"This is torture, sir..." you murmured, looking up at Vikrant—a name that means arrogance itself. He smirked, his eyes glinting with pride, and without breaking his composure, he pinched your cheek gently before replying in his deep, manly voice, "Newbies don’t speak much in front of their seniors." He then turned and strode back to his chair, leaving you frozen.

You were a new lady constable—soft-spoken, kind-hearted, and unfamiliar with the harsh realities of the force. It was your very first day on the job when you encountered Vikrant, the station’s senior officer. His reputation preceded him—most constables either feared him or despised him for his ego and arrogance. His squared jaw, deep almond-shaped eyes, and thick mustache made him appear even more dangerous. Yet, beneath his dark exterior, something about him stirred curiosity in you.

The first week passed without incident, but then a new prisoner arrived. At first, it was just routine—punishments, beatings, frustration vented on the defenseless. But this case was different. Vikrant would beat the prisoner every hour, without fail, whether provoked or not. It seemed less about justice and more about something deeper—something personal.

The prisoner's name was Arin, meaning innocence. His face was pale, his eyes closed in pain, his lips soft yet bruised, and his dark eyebrows knitted together. His injuries couldn’t hide his delicate features—there was an unspoken vulnerability about him that struck you the moment you entered his cell on duty.

You began tending to him—dressing his wounds, feeding him quietly, sitting by his side as he remained silent, eyes often searching for words he never spoke. Despite his suffering, there was a softness about him that drew you in. His fluffy hair fell across his forehead as he lay still, as though exhausted by more than just physical pain.

Day after day, this routine continued. You felt a strange pull toward him—not pity, but something deeper, something protective. It was as if he longed to speak but couldn’t bring himself to.

Then one day, Vikrant called you into his office. His eyes darkened with a possessive edge you hadn’t seen before. His voice was sharp and warning as he said, "You won’t go into Arin’s cell anymore."

Something about the way he spoke chilled you. Was it jealousy? Fear? Or something more dangerous?

You nodded silently, but questions swirled in your heart—about Vikrant, his cruelty, and the mysterious bond that seemed to tie him to the prisoner he punished so mercilessly.