Mumbai was loud.

Not rich-people-party loud.

Not political-event loud.

Actual loud.

Honking.
Street vendors screaming.
Pressure cookers whistling from random windows.
People fighting like it was cardio.

Devanshi stood outside a tiny grocery store holding two packets of instant noodles and looked personally betrayed by life.

"This city hates me."

The shopkeeper stared blankly.

"Madam, fifty-two rupees."

"Oh right."

She awkwardly searched through her wallet before handing him a five hundred rupee note.

The man sighed.

"No change."

Devanshi blinked.

"What do you mean no change? You're literally a shop."

"UPI?"

She smiled nervously.

"Funny story. My fake identity has emotionally exhausted me."

The man looked concerned now.

"Cash only."

Great.

Amazing.

Fantastic.

Twenty years of luxury and somehow she couldn't even buy noodles properly.

She stepped aside with dramatic disappointment.

"Excuse me."

A deep voice spoke behind her calmly.

The shopkeeper instantly straightened.

"Sir."

Devanshi turned.

And for a second…

her brain genuinely stopped functioning.

Black shirt.
Rolled sleeves.
Tall.
Sharp jawline.
Cold eyes.

The kind of man mothers warned daughters about.

And unfortunately…

very attractive.

He placed money on the counter without even looking at her.

"Add hers too."

The shopkeeper nodded immediately.

Devanshi frowned.

"Oh absolutely not."

The man finally looked at her properly.

And somehow that was worse.

His gaze was calm.
Unreadable.
Dangerously observant.

Like he noticed everything without trying.

"I can pay for myself," she said quickly.

"You weren't."

Rude.

Devanshi narrowed her eyes.

"And you look arrogant for recreational purposes."

The shopkeeper looked terrified.

The stranger looked amused for exactly half a second.

Then it disappeared.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

"Noodles aren't expensive," he said.

"That's not the point."

"Then what is?"

"I don't accept help from strangers."

A pause.

Then—

"You moved into the Mehra guesthouse yesterday."

Her expression changed instantly.

"How do you know that?"

"The owner is a friend."

Lie.

Technically.

The owner was him.

But details were unnecessary.

Devanshi adjusted her sunglasses suspiciously.

"And you just memorize random tenants?"

"Yes."

Psychopath.

Definitely psychopath.

She grabbed the noodles dramatically.

"Well thank you, mysterious neighborhood stalker."

Then walked away before her dignity could collapse further.

The second she disappeared around the corner—

"She's mean," Shaurya commented from beside the car parked nearby.

Reyansh watched the direction she left quietly.

"No," he said calmly.

"She's scared."

By the time Devanshi returned to the apartment, she was sweating, annoyed and reconsidering every life decision she had ever made.

Mumbai humidity was demonic.

The building itself was beautiful though.

Modern.
Quiet.
Private.

The apartment had originally been a massive luxury penthouse divided into two connected sections.

One side hers.
One side occupied by the annoyingly attractive stranger apparently.

Very unfortunate.

She pushed open her door dramatically and froze.

Why was the living room dark?

She was sure she left one lamp on.

Her heartbeat slowed carefully.

No.

No panic.

You watched crime documentaries for this.

Devanshi slowly grabbed the frying pan from the kitchen counter.

Self-defense training suddenly feeling useful for once.

She stepped forward quietly.

One sound.

Movement near the balcony.

"WHOEVER YOU ARE," she yelled instantly, holding the pan like a warrior. "I WILL LEGALLY AND EMOTIONALLY DESTROY YOU."

Silence.

Then—

"…With a frying pan?"

Devanshi nearly screamed.

The balcony lights turned on.

And there he was.

The grocery store man.

Standing casually near the sliding door with a coffee mug.

Like this was normal behavior.

"What the hell are you doing in my apartment?!"

He looked confused.

"This balcony connects both sides."

She blinked.

"…What?"

He pointed calmly toward the divider wall.

There was, in fact, a connecting balcony section.

Wonderful.

Fantastic architecture choice.

"You could've knocked!"

"You were yelling at your suitcase."

Her face burned instantly.

"That was a private conversation."

"You called it emotionally manipulative."

"Because it broke!"

A dangerous silence followed.

Then—

The corner of his mouth twitched slightly.

This man was enjoying her suffering.

Devanshi pointed the frying pan at him accusingly.

"You smile like a villain."

"I don't smile."

"That's somehow worse."

He took another sip of coffee calmly.

"You should lock the balcony doors."

She crossed her arms.

"You should stop entering women's apartments."

"You left it open."

"That still sounds illegal."

A pause.

Then he stepped closer slightly.

Not enough to threaten.

Enough to make her aware of him.

"Living alone in Mumbai is dangerous," he said quietly. "Especially for someone like you."

Something about the sentence felt strange.

Too observant.

Too personal.

Devanshi's guard immediately rose again.

"Someone like me?"

"Unprepared."

Offended.

Absolutely offended.

"I can survive perfectly fine alone."

Right then the kitchen timer started beeping aggressively.

Smoke rose from inside.

Devanshi closed her eyes.

"…I hate this city."

Behind her—

very softly—

he laughed.

Actually laughed.

It startled her enough that she turned around immediately.

And for the first time she saw it properly.

Not cold.

Not intimidating.

Just unexpectedly human.

It lasted maybe two seconds before disappearing again.

"What's your name?" she asked suddenly.

A pause.

"Rey."

Of course it was something annoyingly attractive.

"Just Rey?"

"Yes."

"That sounds fake."

"It is."

Well.

At least he was honest.

Devanshi walked toward the kitchen dramatically.

"My noodles are dying because of you."

"They were dying before me."

She gasped.

"You're incredibly judgmental for a balcony trespasser."

"And you're bad at cooking."

"Wow."

Another silence settled between them.

Oddly comfortable.

Dangerously easy.

That itself should've worried her more.

Instead she found herself asking—

"What do you even do?"

"Business."

Every rich dangerous man in existence said that exact word.

Business.

Sure.

Definitely not illegal at all.

"And you?" he asked.

Devanshi hesitated for half a second.

"Fashion journalism."

Not fully true yet.

But someday.

His eyes stayed on her longer this time.

Like he was trying to picture it.

"You ran away for that?"

The question hit sharply.

Her expression hardened instantly.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

He looked away first.

Interesting.

"Goodnight, Anshika."

Then he walked back toward his side of the apartment.

Devanshi stood there frozen.

How did he say her fake name like he already knew her?

Why did it sound strangely familiar coming from him?

And why—

why did her instincts keep warning her about him while her curiosity pulled her closer anyway?

Across the balcony wall—

Reyansh entered his side quietly.

Aryaveer sat inside already reviewing files.

"She talked to you?"

"Yes."

"And?"

Reyansh removed his watch calmly.

"She trusts too easily."

Aryaveer looked up carefully.

"That sounds dangerous."

"It is."

"Then send her back."

Silence.

Reyansh glanced once toward the balcony separating them.

Toward the girl currently burning noodles while arguing with herself dramatically.

"No," he said quietly.

For the first time in years…

something about his life had become interesting again.