The auto-rickshaw rattled to a stop at the mouth of the narrow gali off GB Road just as the streetlights flickered on, casting sickly yellow pools on the cracked pavement.

My head still throbbed from yesterday's baton strike-the cut above my temple had scabbed over into a tight, itchy line, and every jolt of the vehicle sent fresh sparks of pain behind my eyes.

I paid the driver with trembling fingers, adjusted the black dupatta tighter around my shoulders, and slipped inside the heavy wooden door of the kotha.

The familiar smells should have comforted me-jasmine attar gone slightly stale, the sharp bite of cheap agarbatti, Ammi's distant kitchen tadka of jeera and garlic-but tonight they felt wrong. Too quiet. Too still.

Then I heard it.

A high, terrified whimper from the inner courtyard. Pinky's voice. Small. Breaking.

My blood turned to ice.

I ran.

Bare feet slapping against the cool, uneven marble of the corridor, past the faded posters of old film stars that lined the walls, past the narrow staircase where the new girl still slept fitfully under a thin blanket.

The drawing room was empty-Shabnam's phone abandoned on the divan, screen still glowing with an unfinished reel. The fight spilled out into the back courtyard, where the neem tree's branches threw jagged shadows across the broken tiles.

Three men. Dealers.

The kind who slithered in after midnight with oily smiles and thicker wallets.

One was tall, pockmarked face half-hidden under a dirty white gamchha, gold chain glinting at his throat.

The second, shorter and stockier, had a fresh paan stain on his lips that looked like dried blood in the dim bulb light.

The third-one I recognised, a regular middleman from the Ajmeri Gate side-was gripping little Pinky's thin arm so tightly his knuckles had gone white.

Meher stood frozen behind them, back pressed to the courtyard wall, eyes wide with unshed tears, her small hands clutching the end of her faded pink dupatta like a shield.

Noor was nowhere in sight-probably hiding under a charpoy upstairs, the way she did when voices turned ugly.

Pinky-barely fourteen, still with baby fat rounding her cheeks and that gap-toothed smile she flashed when I read her stories at night-was struggling, tears cutting clean tracks down her dusty face.

"Didi... Didi, mat jaane do...!"

The tall one yanked her harder. "Chup kar, chhoti. Teri Ammi ne paise liye hain. Ab tu kaam karegi. Bahar gaadi khadi hai-accha ghar, accha khana. Ro mat."

My vision tunneled. The pain in my head vanished under a wave of pure, white-hot fury.

"Leave her!"

My voice cracked across the courtyard like a whip.

I stormed forward, pushing between two of them without thinking, my shoulder slamming into the stocky one's chest.

He stumbled back, surprised.

"Aarini Didi," the middleman sneered, still not letting go of Pinky's arm. "Tumhari Ammi ne kaha tha-protection ke liye humein bulaya. Yeh chhoti ladkiyan ab safe nahi yahan. Bahar market mein demand hai. Tum toh jaanti ho-aamir log aate hain, paise dete hain."

I grabbed his wrist, nails digging into the soft flesh until he hissed.

My other hand reached for Pinky, pulling her toward me with every ounce of strength I had left.

She collided into my chest, small body shaking violently, her face burying into the cotton of my kameez.

I could feel her hot tears soaking through the fabric, her rapid little breaths against my ribs.

"You touch any of them again and I swear on every god in this city I will cut your hands off myself," I snarled, voice low and trembling with rage.

"Ammi has never sold a single girl. Never. You think you can walk in here because we had one bad night at a rally? Because some politician's son thinks we're unimportant? These are my sisters. By heart, by blood, by every fight we've survived together. Get out."

The stocky one laughed, a wet, ugly sound, and stepped closer, his breath reeking of gutkha and cheap whiskey.

"Heroine ban rahi hai? Kal hi toh tere sar pe lathi padi thi. Aaj humein rokegi kaise? Police bhi hamari taraf hai-"

He reached for Meher.

I moved without thinking-slapped his hand away so hard the sound cracked like a firework. My palm stung.

Pinky clung tighter, a tiny sob escaping her.

Then the courtyard gate creaked open behind us.

Heavy footsteps. Polished shoes on old tiles. A presence that shifted the air itself-cool, commanding, expensive.

Arhaan Dev Rathore stepped into the dim light.

He was in a crisp white shirt and dark trousers, sleeves rolled to the elbows, the same calm mask from the green room firmly in place.

But his eyes-those amber-brown eyes-narrowed the instant they took in the scene: me bleeding slightly from the reopened cut on my temple, Pinky trembling against me, the three dealers frozen mid-threat.

For one heartbeat, something raw flickered across his face.

Not the polished politician. Not the cool advisor.

Just... fury. Controlled, icy fury.

The middleman recovered first, straightening with a greasy smile. "Arre shaab, aap? Yeh toh-"

"Enough."

Arhaan's voice was quiet. Deadly quiet. The kind of quiet that made powerful men listen.

He didn't raise his hand. He didn't need to. Two of his plain-clothes security-broad-shouldered, silent-materialised behind him like shadows.

One already had his phone out, recording.

