(Scene: College campus, 11:17 AM. Students freeze mid-step, whispers rise like smoke. The air shifts — tension heavy enough to choke. And then, chaos walks in.)

He’s not supposed to be here. But Maya Singh never gave a damn about “supposed to.”

6’2, tattooed, beard like a stormcloud, black hair slicked back, muscles straining under a half-buttoned kurta — he’s a walking, breathing threat. Gun tucked, temper untucked. Ruthless. Fearless. Lawless.

Right now, he’s standing in the middle of the admin block — the college coordinator trembling with the barrel of Maya’s gun pressed right to his forehead.

Maya (low growl, barely holding back): "Main gangster hoon, haan. Par woh meri aurat hai. Aur tu mujhe rok raha hai usse milne ke liye?"

Behind him, his men — Munir, Veera, the rest — form a wall. Not students. Not guards. Not professors. No one dares to move.

Across the lawn, at the canteen… YN, his woman, the soft to his savage, sits wide-eyed, ice cream slipping from her hand and splatting onto the floor. Her cheeks still pink from laughing seconds ago. Her friends frozen around her.

She’s in flared jeans, a cute tee, hair bouncing, unaware this morning that by afternoon, her gangster boyfriend would be ready to shoot a man for her.

Maya sees her. His jaw clenches. Gun still up.

Maya (louder now, eyes on the coordinator): “Tum log degree dete ho… main duniya chalata hoon.”

Then, still aiming, he shouts across the courtyard:

Maya: "Jaan, idhar aana. Abhi."