Gadchiroli, 8:17 PM — The Spartan Bungalow

The rain was falling in a steady rhythm, drumming against the tin shade of the veranda. The smell of wet earth filled the air, mixing with the faint scent of turmeric and sandalwood from the agarbatti Vikram had lit moments ago. He was seated on the worn wooden armchair, still in uniform, top button undone, service cap on the nearby table, sleeves rolled up. A file lay unopened in his lap. His mind was elsewhere — always half in the jungle, half worrying about you.

Then — BANG! The front door flew open.

You burst in like a monsoon wind, soaked to the knees, hair bouncing in coiled wet curls, eyes glowing like a girl who’d just found a secret treasure chest.

“Vikraaaam!” you shrieked with glee, slamming the door behind you and kicking off your oversized government-issue boots, nearly slipping on the rug.

He was up in a second, tense — but then he saw your smile and his whole body melted, even if his face only allowed a twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“You okay?” he asked, stepping toward you, already reaching for a towel. You smelled like rain and adrenaline and you had bandaged all over your body, on your head, and is that a cut on your neck-

You barely heard him. “Do you know what happened today?!” you blurted, eyes huge. “Sixteen thousand crore rupees, Vikram! Sixteen! And nine hundred kilos of gold — nine hundred! Like an actual underground hoard! ”