The auto-rickshaw dropped me at the mouth of the gali just as the evening azaan started rolling over the rooftops.

 The sky had turned that bruised purple that makes Delhi feel smaller, closer, like the city is holding its breath before night swallows it whole.

 My dupatta had slipped off one shoulder somewhere between the metro station and here; I didn't bother fixing it. 

My feet hurt from the cheap kolhapuris I'd worn because they were easy to kick off in security lines, and my palms still carried the ghost of the desk I'd slammed them on.

I pushed through the heavy wooden door of the kotha—same creak it's had since I was six—and the familiar smells hit me all at once: attar-soaked cotton, kerosene from the lamps in the back courtyard, Ammi's kitchen where someone was frying pakoras because Pinky had begged for them earlier.

The girls were scattered in the drawing room.

 Shabnam on the divan scrolling through reels, Meher braiding Pinky's hair with slow, careful fingers, little Noor curled in the corner with a dog-eared comic book. 

They looked up when I entered. One glance at my face and the chatter died.

"Didi?" Pinky's voice was small.

I didn't answer. I just walked straight past them, past the corridor where the new girl was still sitting on the charpoy with her knees drawn up, eyes wide and watchful, and straight into the kitchen.

Ammi was at the stove, back to me, stirring something in a kadhai. 

The flame was low; she always turned it down when she was thinking. 

Her maroon saree was tucked high, sleeves rolled to the elbow, silver bangles clinking softly against the steel ladle.

I dropped my file folder on the kitchen table with a thud that made the steel tumblers rattle.

"Who does he think he is?"

The words came out louder than I meant, cracked at the edges.

Ammi didn't turn immediately. She gave the Kid one last stir, switched off the gas, wiped her hands on the pallu, and only then looked at me.

Her eyes scanned my face—quick, thorough, the way she used to check us for fever when we were kids. 

She saw the flush on my cheeks, the way my hands were still balled into fists, the strand of hair that had escaped and stuck to my damp forehead.

"Kya Hua? [What happened]?"

Her voice was calm. Too calm.

 The kind of calm that means she's already calculating how many men she might have to threaten tonight.

I pulled out a chair, sat down hard. The wood groaned under me.

"Arhaan Dev Rathore," I spat the name like it tasted of rust.

 "Three hours he made me wait. Three hours in that glass cage of an office with his perfect receptionist offering me Bisleri like I'm some guest. Then he finally lets me in, doesn't even stand up, looks at me like I'm dirt on his shoe, and says—says—prostitutes are not important."

The last four words came out in a rush, bitter.

Ammi's face didn't change, but something shifted in her eyes. A slow darkening, like ink spreading through water.

"He said that?"

"Word for word." I laughed, short and ugly.

 "Said we're wasting resources. That most of them 'choose' to stay. That the optics of raids are bad. Optics. As if those girls are just bad publicity. As if their lives are a PR problem."

I pressed my palms to my eyes, hard, until spots danced behind my lids.

"He called me emotional. Said I should come back in six weeks when they've 'prepared a response.' Like I'm some schoolgirl asking for pocket money."

Silence stretched between us. From the drawing room I could hear Shabnam whisper something to Meher, then the soft pad of footsteps retreating. 

They knew better than to come in when Ammi and I were like this.

Ammi finally moved. She pulled the other chair out, sat down across from me. 

Her hands folded on the table—strong hands, scarred at the knuckles from years of opening locked doors, breaking bottles over men's heads when words weren't enough.

"And what did you say?"

I lifted my head. Met her gaze.

"I told him he doesn't get to decide who matters. That those girls matter. Every one. That if he thinks dismissing them makes him pragmatic, it just makes him another man who profits from their silence."

A tiny flicker at the corner of her mouth—not quite a smile, but close.

"Did he like that?"

"He told me the meeting was over."

She nodded once, slow.

"Good."

I stared at her. "Good? Ammi, he's the Prime Minister's son. Special advisor. He has the ear of every ministry that could actually help us. He can bury our petition so deep it never sees daylight again."

Ammi leaned back, crossed her arms.

"Then we dig it out ourselves. We always have."

She reached across the table, took my hand in both of hers. Her palms were warm, rough, still smelling faintly of turmeric and oil from cooking.

"Listen to me, beta. Men like him—they sit in big rooms, make big speeches, think the world bends because they say so. But they don't know what it feels like to wake up at three a.m. because a child is crying outside your door and her mother sold her to pay for rice. They don't know what it costs to look a girl in the eye and tell her she's safe now, even when you're not sure you can keep that promise. They don't know because they've never had to."

Her thumbs moved in slow circles over my knuckles.

