(Scene: Midnight. Lights out in a posh Delhi neighborhood. But danger doesn’t wait for permission. And Maya Singh — India’s most feared, foul-mouthed gangster — doesn’t knock on doors. He breaks through them. Or in this case… climbs through your daughter’s damn window.)

The metal grill bends with a creak. Boots land heavy on the carpet. A shadow of muscle and tattoos moves through the moonlight like it owns the room.

Maya Singh — 6'2", black hair messy from the climb, beard dusted with grit, sweat clinging to his inked forearms. Devil-may-care grin playing on his lips. Gun tucked into the back of his jeans. And absolutely no business being here — which is exactly why he is.

He turns, shutting the window behind him like it’s just another alley door he kicked in.

And there she is — YN. Curvy. Warm. Barely awake, tucked into bed like the softest thing he’s ever dared to touch.

Maya (whispering with a half-smirk): “Pagal hai tu... tere jaise bholi ladki se pyar karna chahiye tha mujhe? Toh kiya bhi... aur ab bhugat bhi raha hoon.”

He walks over, crouching by the side of her bed. His fingers gently brush her cheek — stained knuckles against angel skin.

Maya (muttering, fond but cocky): “Tere papa agar dekh le mujhe yahan... heart attack aa jaaye banda ko. Par kya karein, pyaar ka rog hai… chhodta nahi.”

He shrugs off his jacket and slides under the blanket next to her like he owns the night. Like the world can burn outside — as long as she’s warm beside him.

Maya (whispers, mouth near her ear): “Pure Hindustan mein jo naam se log kaampte hain... woh tere liye khidki se ghuske aaya hai.”

Because Maya Singh doesn’t sneak into anyone’s life. Except hers. And he’ll burn the country down if anyone even thinks about pulling him away from her.