Heer’s favorite version of the world always began with the sharp, intoxicating scent of chilled Champagne and the sound of a heartbeat that wasn't her own. While the mundane world outside moved in shades of dusty gray, Heer was drunk in her own imagination in a mental suite of marble and moonlight. In this space, he was always there—a presence that felt like expensive silk and cold logic.

He didn't just love her; he possessed the very air she breathed, his eyes tracking her with an obsessive intensity that made her real life feel like a pale imitation.

She called him her "Specialist," a man who could fix the world with a word but would burn it down for her smile. To anyone else, she was just a girl staring blankly out a window, but to herself, she was the center of a glittering, champagne-soaked universe that was far too perfect to ever be true.

She leaned back in her imaginary chair, almost feeling the phantom touch of a hand adjusting her hair with a "Diamond-level" fragility. In her head, he was leaning down, his voice a low vibration that promised to fix everything she hadn't even realized was broken. It was a beautiful, addictive lie. It was a world where she didn't have to be the Fighter of her world—she just had to exist, and that was enough to keep him breathing.

​The dream was intricate, built with the precision of a computer program. She could see the way his brow furrowed when he thought she was too close to a drafty window, or the way his hand would instinctively find the small of her back in a crowded room. He was "Crazy-Protective" even in her thoughts—a ghost who would burn down his own marble mansion if it meant she had a warmer place to sleep. She breathed in the imaginary bubbles of champagne, letting the warmth settle into her bones, wishing she could lock the doors of her mind and throw away the key.

But the transition from the imaginary world to the realization was always the hardest part for Heer; it was a silent, violent crash from a champagne heaven back down to a concrete earth. She blinked, the searing, intrusive glare of the apartment hallway stripping away the velvet shadows of her mind. She exhaled the ghost of a man who didn't exist, forced to face the hollow quiet of her own reality. She didn't know that the hallway was about to shrink, or that the air was already thickening with a presence she had only ever met in her sleep but the marble floors of her daydream dissolved into the cold, scuffed tiles of reality.

The moment Heer stepped out of her room, the air didn't just shift—it vanished, replaced by the heavy, suffocating scent of the exact cologne that had haunted her dreams. There, leaning against the hallway wall with a terrifyingly familiar authority, stood the man she had spent a lifetime inventing, his sharp gaze cutting through her with the precision of a Specialist.

​Her heart didn't just skip; it recognized him instantly. He wasn't just a figment of her imagination; he was Daksh—her first crush and former classmate from years ago. Back then, he had been the quiet genius three rows behind her, but the man standing in the hallway now had evolved into something far more dangerous.

​His brain worked like a computer—sharp, fast, and cold—but Heer’s own mind had just completely crashed. Physics told her it was impossible for a boy from her past to suddenly materialize like a ghost, yet her heart recognized the heavy, steady rhythm of his footsteps. It was a sound she had memorized over a thousand lonely nights, a beat that told her she was no longer in control. Her "Specialist" had finally stepped out of her past, out of her head, and into her life.

​"You're late, Heer."

​His voice was a low, rhythmic vibration that seemed to command the very air in the hallway. He didn’t move, didn’t smile. He just checked his watch—a piece of silver and glass that cost more than her entire apartment.

​Heer’s breath hitched. She didn't move. "Daksh? What is this?"

​"The hallway smells like damp wood and cheap cleaning supplies," he said, finally looking up. His eyes were like two pieces of flint. "You don't belong here."

​"I live here. You’re the one who’s trespassing."

​"I'm working." He pushed off the wall, his movements slow, like a predator that knew the prey had nowhere to run. "You ran a trace on the 'V-Group' accounts today. Why?"

​Heer felt her stomach drop. "It’s my job. I’m an auditor. I find holes in the data."

​"You found a hole that was supposed to stay plugged." Daksh stopped a few feet away. He didn't touch her, but his presence was suffocating. "By 9:00 AM tomorrow, your boss will get a call. By 10:00 AM, you’ll be fired. And by noon, someone will be sent to make sure you forget everything you saw in those files."