"You three," Arhaan continued, stepping forward until he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with me, close enough that I caught the faint trace of his woody cologne cutting through the courtyard's stale air. "Names. Now. And the registration of whatever vehicle you claim is waiting outside."

The tall dealer shifted uncomfortably. "Saab, yeh personal matter hai. Yeh ladkiyan-"

"These girls are minors," Arhaan cut in, voice still velvet-smooth but edged with steel.

"Under the Protection of Children from Sexual Offences Act. Attempted trafficking carries ten years minimum. I suggest you release the child immediately and step back before my team makes this evening very inconvenient for all of you."

Pinky's grip on my kameez loosened just a fraction as the middleman's fingers finally-reluctantly-uncurled from her arm.

She flew into my side fully now, small arms wrapping around my waist.

I held her tight, one hand stroking her tangled hair, feeling the rapid flutter of her heartbeat against mine.

The stocky one tried one last bluster. "Aap jaante nahi hum kaun hain-"

"I don't care who you are," Arhaan said, pulling out his own phone with deliberate slowness.

He dialled a single number, put it on speaker. The voice that answered was official, crisp.

"Commissioner ji? Arhaan Dev Rathore here. I need an immediate team at this location. Suspected trafficking attempt on minors."

He rattled off the exact address-our kotha's full details-without hesitation.

The dealers exchanged glances.

The fight drained from their postures like air from a punctured tyre.

They backed away, muttering curses under their breath, gold chains catching the light one last time as they slipped toward the gate.

Arhaan's security followed them out, ensuring they actually left.

Only then did he turn to me.

His gaze dropped to the fresh blood on my temple, the way Pinky was still shaking in my arms, the tear stains on my dupatta.

For a moment his cool mask slipped again-just a fraction.

His jaw tightened.

Those eyes lingered on the small freckles across my nose, the dimple that refused to show now because my face was locked in protective fury.

"You're hurt again," he said softly. Not a question.

I lifted my chin, holding Pinky closer, feeling Meher creep up behind me and clutch the back of my kameez.

"And you're here... why exactly, Mr. Rathore?" My voice was still raw, still trembling with leftover adrenaline.

"Come to call us unimportant in person this time?"

He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair, messing it just enough to look almost human.

"I came because my team picked up chatter about retaliation after yesterday's rally. I didn't expect..."

He gestured at the empty courtyard, the neem leaves still rustling in the breeze. "This."

Pinky peeked out from my side, eyes wide and wary.

Arhaan's expression softened-imperceptibly, but I saw it. The tiniest shift at the corner of his mouth.

"You're safe now," he told her directly, voice gentler than I'd ever heard it. "No one is taking you anywhere."

Then, to me, quieter, almost under his breath:

"You keep bleeding for them, Aarini. And somehow... I can't seem to look away anymore."

The police siren grew louder, cutting through the humid Delhi night like a warning. The dealers had scattered into the shadows of GB Road, their footsteps fading into the maze of alleys, but the air in the courtyard still felt thick with their leftover stench-gutkha, cheap whiskey, and the sour fear of men who'd almost won.

Pinky's small body trembled against mine, her face buried deep in the crook of my neck, hot tears soaking into my black kameez.

Meher had crept closer too, clutching the hem of my dupatta with white-knuckled fingers, her breathing shallow and quick.

I stroked Pinky's tangled hair, murmuring nonsense words I used to whisper when she had nightmares-"Bas, beta, bas... Didi hai na..."-while my own heart hammered so loudly I was sure the whole kotha could hear it.

Arhaan Dev Rathore stood a few feet away, tall and unfairly composed in his crisp white shirt, the sleeves still rolled to reveal the corded muscles of his forearms.

His security men had melted back into the shadows near the gate, giving us the illusion of privacy while the first blue flash of police lights painted the neem tree's leaves in erratic pulses.

I swallowed hard, embarrassment crawling up my throat like bile.

This was my home. My battlefield.

Not some polished government office where I could shout slogans and walk away bleeding with dignity.

Here, the walls were thin, the secrets loud, and the girls I called sisters were watching everything with wide, frightened eyes.

The faint, rhythmic moans drifting from the upper floor-some regular client who hadn't left yet, a woman's practised sigh mixing with the creak of an old charpoy-made my cheeks burn hotter.

Of course it had to happen now.

Of course he had to witness the raw, unfiltered truth of the place he'd dismissed as unimportant.

I cleared my throat, voice rough from shouting and leftover tear gas. "Come inside... Mr. Rathore. Before the police turn this into another spectacle."

The words tasted like ash. Inviting him in felt like handing over another piece of armor, but leaving him standing in the courtyard with the girls still shaking felt worse.

Arhaan's amber eyes flicked to me, then to Pinky's small frame, then back.

He gave a single, curt nod. "Lead the way."

I guided them through the narrow corridor-past the faded blue walls where tiny cracks spiderwebbed from years of monsoon leaks, past the steel almirah that held our emergency first-aid box and the hidden switchblade Ammi kept for nights like this.

The drawing room was dimly lit by a single yellow bulb swinging from a frayed wire.

