Ayan's eyes narrowed as he leaned slightly closer. "What is Gamescape?"

Nitya's gaze was steady, almost piercing, as if measuring the weight of his curiosity. "Everyone breaks the law, Ayan. It's in our nature, a flaw in the human condition. Some break it recklessly, some quietly, some out of necessity." She took a slow sip of her whisky, her fingers caressing the crystal glass. "Our job? To protect our clients. To give them another chance when the world would strip it away."

Ayan considered her words, the subtle offer laced within them like a riddle wrapped in silk. "So, are you offering me a job?"

Nitya didn't answer immediately. She studied him, her eyes calculating, as if searching for a crack in his armor. "I'm considering it. You have talent, Ayan. You're sharp, quick on your feet. But there's one thing that concerns me."

Ayan felt a flicker of unease. "What's that?"

Nitya's voice lowered, her words slow and deliberate, like the ticking of a clock before a crucial decision. "Pressure."

She let the word hang between them, weighty and absolute. "It's the ultimate test. Some rise when the world presses down on them. Others crumble. The question is—can you refine your talent under that kind of strain? Can you move beyond your belief system, past your notions of right and wrong, and truly understand the minds of your clients? Because that’s what it takes to succeed here."

She leaned in slightly, her gaze unrelenting. "The mind is an ocean, Ayan. Thoughts drift like waves, silent, restless. Can you catch them? Can you wade into the depths and still sleep at night?"

Ayan smirked, deflecting the gravity of her words. "When do we talk about the money?"

Nitya laughed, a sound both amused and knowing. "Money is the easy part."

THE HOME

The sleek Mercedes glided to a halt. The sun was beginning to dip, the sky painted in hues of dusky amber and deep indigo. Ayan stepped out first, the warm Mumbai air brushing against his face, carrying with it the scent of sea salt and gasoline. Adya followed, her eyes drinking in the towering structure before them.

Haider pressed the button for the lift. "This is one of Mumbai's prime residential spots," he remarked, his voice casual. "Nitya acquired this building for staff housing some time ago. She’s attached to the location. To the view."

The apartment building stood like a grand relic of another era, its architecture whispering tales of old Bombay, of colonial extravagance and modern ambition colliding. Inside, each floor housed a single apartment—vast, isolated, self-contained.

At the entrance, a woman awaited them.

Shayla Kapoor stood in the cool shadow of the doorway, a vision of effortless elegance. She was in her late twenties, tall, poised, with a presence that commanded attention. There was a quiet authority in the way she carried herself, as if she had long learned that charm was a sharper weapon than any blade.

"Hi, how are you? You must be Adya?" Her voice was smooth and warm, the kind that lingers even after the words have faded.

Adya, momentarily taken aback by the sheer presence of their hostess, recovered with a small smile. "Hi. Yes, and you are?"

"I'm Shayla." Her gaze shifted to Ayan. "And you must be Ayan."

Ayan shook her hand, his grip firm, measured. "Nice to meet you."

Haider interjected, "This is Shayla Kapoor, wife of Mr. Cricket, our Managing Director. They live just two lanes over."

Adya's nervous energy softened slightly. "Oh, nice to meet you."

"Come," Shayla gestured, leading them inside. "Let me show you around."

The apartment unfolded like a dream. The ceilings stretched high above them, the rooms spilling into one another with effortless grandeur. Crown moldings lined the edges, intricate and deliberate, as if the walls had secrets of their own.

Shayla walked with the ease of someone who belonged. "Everything is white," she said, gesturing toward the pristine walls. "Nitya insisted. Every new occupant starts with a clean slate."

Adya turned to her, intrigued. "Why white?"

Shayla smiled, a knowing curve of her lips. "So you can choose your palette. You decide the colors you bring into this space."

Adya absorbed the meaning, her gaze shifting across the blank canvas of the room. "Palette—color," she murmured.

Shayla nodded. "A home should reflect its occupant. This one entertains high-profile guests, so it needs to leave an impression. It should say, ‘Wow, what an amazing house.’"

She paused at the French doors and pushed them open, revealing a view that silenced even the restless city noise.

Ayan stepped out onto the terrace, his breath catching slightly. The horizon stretched endlessly, where the city met the sea, its chaotic pulse softened by distance. The waves murmured secrets below, crashing against the shore in a rhythm as ancient as time.

Adya exhaled, awe threading through her voice. "Is this a dream, Ayan?"

Ayan didn’t look at her. His eyes stayed on the view. "It’s nothing less than a dream."

Adya turned to him, a teasing glint in her eyes. "They must want you to offer all of this. Are you that exceptional?"

Ayan smirked, the wind ruffling his hair. "Apparently."

Her expression softened, something vulnerable creeping in beneath the teasing. "Ayan… if you’re not ready for all of this, we can walk away. We can go back home. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone. I just want you to be happy."

Ayan turned to her then, fully, his gaze steady. "Adya, you’re the most important thing to me. If you’re not happy here, we’ll leave. We’ll find our way back to a simpler life."

Adya tilted her head, her lips curling into something mischievous. "Yes, let’s go back to our small village, where you can keep writing reports for that madman Dhiman. Only four people will read them. And I’ll be playing the village fool, listening to his wife’s endless chatter."

Ayan chuckled, shaking his head.

Adya’s gaze drifted back to the view, her voice turning wistful. "We’ll live there for five years. Get married. Have kids. Maybe open a little school, buy a small house with a two-bedroom setup..." She trailed off before suddenly breaking into laughter. "YOU’VE LOST YOUR MIND!"

And with that, she grabbed his face and kissed him, her laughter ringing through the air, carried away by the sea breeze.

Below, the waves roared, a witness to their fleeting moment in a world that never truly stood still.