"You do. I do. Every girl in this house does."

She squeezed my hand once, firm.

"So let him think he's won today. Let him feel clever. Arrogant men are careless. And careless men leave doors open."

I exhaled, long and shaky.

"I'm so angry, Ammi. I want to burn his office down."

She chuckled—low, dry, the sound that always made me feel smaller and braver at the same time.

"Burning is easy. Lasting is hard. You'll go back. You'll go again and again until he can't ignore you. And if he still tries..." She shrugged one shoulder. "We have other ways. We always have."

She stood, pulled me up with her.

"Now come. Eat something before you faint from rage. Pinky will cry if the pakoras get cold."

I let her lead me to the stove. She pressed a plate into my hands, piled it high—crisp edges, hot potato filling, green chutney that would burn my tongue just right.

As I took the first bite, the anger didn't disappear. It settled, though. Became something sharper, more precise.

Arhaan Dev Rathore thought he could dismiss us.

He was about to learn how wrong he was.

And when the time came, I'd make sure he remembered my name—not as a footnote, not as an annoyance, but as the woman who refused to let him look away.

I woke up with the taste of rage still bitter on my tongue. Ammi had forced me to eat three pakoras and drink a full glass of sweetened lassi before letting me disappear into my books, but sleep had been restless—filled with polished smiles and the echo of "prostitutes are not important."

 By nine I was already out the door again, white kurti swapped for a black cotton salwar-kameez that wouldn't show dirt or blood if things turned ugly. 

Dupatta tied tight around my neck like a scarf, hair pulled into a no-nonsense braid that hung down my back.

 In my bag: water bottle, extra cloth for eyes, a small first-aid kit, and the new placard Seher and I had painted at midnight.

WE ARE NOT COLLATERAL DAMAGE ARHAAN DEV RATHORE — SEE US OR STEP DOWN

The rally was scheduled for four p.m. at the sprawling grounds near India Gate—Arhaan's big public show on "Youth for Safe Bharat." 

Banners everywhere promised "Empowering Every Daughter." 

I almost laughed when I saw the posters. His face stared down at us from every lamppost: perfect teeth, wind-swept hair, that same half-smile he'd given me in his office.

Hundreds had already gathered by the time our group arrived—students, women's collectives, a few brave survivors from the shelters, journalists with cameras ready. 

Seher was beside me, megaphone in one hand, my arm in the other. 

We pushed through the crowd until we were near the front barricades, right where the stage loomed like a throne.

I raised my placard high.

"Arhaan Dev Rathore! Acknowledge the kothas! Stop protecting the buyers!"

My voice joined the chant, raw and loud. Others picked it up. 

The slogans rolled like thunder across the maidan.

He appeared on stage at exactly four-thirty, flanked by security in crisp black suits and local police. 

White kurta-pyjama today—deliberately simple, sleeves rolled just enough to look approachable. 

He waved, smiled that practiced smile, began speaking about "zero tolerance for exploitation" and "new helplines."

I didn't let him finish the first paragraph.

"Hypocrite!" I shouted, voice carrying over the PA system because Seher had timed it perfectly. "You called us unimportant yesterday! Tell the truth—how many girls have you actually helped instead of photo-opped?"

The crowd rippled. Cameras swung toward me. Arhaan's gaze found me instantly across the distance. 

For a split second something flickered in his eyes—recognition, irritation—then the cool mask slipped back on.

He raised a hand for silence, still smiling.

"Peaceful dialogue is always welcome," he said into the mic, voice smooth as butter. "But disruption helps no one."

That was the signal.

The police moved in fast. Lathis first—pushing, shoving. Then the tear gas canisters hissed through the air like angry snakes. 

White smoke bloomed, acrid and choking. People started coughing, eyes streaming. 

Someone screamed. I pulled my dupatta over my nose and mouth, still shouting.

"You can't gas the truth away!"

A second canister landed too close. The blast of heat and chemicals hit me like a wall. My eyes burned instantly, tears flooding. 

I staggered, trying to stay upright, but the crowd surged in panic. A heavy baton caught me across the shoulder—then something harder slammed into the side of my head. 

Pain exploded, white-hot. The world tilted.

I went down hard on the trampled grass, placard clattering beside me. The last thing I saw clearly was Seher's face, mouth open in a shout I couldn't hear anymore.

Darkness swallowed me.

When I woke, the world was blurred and throbbing. My head felt split open. I was lying on something soft—not grass. 

A couch? My eyes watered uncontrollably; every blink felt like sandpaper.

 The air smelled of antiseptic and expensive leather.

 Someone had placed a cold compress on my forehead. 

