Floor-to-ceiling windows is doing its usual Mumbai midnight symphony-honks, distant dhol from some late wedding baraat, the low growl of a bike revving too hard on Linking Road.

I'm sprawled on the balcony chaise, legs dangling off the edge, the humid March air sticking to my skin like wet cotton.

The vape pen is cool between my fingers, matte black, the kind that looks like it belongs in a spy movie.

I take a slow drag-blueberry mint tonight, because why not pretend I'm sophisticated?-and watch the cloud curl out into the night like I'm exhaling secrets.

My heart's still doing that annoying fluttery thing, the post-party arrhythmia that no amount of hydration fixes.

Four Red Bulls, three tequila shots, two lines I swore were just "for the vibe," and now my brain is a pinball machine with no flippers.

I can't sleep. Haven't really slept since the boards results dropped.

Funny how passing MBBS feels like the finish line until you realize it's just the starting gun for something way scarier.

The sliding door behind me whispers open.

"Shreyansh?"

Mum's voice-soft, tired, the one she uses when she's trying not to yell.

I don't turn around right away.

Just take another quick hit, hold it, then blow the vapor straight up so it dissipates before it can drift her way.

Amateur move, but I'm committed to the bit.

She steps out onto the balcony anyway, barefoot, the hem of her silk robe brushing the tiles.

I can smell the faint rose attar she always dabs behind her ears before bed.

Her hair is loose tonight, silver threads catching the balcony light like accidental highlights.

"Are you vaping?" she asks, not accusing yet, more like she's confirming something she already knows.

I twist around, flash her my best thousand-watt grin-the one that usually gets me out of parking tickets. "Me? Vape? Never."

I hold up both hands like I'm surrendering, pen still tucked between my ring and middle finger like a cigarette from an old black-and-white film. "This is... an aromatherapy device. Very holistic. Doctor-approved. Probably."

She doesn't laugh. Just crosses her arms, the robe sleeve slipping to show the thin gold bangle she's worn since before I was born. "It smells like a candy store exploded in a fog machine."

"Artistic license," I say, shrugging one shoulder. "Helps me think. Big thoughts. Future-of-medicine thoughts."

She sighs-the long, practiced one that means she's counting to ten in her head. "You came home at five this morning. Again. The driver said you were singing old Kishore Kumar songs in the lobby at full volume."

"'Mere Sapno Ki Rani' is a classic," I counter. "Cultural preservation."

"Shreyansh." Her voice drops an octave. Serious now. "We need to talk about Monday."

I groan, dramatic, flop back against the chaise cushion. "Mummy, it's literally Sunday night-or Monday morning, whatever. Can we not do the career intervention at-" I check my watch, an obnoxiously large chronograph I bought with my first internship stipend "-twelve-fourteen?"

"Kavita Sen has agreed to take you."

The name lands like cold water down my spine. I sit up straighter without meaning to.

Dr. Kavita Sen. The neurosurgeon everyone at Long Live Health whispers about like she's half myth, half cautionary tale.

The one who can thread a needle through a blood vessel the width of a hair while the patient's brain is wide open.

The one whose marriage imploded so publicly even the nurses still gossip about it in the canteen. The one Mum thinks is going to "fix" me.

"No thanks," I say, too fast. I twirl the vape pen between my fingers like a drumstick. "I'm good. Really. I'll... shadow someone else. Maybe cardiology. Less gore, more... prestige."

"Cardiology won't take you," she says flatly. "You missed three of their grand rounds because you were 'hungover.' Their words."

I wince. "Harsh exaggeration."

"Shreyansh, you told the HOD that open-heart surgery is 'just carpentry with better lighting.'"

I grin despite myself. "It was a joke. He laughed."

"He didn't."

I exhale through my nose, no vapor this time. "Look, Mum... I get it. You want me to be serious. Scrub in. Learn the sacred art of not killing people on the table. But Kavita Sen?" I shake my head.

"She's intense. Like, nuclear-level intense. I've seen her in the corridor-she looks at people like she's already diagnosing their soul. I'm not ready for that kind of scrutiny. I'll just... figure it out. My way."

