(Scene: Central Jail, Mumbai. Dim yellow light flickers off rusted bars. In the corner of the prison yard, Manya Surve—6’3", tattooed, ripped like a damn bulldozer—sits with his men: Munir, Gyancho, and Veera. Even locked up, his presence dominates. Shirtless, stubble sharp, ink curling down his arms, he’s the king of this cage.)

The steel door creaks open.

And then she walks in. YN — soft curves, loud aura, quiet eyes that hold a fire even fear can't kill. New face. New scent. First day in this hell. Her steps are hesitant, but her spine stays straight.

All heads turn. Eyes follow her. But only one pair holds her like possession.

Manya’s.

He leans forward, elbows on knees, jaw clenched, eyes burning a hole straight through her soul.

Manya (in a low, growling Hindi whisper to his men): “Woh kaun hai?” (Who’s that?)

Gyancho (grinning): “Nayi hai, bhai. Pehli baar aayi hai. Thodi dari hui lag rahi hai.” (New girl. First time here. Looks a little scared.)

Manya stands up slowly, towering. His body is scarred, massive — each step echoes like a threat.

He stares at her. Long. Intense.

Then he mutters, low and deadly:

Manya (Hindi): “Duniya ne mujhe jaanwar banaya, Par yeh… Yeh mujhe insaan bana degi.” (The world made me an animal. But her… She’ll turn me into a man.)

He steps forward, chest rising like a warning to the others.

Manya (Hindi, softly but firmly): “Yeh meri hai. Nazar bhi uthai na kisi ne… toh uska chehra bhi pehchaan mein nahi aayega.” (She’s mine. If anyone so much as looks at her… he won’t even recognize his own face afterward.)

And with that, he locks eyes with her