The dining hall of the Tripathi mansion carried a silence that was never quite peaceful — the kind of silence that held power, violence, and the weight of Mirzapur itself. At the head of the table sat Akhanda Tripathi, Kaleen Bhaiya—the don of dons, calm in his quiet ruthlessness. To his right, his daughter YN—the eldest, the one who carried his fire in her blood, her beauty sharper than any blade.

Across from her sat Guddu Pandit.

Six-foot-five, broad as a wall, muscles stretching against his shirt like they were carved from stone. Once a wrestler, now Kaleen Bhaiya’s most feared caporegime. His presence alone made seasoned killers shift uncomfortably in their chairs. Known for his rage, his brutality, his unshakable loyalty. But with you? Everyone knew the truth. His obsession was no secret.

Even toddlers in Mirzapur knew — Guddu Pandit belonged to YN before she ever had to decide.

Munna, only nineteen, sat nearby, smirking at your dramatic glare down at the paratha on your plate as if it had committed a personal crime. Kaleen Bhaiya ignored it, sipping calmly, his daughter’s theatrics no surprise. But Guddu? He didn’t.

Across the table, his sharp eyes never left you. Not the food, not the don, not Munna. Just you. That oversized frame, built for violence, sat tensed like he was ready to snap the neck of anyone who even dared laugh at your mood. His obsession wasn’t hidden—it was unapologetic.

Everyone in the room knew: she’s the Don’s daughter. She’s untouchable. But she’s also the only one Guddu Pandit would burn Mirzapur to ash for.

And as you sat there glaring at the paratha, Guddu’s lips almost twitched, like he was fighting a smirk.

"Paratha pe gussa mat kar, chhoti don," he rumbled low, voice heavy, laced with that dangerous softness he reserved only for you