My salwar was torn at the knee, blood and dirt streaked across the fabric. The right side of my face was sticky—blood from a cut near my temple, I realized dimly.

I tried to sit up.

A hand—firm but not rough—pressed my shoulder back down.

"Easy. You've got a mild concussion and chemical exposure. Don't move too fast."

That voice. Smooth. Controlled. Infuriatingly calm.

Arhaan Dev Rathore.

I forced my eyes open wider. 

He was sitting on a low chair pulled close to the couch, still in his white kurta, sleeves now stained with faint smudges of dirt and what looked like my blood.

 Two bodyguards hovered near the door of what appeared to be a fancy temporary green room—plush sofas, bottled water, even a small medical kit open on the table.

 Outside, I could hear the distant chaos of the dispersing crowd and police announcements.

"You..." My voice came out hoarse, cracked from the gas. I coughed, winced as pain lanced through my skull. "You had your goons hit me."

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, expression perfectly composed. No anger. No guilt.

 Just cool detachment, like we were discussing the weather.

"My bodyguards didn't mean it. The situation escalated. Tear gas was a last resort when the crowd became unruly. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Wrong place?" I laughed, then immediately regretted it as my head throbbed. 

I pushed his hand off my shoulder and sat up anyway, ignoring the dizziness. 

Blood trickled warm down my cheek. I wiped it away with the back of my hand, leaving a smear.

"I was exactly where I needed to be—calling out your lies in public. You said prostitutes aren't important. You made me wait three hours like a beggar. And now your men crack my skull because I dared to show up at your precious rally? How convenient."

He didn't flinch. Instead he reached for a fresh gauze pad from the kit, soaked it in saline, and offered it to me. I snatched it from his fingers.

"Ms. Khan," he said, voice low and even, "passion is admirable. But chaos isn't activism. My team is trained for crowd control. Accidents happen when emotions run high. I've already instructed them to review the footage. If excessive force was used, appropriate action will be taken."

"Accidents?" I pressed the gauze to my temple, hissing at the sting. My eyes were still streaming, but I refused to look away from him. 

"This wasn't an accident. This was a message. Gas us, beat us, then patch us up in your fancy tent and pretend you're the reasonable one. Tell me, Mr. Rathore—does your father's government teach you that line, or did you come up with it all by yourself at Oxford?"

A tiny muscle ticked in his jaw—the first crack in the cool facade. But his tone stayed velvet-smooth.

"You assume malice where there is only procedure. I don't control every baton or every canister. What I do control is policy. And policy changes through dialogue, not by shouting slogans that drown out actual solutions."

"Dialogue?" I leaned forward, ignoring the way the room spun. My braid had come half-undone; strands stuck to my wet, stinging face. 

"You call three hours of waiting and then dismissing every girl I protect 'dialogue'? You looked me in the eye and said we're unimportant. Now you're sitting here playing doctor while your cops are still out there terrorizing the same women you claim to empower on your banners."

I stood up shakily, clutching the arm of the couch for balance. The cut on my head throbbed in time with my heartbeat.

"I'm not your photo-op victim, Arhaan. I'm not going to thank you for the gauze and go home quietly. Those girls in the kothas—the ones you think choose their cages—they're bleeding right now while you sip mineral water and worry about optics. If your bodyguards 'didn't mean it,' then prove it. Release the unedited footage. Audit the shelters properly. Stop treating us like collateral damage in your career climb."

He rose too, slower, towering over me but keeping a careful distance. His eyes—those amber-brown ones—held mine without blinking.

"You're bleeding on my couch, Ms. Khan, and still fighting. That takes courage. Misplaced, perhaps, but courage nonetheless." A faint, almost regretful smile touched his lips. 

"Get yourself checked at a proper hospital. My driver will take you. As for the rest... next time, come without the megaphone. Maybe then we can talk without tear gas."

I stepped closer, close enough to see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw and the tiny speck of my blood on his cuff.

"There won't be a 'next time' on your terms," I whispered fiercely. "I'll keep coming. Louder. Until you can't look away. Until every girl you dismissed has a face you can't forget."

I turned, snatched my torn dupatta from the floor, and walked toward the door on unsteady legs. One bodyguard moved to help; I glared him into stillness.

Behind me, Arhaan's voice followed—still maddeningly cool, but with the slightest edge now.

"Careful, Aarini. Courage without strategy just creates more casualties."

I didn't look back.

But as I stepped out into the fading light, head pounding, eyes burning, blood drying on my cheek, I felt the fire in my chest burn brighter than ever.

He could keep his calm.

I would keep my fury.

And one of us was going to break first.