The cool night air of the balcony provided a sharp contrast to the furnace of Vikram’s room. Meera’s breath came in ragged, white puffs as she looked down at the flickering lanterns of Chandanpur. Vikram stood behind her, a towering silhouette of raw strength and silent authority.

He didn't use the harsh, biting words of a street thug. He was the Sarpanch—his power was quiet, deep, and absolute. He reached out, his large hands resting on her shoulders, feeling the frantic pulse in her neck.