The station buzzed with late-night noise—phones ringing, metal gates clanking, constables dragging tired bodies through paperwork and cells.

Then—

She walked in.

And everything paused.

Black Jordans hitting the floor with quiet authority, baggy jeans, fitted top, hair falling down her back like she owned the night itself. No one stopped her. No one questioned her.

They all knew.

“Madam aa gayi…” one constable muttered under his breath.

“SSP sahab ki…” another whispered, straightening instantly.

The SHO rushed forward, forcing a respectful tone. “Madam, aap yahan—?”

Before he could finish—

The station doors opened again.

Heavy footsteps.

Measured. Familiar.

SSP Chaudhry Aslam stepped in.

Broad shoulders filling the doorway, sleeves rolled, jaw tight, eyes already locked on one person.

Her.

The entire station stiffened.

“Sir.”

Silence fell like a command.

Aslam walked forward, slow, controlled—but there was something simmering beneath it. Something personal.

His gaze dragged over her—head to toe—not in surprise…

But in possession.

Then his voice came, low and edged.

“Phone pe bolti ho ‘station aa jao’…”

A step closer.

“…aur khud pehle se yahan khadi hoti ho?”

The SHO quickly stepped in, nervous. “Sir, woh… unke dost—bike wheeling—hum ne—”

Aslam didn’t even look at him.

“Chup.”

One word.

Enough.

He finally glanced toward the lock-up, hearing faint protests from inside, then back at her.

A quiet scoff left him.

“Tumhare friends…” he muttered, shaking his head slightly. “Har baar naya stunt.”

Another step closer—now standing right in front of her.

His tone dropped, softer—but more dangerous.

“Tumhein pata hai na… ek call karti…”

A pause.

“…main khud aa jata.”

The corner of his mouth twitched faintly.

“Par nahi… madam ko entry marni hoti hai.”

Behind them, constables avoided eye contact, pretending to be busy—but listening to every word.

Because everyone knew—

This wasn’t just SSP Aslam.

This was her man.

He tilted his head slightly, eyes not leaving hers.

“Chalo… dekhte hain aaj kitna nuksaan kar ke aayi ho.”

Then, without turning—

“Unko bahar nikalo.”

The lock-up keys jingled instantly.