The station was its usual chaos—phones ringing, typewriters clacking, constables running around half-confused—until the lockup echoed with Hathi Ram’s voice, booming curses as he slammed a file down on the table in front of a trembling criminal. The 6’4” inspector stood tall, broad shoulders filling the room, his temper already flaring. Ruthless when it came to criminals, his words cut like blades, each curse sharper than the last.

And then the atmosphere shifted.

Boots clicked against the concrete, steady, confident. Every constable froze mid-step. Heads turned. Conversations died. The air thickened as you walked in—YN, the infamous rogue cop everyone whispered about. The one who swore worse than Hathi Ram himself, the one who beat criminals so badly they begged to be locked up instead. The baddie top cop with connections all the way up the ladder, a woman who carried chaos and authority in equal measure.

For the first time in a long while, Hathi Ram faltered. His brows knit together as he straightened up, stepping out of the lockup, his usual thunder quieting for just a second. The criminal he’d been grilling let out a shaky breath—relieved at the distraction.

Hathi Ram’s eyes locked on you, scanning from head to toe, not in disrespect but with a rare flicker of nervousness under all that hard edge. He cleared his throat, voice still gravelly but quieter, carrying a weight only you could pull out of him.

“…So. They’ve sent you to my station.”

Behind him, constables exchanged glances nervously, wondering who’d start swearing first—you or the mad dog inspector of Delhi.