"Your way," she repeats, quiet. "Partying till dawn. Coming to hospital smelling like an ashtray. Sleeping through lectures you paid lakhs for. That way?"

I feel the grin slip. Just a little. "I passed, didn't I?"

"Barely."

Ouch.

She steps closer, crouches so we're eye-level. Her eyes are the same deep brown as mine, but hers have worry lines at the corners now, fine as spider silk. "I'm not asking you to be perfect. I'm asking you to try. Really try. Kavita is the best teacher you could have-because she won't let you coast. She'll make you hate it, maybe. She'll make you cry in the on-call room, probably. But if you survive her, you might actually become the surgeon you keep pretending you want to be."

I look away, out at the city lights blurring into streaks. A drone delivery whirs past, red light blinking like a tiny angry eye. I thumb the vape pen's button absently, feel the coil heat, then let it go dark again.

"I don't want to be fixed, Mum," I say, softer than I mean to. "I just want... time. To breathe. To not feel like the rest of my life is already decided."

She reaches out, touches my wrist. Her fingers are cool against my pulse, which is still racing traitorously. "Time is what you make, beta. And right now, you're spending it like it's infinite."

I swallow. Don't answer.

She stands, smooths her robe. "Monday. 5 a.m. You'll be there. Scrubs pressed. No excuses. No vape. No hangover. Or I'll pull strings you didn't know I had and make sure you spend the next six months doing nothing but paperwork in Medical Records."

I snort. "Cruel and unusual."

"Effective," she corrects. Then softer: "I love you, Shrey. More than you know. That's why I'm doing this."

She turns, slides the door shut behind her. The click is quiet, final.

I sit there a long minute, staring at the pen in my hand. Blueberry mint. Stupid flavor for a twenty-five-year-old who's supposed to be a doctor.

I flick it off the balcony.

It arcs down into the dark, tiny glowing ember lost among the streetlights.

Then I stand, stretch until my spine pops, and head inside to set three alarms for 4:15.

Because maybe-maybe-she's right.

Or maybe I'll just hit snooze and deal with the consequences tomorrow.

Either way, it's going to be one hell of a Monday.

The first alarm dies somewhere around 4:15 a.m., swallowed by the thick duvet I pulled over my head like a burial shroud.

The second one I slap blindly, phone skittering across the nightstand and clattering to the floor.

By the third, I'm half-dreaming of strobe lights and mango lassis when Mum's voice slices through the haze like a bone saw.

"Shreyansh Oberoi. Get up. Now."

Her tone is pure director-cold steel wrapped in silk. I groan, roll over, and shove my face deeper into the pillow that still smells faintly of last night's cologne and someone else's perfume.

My mouth tastes like regret and stale blueberry mint.

"Five more minutes..."

The door flies open. Footsteps.

Then the duvet is yanked off me in one ruthless tug.

Cool air hits my bare chest. I crack one eye open.

Mum stands there in her crisp navy suit, hair already pinned in that severe bob, arms crossed so tight the gold bangles dig into her skin.

"You're already thirty minutes behind schedule," she says, voice low and dangerous. "Kavita starts rounds at five sharp. Move."

I sit up, hair sticking up in seventeen directions, and swing my legs off the bed. My scrubs from last week are crumpled on the chair.

I grab the pants first-inside out, of course, one leg twisted like a pretzel. I yank them on anyway, hopping on one foot while the elastic waistband snaps against my hip.

The shirt goes on next, buttons half-done, collar flipped wrong. Whatever. It's 4:47 a.m. Fashion is for people who slept.

Mum shoves a travel mug of black coffee into my hand and a half-toasted slice of bread slathered with strawberry jam into the other. "Eat on the way. And fix your pants before you leave."

I take a massive bite of the bread, jam smearing across my lower lip and one cheek like war paint. "Relax, Mum. I'll charm her. Doctors love me."

She just gives me that look-the one that says she's already regretting every life choice that led to this moment-and shuts the door.

By the time the hospital elevator dings on the neurosurgery floor, it's 5:32 a.m. My scrubs are still inside out at the waistband (I can feel the tag scratching my lower back), there's dried jam flaking off my chin, and my hair looks like I lost a fight with a ceiling fan.

