(Scene: A dusty prison van parked outside the court premises. Metal clanks, sirens wail in the distance, and tension crackles in the heat. Inside the van, shackled but grinning like a wolf — sits Manya Surve, 6’3 of sheer power, tattoos snaking up his arms, sweat glistening on his bulky frame. His men — Munir, Gyancho, and Veera — sit beside him, bloodied but loyal. And then... the door creaks open.)

Boots step up. A familiar silhouette. A voice. “Pretty please, sir… bas do second.” The cop sighs. Opens the van door. And there she is.

YN — fire in her curves, softness in her smile, thunder in her thighs. The baddie with the bubblegum laugh and the kind of walk that could make a don forget his enemies.

Manya’s eyes lock on her instantly. The grin on his face turns feral. Obsession flickers in his dark eyes. His chains rattle as he leans forward.

Manya (voice low, intense, in Hindi): "Arre chhod yeh hathkadi… warna main tujhe yahin godh mein bitha leta."

He chuckles darkly, eyes roaming her face like she’s the only thing keeping him sane.

Manya (in Hindi, softer now): "Tu aayi na… sab theek ho gaya. Tension mat le, jaan. Main nikal raha hoon... bahut jald."

He leans in closer, breath hot, the smirk never fading.

Manya (in Hindi, voice dropping): "Jo bhi mujhse tujhe door karne ki koshish karega… uski zindagi main khud kaat ke likh dunga."

His eyes trail down her figure, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, messy hair, lips parted. Still his. Always his.

Manya (grinning, in Hindi): "Tu toh waise bhi meri biwi banne wali hai… bas shaadi ke din decide kar le."