his voice grim—sharp, like a freshly whetted blade.
Andrich, sensing the tension, tried to ease it. "She had a crush on you. Once. I don't know how she feels now. We don't exactly talk joyfully about you."
Vikram puffed out his cheeks like a baboon and released the air with a loud sigh.
"I don't love her like a lover... or like a man loves a woman... actually, I don't even know how I love her. Maybe like a friend. A boss. A fellow human. If she doesn't feel butterflies in her stomach, then neither do I."
Andrich picked up a banana, peeled it, and took a bite. "But what if she does love you?" he asked, tossing another banana towards Vikram.
Vikram caught it but set it aside. "She betrayed me, amigo. I don't see much 'love' in that."
A faint smile flickered on his lips—but it faded almost immediately.
Andrich shrugged and peeled another banana. "Fights happen where there's love. Shalini and I fight too. She breaks my stuff, yells at me, threatens to turn me in to the police—but she never does."
Vikram chuckled. "Shalini is a good woman. A proper Indian wife. For her, her husband is everything.
But Nafisa? She isn't like that. Doesn't want to be, either.
When I first saw her... she was sitting on the edge of some isolated footpath. It was late—too late for anyone to be out. And from her clothes, she didn't look like... well, you know what I mean.
She was crying. Softly. Hiccupping between sobs.
At first, I didn't want to go near her. Not because I didn't care. But because the whole thing felt... risky. Dangerous. I stood at a corner and just watched.
She was alone. Broken. And then, after a while, she stood up and walked toward the tracks. She lay down. Waiting. The train was coming fast—like death with headlights.
I took a breath. Ran to her. Pulled her off and jumped to the other side. Landed hard on the stones—skinned my elbow and messed up my back. But I held on to her, tightly. Didn't let go until the train was gone.
At first, she thought I was a rapist or killer. She kicked me. Headbutted me right in the chin.
Well... long story short—she'd run away from home in Lahore. Came to Bangalore. The 'boyfriend' she trusted never showed. She was hungry. Broke. Desperate. The tracks were her last choice.
I'd run away too. Not from family. But from a jailer. An inhuman one.
We had a common enemy—indifference.
Since then, we stayed together.
Until you came into her life."
Vikram threw the banana peel at Andrich.
Andrich scoffed, leaning back.
"I'm the villain in your story? Seriously? Come on, Vikram—I wasn't even in the damn story when it started to fall apart."
He shook his head, voice cooling with memory.
"I met Nafisa at this boring-ass convention. Some geek fest. We were both clearly looking for a way to sneak out. I went to grab a coffee—and there she was. Standing by the table, looking like she didn't belong. Too composed. Too beautiful. Way too out of place."
"I asked her name. She told me instantly. No hesitation. Like she'd just been waiting for someone to listen. She noticed the ring on my finger, asked about my wife and kids. We talked. Casual, honest. Then she got quiet. Tense."
He sighed, as if he could still feel that wind.
"So we went for a walk. It was windy. I offered her my coat. That's when she opened up. Told me about her boss—the one she had this infatuation with. The strong, silent type. Sharp-eyed. Distant. You, Vikram."
"She wasn't romantic about it. She was confused. Angry. Guilty, even. She kept asking—what if it's all in my head? What if I'm making this up and he feels nothing?"
Andrich's tone softened.
"She poured everything out. Anger, confusion, guilt, remorse... and eventually, a kind of joy. Not because of me—but because she got it out. She wasn't trying to betray anyone. She just needed to breathe."
He looked Vikram in the eye.
"We met a few more times after that. Walks. Coffee. No secrets. She's been nothing but a good friend. A kind soul. A well-wisher—if you'd stop painting her as a traitor."
Vikram rolled his eyes, voice dripping with restrained fury.
"I'm not saying you created the rift between me and Nafisa, Andrich. I'm saying you widened it."
He leaned forward, jaw tight.
"Yes, I'm 'astute.' A ventriloquist. A manipulator—sure, throw the words at me. But you know what I'm not? A damn psychic."
