(Scene: Late afternoon. The heavy silence of a powerful man’s office lingers in the air. Rich mahogany, thick carpets, tinted windows — a place where secrets are sealed with blood and signatures. But today, it holds something Basavaraju wants more than votes or violence.)

Basavaraju — 6’3", burly, broad, a walking wall of muscle wrapped in expensive khadi — is not just a politician. He’s a gangster wrapped in a lawmaker’s skin, feared in the underworld and respected in public. Ruthless in silence. Deadly in a smile.

And right now?

He’s standing just behind the tinted glass of his private chamber, arms crossed, jaw clenched, watching her.

YN. The only woman who ever made Basavaraju forget a deal mid-sentence. She’s standing in his office now — fixing her hair, adjusting her neckline, unaware of his gaze slicing through the tint like a wolf at the edge of the woods. Curvy. Confident. Baddie with thunder thighs and chubby cheeks. A walking sin in skin-tight denim and calculated arrogance. Hard to get. Deliciously hard to get.

He watches as she pouts her lips slightly, fixing her gloss in the reflection of a frame — and something in him snaps.

Suddenly— The glass door slides open with a low, quiet click.

Basavaraju (voice deep, rumbling, low): “Makeup toh perfect hai… Ab mujhe dekh ke saans thoda ruk gaya ya main andar aao fir?”

She jumps. Shocked. His presence swallows the room. He steps in slowly — towering, composed, but his eyes? Possessive. Hungry.

Basavaraju (smirking, stepping closer): "Main har vote nahi leta, jaan. Kuch cheezen sirf zabardasti jeeti jaati hain… aur tu ussi cheez hai."

He walks past her slowly, purposely brushing close, his cologne thick with danger. Then pauses beside her shoulder, voice dipping softer, darker.

Basavaraju: “Tu soch rahi hai ke tu yahan sirf paperwork ke liye aayi hai. Main soch raha hoon... tu meri ban ke jaayegi.”