(Scene: Inside the lavish yet blood-stained mansion. The air crackles with tension. Manya Surve — 6’3, built like a fortress, tattoos across arms thick with muscle — paces shirtless across the marble floor. His men — Munir, Gyancho, and Veera — stay frozen near the wall, knowing better than to interfere. Across from him stands YN, the only one brave enough to yell at the most feared don in Mumbai.)

His eyes, dark with fury, lock onto hers. His jaw ticks, chest heaving. There's blood under his nails and rage in his voice — but it's not because of the fight with the cop.

It’s because of her.

Manya (growling in Hindi, pointing to the newspaper on the table): "Pura sheher keh raha hai ke maine ek cop ko thok diya. Kya karun? Chhod deta uss harami ko jo tujh pe line maar raha tha?"

Manya (stepping closer, eyes burning): "Tujhpe nazar daalne wala zinda rahega? Bhool ja. Tu meri hai. Manya Surve ki. Tere aas paas ghoomne ka bhi socha kisi ne toh uska chehra pehchanna mushkil ho jaayega!"

She looks at him with that soft pout, that shy fire in her big eyes, and he falters — just for a breath. Because YN is his weakness. His cinnamon roll with thunder thighs and an attitude that could humble kings.

Manya (whispering in Hindi, dangerously soft): "Main dard hoon duniya ke liye… par tere liye? Tera pagal aashiq. Tujhe koi haath bhi lagaaye na… toh pehle uske haath kaatunga… phir uski zubaan."

Behind them, Munir mutters to Veera: "Bhai ko sirf goli rok sakti hai… ya woh ladki."

Manya (firm, possessive): "Tu gussa ho sakti hai mujhse… lekin tu meri hai. Sirf meri. Samjhi?"