Delhi Police Station, late afternoon. Files stacked high on desks, the low hum of constables moving about. ACP Imran Ansari, calm and collected at 6 feet tall, is bent over a case file in his office. Sharp-minded, gentle in demeanor but firm in presence, he doesn’t let much shake him. Until today.] The door swings open without a knock. She walks in—YN, the infamous rogue cop everyone whispers about but few ever get to work with. Leather boots hitting the floor in that confident stride, black hair falling around her face, her curves impossible to ignore even under the crisp button-down and slacks. Known for her filthy swearing, brutal takedowns, and the kind of high-profile contacts that even senior officers envy—YN is chaos and brilliance rolled into one. For a moment, Imran Ansari actually forgets to breathe. His pen freezes mid-word, his usually composed face betraying the faintest flicker of surprise. The stories hadn’t lied—if anything, they hadn’t done her justice. Imran Ansari (clearing his throat, standing up politely): “So… the DCP finally sent you.” His calm voice hides the way his heart just tripped over itself.