​Heer’s hands shook as she gripped her bag. "Are you threatening me?"

​"I'm telling you the weather report, Heer. It’s going to rain, and you don't have an umbrella." He held out his hand—not for a handshake, but for her keys. "Give me the laptop. I’m going to delete the local backup you made, and then I’m going to tell them the file is clean."

​"And if I refuse?" Heer asked

​Daksh leaned in just enough for her to catch the scent of expensive sandalwood and cold metal. "Then I stop being the man you knew in high school, and I start being the man they paid to fix this. You don't want to meet that man, Heer. Trust me."

Heer fumbled with the lock, her pulse thumping in her fingertips. The door groaned open into a dark, silent apartment. She reached for the light switch, but Daksh’s hand got there first.

​Click.

​The warm glow of the lamp revealed her living room, but it didn't look the same. Her laptop was already open on the small dining table. A chair had been pulled out. Beside it sat a glass of water—half-empty.

​Heer’s breath hitched. "You’ve been in here. For how long?"

​"Long enough to know you still use your birthday as your password," Daksh said, walking past her like he owned the square footage. He didn't take off his coat. He stood by the table, looking at the glowing screen. "Rule number one for a Forensic Auditor, Heer: don't be predictable. It’s how people get caught."

​"Get out," she whispered, the shock finally turning into a sharp spark of anger. "You can’t just walk into my life and start giving me 'rules.' This isn't high school, and you aren't my tutor."

​Daksh turned slowly. The coldness in his eyes was absolute. "In high school, I tutored you so you wouldn't fail a test. Right now, I’m here so you don't end up as a footnote in a police report. Sit down.

​"No." Heer protested

​He didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to. "The V-Group isn't just a corporate client, Heer. They are a front for people who don't have a pulse. You flagged a three-million-dollar transfer. That money was meant for a recovery operation. My recovery operation."

​Heer felt the air leave her lungs. "You... you were the recipient?"

​"I'm the Specialist they hired to bring back what was stolen," Daksh said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous silk. "But because you put a 'Hold' on that transaction, my assets are frozen. And when my assets are frozen, I get impatient."

​He stepped toward her, forcing her to back up until her calves hit the edge of her sofa. He leaned down, his face inches from hers, the scent of expensive sandalwood and cold rain clouding her senses.

​"You wanted to find the ghost in the machine, Diamond? Well, you found him. Now, you’re going to log into your lab’s remote server, and you’re going to clear that flag. Right now."

​Heer looked up at him, her eyes wide but defiant. "And if I don't? If I report this?"

​Daksh’s hand moved, not to hurt her, but to gently tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The touch was terrifyingly soft.

​"Then I stop being the man protecting you," he whispered. "And I become the man they sent to recover the three million. Tell me, Heer... what do you think you’re worth on the open market?"

The cursor hovered over the beneficiary name, a ghost from her past breathing through the screen: Avinash Lab Solutions. It wasn't just a corporate shell; it was her father’s signature at the bottom, dated long after his funeral, proving that her grief had been a lie and her life was the only collateral left. As the blue light reflected in Daksh’s unblinking eyes, she realized the "Recovery Specialist" wasn't here to save her—he was here to collect her.

Heer looked at the screen, then at Daksh. Her voice was flat, almost empty. "My dad’s been dead for three years. Why is his name on a transfer from last Tuesday?"

​Daksh didn't move. He didn't even look at the laptop. "Because he’s not in that grave, Heer."

​The silence that followed was suffocating. Heer felt a sudden, sharp ringing in her ears. "What did you just say?"

​"The accident, the funeral... it was a setup," Daksh said, his voice dropping. He sounded tired, not threatening. "He was drowning in debt. He thought if he 'died,' you’d be safe and the money would vanish. He was wrong."

​Heer’s hand went to her throat. "You were at the funeral, Daksh. You held my hand while I cried. You knew?"

​"I'm the one who drove him to the border," he said quietly.