The corridor is already humming with that early-morning hospital energy-beeps, low voices, the distant clatter of metal trays.

I spot her immediately.

Dr. Kavita Sen stands at the nurses' station like she owns gravity itself.

White coat immaculate, scrub cap still on from whatever night shift she pulled, dark circles under her eyes that somehow make her look sharper instead of tired.

She's shorter than I expected-maybe ten years older than me, early thirties, but she carries herself like she's been carving open skulls since birth.

A faint strand of hair has escaped her cap and curls against her temple, damp with sweat or steam from the scrub sink.

Her hands are steady as she flips through a chart, but there's a tightness around her mouth, like she's already bracing for disappointment.

I saunter over, flashing my best disarming grin, the one that usually works on charge nurses and pretty interns. "Morning, Doc. Sorry I'm fashionably late. Traffic was brutal. You know how it is-Link Road at this hour."

She doesn't look up right away. Just finishes signing something with a decisive scratch of her pen.

When she finally lifts her gaze, her eyes are cool, assessing, the kind that seem to catalog every flaw in a single sweep: the inside-out waistband, the jam smear I missed on my jaw, the faint scent of last night's party still clinging to my skin despite the hurried shower.

"Fashionably late?" she repeats, voice flat, almost bored. "This isn't a nightclub, kid."

Kid.

The word lands like a slap. I'm twenty-five.

She's what-thirty-five? Ten years.

Ten measly years and she's calling me kid like I'm some first-year intern who still needs his hand held during cannulation.

My jaw tightens. Heat prickles up the back of my neck.

I lean one hip against the counter, trying to reclaim some ground. "Name's Shreyansh. Not kid. And I thought neurosurgery was supposed to be exciting. All that brain drama. Not this... punctuality lecture at dawn."

She finally turns fully toward me, setting the chart down with deliberate care.

The fluorescent light catches the faint lines at the corners of her eyes-lines that look earned, not just from age. Her fingers tap once on the counter, a tiny rhythmic irritation.

"Exciting?" A ghost of a smile, cold and sharp as a scalpel.

"You want drama? Fine. But drama doesn't happen if the team isn't ready when the skull is open and the brain is swelling faster than you can say 'herniation.' You show up late, smelling like last night's bad decisions and strawberry jam, with your scrubs on backwards like a toddler who dressed himself, and you expect me to let you anywhere near a patient?"

I open my mouth to fire back-something witty, something that'll remind her I'm not some clueless rich kid-but she cuts me off before I can even inhale.

"You're here because your mother asked. Not because you earned it. So until you prove you can show up on time, keep your hands clean, and stop treating this floor like your personal after-party, you're not a doctor in training. You're an observer. And observers keep their mouths shut and their egos in check."

She steps closer, just enough that I catch the faint scent of hospital soap and something sharper-maybe exhaustion, maybe resolve. Her voice drops, low enough that only I can hear.

"And kid? That's exactly what you are right now. Acting like the world owes you a shortcut because you passed an exam. Grow up. Or go party somewhere else. I don't have time to babysit manchildren who can't even put their pants on the right way."

My fists clench at my sides. The jam on my cheek suddenly feels sticky and ridiculous. Inside-out tag scratches harder against my skin, a constant reminder.

Who the hell does she think she is? Talking down to me like I'm a toddler's age or something.

I've partied with people twice her status.

I've aced exams while hungover. And here she is, this weary, broken-looking woman with her custody drama and her savior complex, acting like she's the queen of the OR.

I force a smirk, even though my blood is buzzing with irritation. "Loud and clear... Doc."

But inside, something hot and stubborn coils tight.

I don't like her.

Not one bit.

She turns on her heel, white coat flaring slightly. "Rounds start now. Try to keep up. And fix your damn scrubs before someone mistakes you for the janitor's sloppy nephew."

I trail after her down the corridor, jaw locked, jam still flaking off my face, the tag digging into my back with every step.

Thirty-two minutes late.

And already, I want to prove her wrong so badly it burns.

But mostly?

I just really, really don't like Dr. Kavita Sen.