I steered Pinky and Meher toward the inner room, whispering to Shabnam (who had appeared like a ghost from the kitchen) to take them upstairs, give them warm milk, tell them stories until they stopped trembling.

They clung a second longer, then vanished, their small footsteps pattering up the wooden stairs like frightened mice.

The moans from upstairs grew momentarily louder-a low, breathy "haan... aur..." followed by the rhythmic thud of a headboard-before someone shut a door.

I winced, heat flooding my face again.

Embarrassment prickled along my spine.

This wasn't how I wanted him to see us.

Not as victims. Not as background noise to someone else's transaction.

I turned to face him in the middle of the drawing room.

The old divan with its threadbare velvet cover, the low wooden chowki stacked with my law books and half-finished placards, the faint smell of jasmine oil from Ammi's morning massage still lingering on my hair.

My temple throbbed where the scab had cracked open again during the scuffle; a fresh drop of blood welled and slid down my cheek like an unwelcome tear.

Arhaan stood near the doorway, hands loosely at his sides, taking in every tiny detail without comment-the crooked stack of books, the placard that still read WE ARE NOT COLLATERAL DAMAGE in my hurried handwriting, the single incense stick burned down to ash in its holder.

"I came to apologise, Ms. Razia Khan," he said quietly. His voice was that same velvet calm, but there was a new edge beneath it-something tighter, less rehearsed.

He used my full name like a deliberate formality, the way he had in his office. "For yesterday. For the rally. For the way my team handled the situation. And... for what just happened outside. No one should have to fight like that in their own home."

I laughed-short, sharp, bitter. It pulled at the cut on my temple.

"I don't want your apology, Mr. Rathore." The words came out fiercer than I intended, my hands curling into fists at my sides.

The embarrassment fueled the fire now, mixing with leftover adrenaline. "Save it for your press conferences. For the cameras. For the voters who don't have to hear moans leaking through the walls while politicians lecture them about 'optics.' You think a few polished words fix the fact that you called us unimportant? That your father's government looks the other way while dealers like those walk in whenever they please?"

He took one step closer. The air between us thickened.

Upstairs, another muffled sound drifted down-soft laughter this time, then a sigh that made my stomach twist with second-hand shame.

Arhaan's jaw tightened, but his expression stayed cool, controlled. "You're still bleeding, Aarini. And still fighting. I'm trying to-"

"Trying?" I cut him off, voice rising. I stepped forward too, refusing to yield an inch even though my knees felt unsteady.

"You 'try' by showing up unannounced with your security shadows and your Oxford accent, acting like you're the hero who chased away the wolves. But you created the forest, Mr. Rathore. Your policies. Your task forces that do nothing but schedule 'next dates.' Those girls upstairs-Pinky, Meher-they're not collateral. They're children who flinch at every loud voice because the world has taught them that safety is temporary. And you... you stand there apologising like it costs you nothing while their nightmares are louder than any client's moans."

My chest heaved. Another drop of blood trailed down my cheek. I didn't wipe it away.

He moved faster than I expected.

In one fluid motion he closed the distance, his hand catching my wrist-not hard, but firm enough to stop me from gesturing wildly.

Before I could pull back, he had me backed against the cool, cracked wall beside the divan.

The plaster was rough against my shoulder blades through the thin cotton of my kameez.

His body didn't press fully against mine-he kept a sliver of space, professional, controlled-but it was close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from him, smell the faint woody cologne mixed with the night air and a trace of sweat from whatever chaos he'd driven through to get here.

He towered over me. Five-foot-nothing, he'd called it in his head once, I was sure.

My head barely reached his chin.

I had to tilt my face up to glare at him, my undone braid brushing against his shirtfront.

"You five-foot-nothing firecracker," he murmured, voice low and rough now, the calm mask fracturing just enough for me to see the storm underneath. His free hand came up, thumb hovering near the cut on my temple without touching it, as if afraid the contact would burn us both. Then slowly he wiped it with his handkerchief.

"You stand here bleeding, embarrassed by sounds you can't control, defending girls who call you Didi with their whole hearts... and you still refuse to let me help. Why is it so damn hard for you to accept that maybe-just maybe-I'm not the villain in your story tonight? Fight later heal first."

My breath caught. The wall was cold against my back, but his proximity sent heat licking up my spine.

Those amber eyes were inches from mine, tracing the freckles on my nose, the reluctant dimple that threatened to appear even now in the middle of my fury.

Upstairs, the moans had quieted to a distant murmur, but the embarrassment still burned in my cheeks-hotter because he was seeing all of it.

The thin walls. The reality. Me.

"I don't need your help," I whispered fiercely, even as my pulse raced under his fingers on my wrist. "And I definitely don't need you pinning me to the wall like I'm one of your campaign problems to be managed. Let go, Arhaan. Or the next time I bleed, I will make you bleed too."

He didn't let go immediately.

His thumb finally brushed the edge of my jaw-light, almost tender-wiping away the fresh trail of blood with a gentleness that contradicted the steel in his grip.

"Then keep fighting me," he said, voice dropping even lower, breath warm against my forehead. "But know this, Aarini Razia Khan... I'm not looking away anymore. Not from the girls. Not from the moans behind these walls. And definitely not from you."