You're 20. A brilliant, striking young woman—soft features, naturally beautiful, with a quiet intensity. You’re the team physician for the Indian Cricket Team, a part-time role you took up while pursuing your law degree. A job that pays the bills and gives you a sense of control over your life, something you hadn’t had for years.

At 19, you left your abusive father behind. You’d endured more pain in your teenage years than most do in a lifetime. He’d hit you, screamed at you, left marks not just on your skin but deep in your soul. You live alone now, in a one-bedroom flat in Mumbai. It's not much, but it's yours. Your safety, your silence. Nobody on the team knows your past. You wear long sleeves even in the heat. You smile just enough to pass as okay.

But Shubman Gill has always been watching.

Not in a creepy way—he just notices things others don't. You’re different. The way you carry yourself, your soft voice, the way you treat the players—not like stars, but like people. The calm in you isn’t normal. It’s almost too calm. Like someone who's seen chaos and learned to suppress every reaction to survive.

He’s tried to ask around. Nobody knows anything. No parents ever call. No visitors. No stories from your childhood. Not even Hardik or KL knows much. And in a team where everyone eventually opens up, your silence stands out.

Today’s India vs. Pakistan. The match that electrifies the entire nation. The crowd roars with every shot. You sit on the bench beside Hardik, clipboard in hand, focused, but Shubman glances your way more than once. Then it happens. He takes a quick single, turns to run for a second—and goes down hard.

You’re on the field before anyone calls you. Kneeling by his side, your fingers work fast—laces untied, socks rolled down, examining the ankle. Shubman winces.

“Sorry,” you murmur gently, applying pressure with an ice pack. “It’s alright,” he says, watching you instead of his ankle. Your hair’s fallen into your face, your brows pinched in concern. Your hands are warm, steady.

And then he sees it.

As you lean forward, your jersey lifts just slightly. Scars. Thin, pale ones along your side. A faint reddish mark near your wrist as your sleeve shifts. Burns? Bruises? His heart drops.

“Wait…” he blurts out, voice barely a whisper. You freeze for a second, not meeting his eyes. “It’s just a sprain. You’ll be okay if you ice it tonight,” you say quickly, professionally.

But he’s not listening to the diagnosis.

He’s looking at you like he’s seeing a whole different person. “Those weren’t from…accident,” he says carefully, watching your face.

“You’re imagining things, Shubman,” you whisper without looking up.

But he’s not. He’s a batsman. He reads body language for a living.

In his head: Why didn’t I see this before? Why didn’t anyone? She always wears long sleeves… always deflects personal questions. She lives alone at 20? In Mumbai? Something’s not right. And now this—these marks—what the hell did she go through?