​Heer lashed out, her palm stinging as it hit his chest. She didn't care about the expensive suit or the dangerous man in front of her. "You let me mourn him! I spent three years thinking I was alone!"

​Daksh grabbed her wrists—not to hurt her, but to keep her still. "Listen to me. He’s in a safe house in Kathmandu, and he just tried to move three million dollars of their money to buy his way out. Your audit caught it. If that flag stays on the system, they’ll realize he’s alive and they’ll kill him just to make a point."

​"So you’re here to save him?" she spat, trying to pull away.

​"I’m here to save you," he snapped, his eyes finally showing a spark of something raw. "They don't just want the money anymore, Heer. They want to know how an auditor in Mumbai found a ghost's account. They’re coming for the person who clicked that button. That’s you."

​Heer stopped struggling, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "What do I do?"

​"Sit down," Daksh said, releasing her wrists. He pointed at the screen. "Delete the trace. Clear the flag. Make it look like a system glitch. We have twenty minutes before their IT team syncs the server."

​"And then?" Heer asked worriedly

​Daksh looked at the door, his hand instinctively reaching for the heavy shadow of a holster under his jacket. "And then we leave. You can’t stay here another night."

Heer looked at the sink. There was a half-eaten plate of poha sitting there from breakfast. The plants she’d bought last week were drooping. "I can't just leave, Daksh," she said, her voice sounding flat. "I have work tomorrow. My boss will call. My mom will call."

​Daksh didn't even look up from her laptop. He was staring at the screen, his face pale under the cheap yellow light of her kitchen bulb. "Heer, the people who own that money don't care about your boss. They don't even care about the three million anymore. They care that someone found the name. That's you."

​He stood up and grabbed a plastic grocery bag from her kitchen counter, shoving her charger and a pair of socks into it. It looked messy—unplanned.

​"What are you doing?" she asked.

​"Finding a way to keep you from getting arrested or worse," he said. He didn't sound like a hero; he sounded stressed, his voice low and jagged. "Go get your ID. And your bank passbook. Just do it, Heer."

​"You’ve been gone for ten years, Daksh! You don't get to just walk in and tell me to pack my life in a grocery bag!" Heer protested

​Daksh finally looked at her. He looked exhausted. He didn't look like the boy she remembered, but he didn't look like a killer either. "I've spent ten years making sure these people never heard your name. But today, you typed it into a public audit report. I can't protect you if you're the one holding the evidence."

​Down the hall, the neighbor’s dog started barking. Then, they heard the heavy thud-thud of someone walking fast in the corridor.

The barking got louder, that sharp, annoying yelp from the Aunty’s dog, was constant now. That usually meant the milkman or a courier was at the door. But it was nearly midnight. Then came the footsteps—slow, heavy thuds in the hallway that stopped right outside her door.

Heer’s breath hitched. She looked at the main door, then at the small kitchen balcony. "Daksh, we can't stay here," she whispered, her voice trembling.

​Daksh looked at the door, then at the window. He realized she was right—hiding behind a thin laminate counter was useless if they walked in with a flashlight. "The utility balcony," he muttered, grabbing her arm. "Is the service ladder still there?"

​"It’s rusty, but it leads to the ground-floor compound," Heer said, already moving. She didn't wait for him to agree. She grabbed her phone from the table and ran toward the small balcony behind the kitchen where the washing machine stood.

​They scrambled over the low wall, the cold iron of the railing biting into Heer’s palms. Below them, the narrow gully was dark and smelled of damp concrete. Behind them, in the living room, they heard the distinct click-clack of the front door finally giving way.

​Heer didn't look back. She swung her legs over the edge, her heart in her mouth, as Daksh followed right behind her. They began to climb down the narrow metal rungs, praying the old bolts would hold their weight before the men inside looked out the window.

​He just pulled her down to the cold tiled floor—no, he pushed her toward the edge, both of them moving with frantic, quiet urgency.

The sound coming from the living room as door slowly opens and they both heard the heavy thud of boots hitting the laminate floor inside her living room.