His tone cracked, pain barely masked beneath the sarcasm.
"If Nafisa had feelings for me, she could've told me. Simple. But what did she do instead? She poured her heart out to a stranger—a man she met at some... geek fest."
He paused. Bitter laughter escaped him.
"You know the joke? I was the one who sent her there. It wasn't a geek fest. It was an art convention. I thought maybe the beauty of raw expression would help calm her mind. Heal something."
His eyes darkened.
"But what happens instead? A clown walks into the story. Suddenly, she's sneaking around. Meeting you. Telling you things that should've stayed between us. Between her and me."
He pointed a finger, voice hardening.
"You had no connection to our lives. No business in our history. And yet, somehow, you became her emotional dumping ground."
A beat. Then venom, slow and deliberate:
"And as if that wasn't enough—this same 'friend' starts luring her into financing his lousy drug-peddling operation."
Vikram leaned back, eyes cold.
"So yeah... if we're casting roles in this story—maybe you are the villain, clown."
"Arrogance has blinded you."
Andrich bellowed, chest heaving.
"You think I lured Nafisa into my 'drug peddling business'? Oh, please. That woman didn't fall into it—she walked in, eyes open. Hell, it was her idea in the first place."
His voice cracked—not with guilt, but with fury.
"I was broke, Vikram. Flat broke. Trying to make ends meet, producing and distributing my stuff quietly. It wasn't glamorous, but it kept us afloat. It kept food on the table."
He paused, then added bitterly:
"Who am I kidding... A financially unstable man is never emotionally stable. That was just me lying to myself."
He looked away briefly, then locked eyes again.
"Then came the breaking point—Shalini gave birth, twins. She had to quit her job. I left mine too, to look after the babies. And then one of them needed heart surgery. A damn artery blockage. Do you know what that means when you don't even have enough to feed the other one?"
His voice softened. A beat.
"Nafisa helped."
"She brought the money. Paid for the surgery. Got Shalini a new job. Saved my entire family. And when I wanted to quit the business, you know what she said? Don't quit—level up. She helped me reach better markets. High-end buyers. Real money."
He stepped closer, finger pointed at Vikram like a blade.
"And then you came along. Mr. Justice. Mr. Morality. Suddenly someone starts hammering the backbone of the supply chain. Dealers disappear. Orders vanish. Everyone's scared."
His hand shook, not from rage—but from the weight of loss.
"You collapsed the market. Every rupee I'd reinvested—gone. My work rotted in warehouses like corpses. Nafisa tried everything to salvage it. Ran all over the city trying to move it before it went stale. And when that didn't work, she did the last thing she could think of—"
He looked dead into Vikram's eyes.
"She tried to bring us together."
"But you? You slammed the door in my face. Then, like a coward, raided my godowns. You didn't kill a drug trade, Vikram—you killed a lifeline."
Andrich's voice dropped, tired but cutting.
"You didn't act out of duty. You acted out of ego. You destroyed a healthy business out of your arrogance. Congratulations. My son's alive, but my world is in ruins. And Nafisa? She's stuck between the ruins of two men who both think they were right."
Vikram rose from the bed and walked toward the door, his voice low but firm.
"You're right. Nafisa is stuck—but not between you and me. She's caught in a web of her own making, a labyrinth of bad decisions. She needs help, yes—but not from me, and certainly not from you. It is what it is. One day, when life strips away her illusions and her 'new friends' vanish, she'll understand the worth of someone who truly stood by her."
A soft chuckle echoed behind him.
Andrich leaned back against the wall, his tone laced with mock amusement.
"How convenient—to blame everyone else. It feeds your ego, doesn't it? Makes it easier to ignore your own failures."
Vikram paused at the threshold, then turned back slowly, his eyes cold.
"People like you... you're nothing but leeches—sucking the life out of others and calling it survival."
Without waiting for a reply, he stepped out of the cell.
Andrich let out a long, tired sigh. He reached for another banana, peeling it with a grim smile.
"The world's full of leeches, Vikram. But I'm not one of them.".....