Whispers and Webs

*19 July 2000*

On his way back to the apartment, Bharath stopped at a small market to pick up some essentials. As he was selecting fruit, he noticed a girl around his age watching him with open curiosity.

"You're new here," she said in Bengali when he caught her eye.

"Sorry, I don't speak Bengali yet," he replied in Hindi.

She switched effortlessly. "I said you're new. I know everyone in this market."

"I just moved here yesterday. I'm staying in the apartments near the stadium."

"Ah, a footballer!" Her eyes lit up. "For Rising Sun?"

"Heritage City."

She made a face of exaggerated disgust, then laughed. "My father would disown me if I spoke to a Heritage City player, but I won't tell if you won't."

Despite himself, Bharath smiled. After the coldness of his reception at the club, her friendly banter was refreshing. "I'm Bharath," he said, offering his hand.

"Priya," she replied, shaking it firmly. "Welcome to Calcutta, Bharath. You look like you could use a friend."

There was something so direct and unaffected about her that Bharath found himself nodding. "I really could."

"Good! Then let me help you shop. You're buying all the wrong things." She took the basket from his hands and began replacing his selections with different items, explaining the differences in Bengali produce compared to South Indian varieties.

As they moved through the market, Priya seemed to know everyone. She introduced Bharath to the various vendors, translating their Bengali greetings and helping negotiate fair prices.

"How do you know so much about football?" he asked as they walked back toward his apartment.

"In Calcutta, football isn't a sport--it's a religion," she replied with a grin. "I was born into an Rising Sun family, so I bleed red and gold. But I'll make an exception and wish you luck. Just not against my team."

When they reached his building, Bharath found himself reluctant to end the conversation. "Would you like to come up for tea? I mean--" he added hastily, seeing her raised eyebrow, "just as friends. You're the first person who has genuinely been nice to me since I arrived."

Priya considered for a moment, then shook her head. "Not today. But I'm at the market most mornings. Maybe I can help you learn some Bengali? You'll need it if you want to understand what the fans are chanting."

"I'd like that."

As he watched her walk away, Bharath felt a small sense of accomplishment. His first day in Calcutta had been a disaster, but his second was looking up. He had healed inexplicably, survived training, and made a potential friend.

---

*20 July 2000*

The next morning dawned with a lingering humidity that clung to the skin. Bharath was back at the club's practice ground, where Coach Biswas paced like a general preparing for war.

"Just passing and positioning today, Hema," he barked. "Nothing fancy."

The other reserves barely looked at Bharath. He could feel their eyes flicker over the taped ankle, the rumors. Sunil's smirk was ever-present.

Kunal gestured to a cone setup. "Let's see what your Chennai magic looks like without crutches."

Bharath moved through the drills with surprising ease. Short, crisp passes. Quick pivots. Weight distribution perfect. The injury had vanished like a forgotten curse. With each completed sequence, he felt his confidence bloom.

"You see that?" Kunal said to Biswas after he curled a looping diagonal ball straight to the winger's foot. "Kid's got a third eye."

Biswas just grunted. "He's still not ready. Let him train at night if he wants to prove it."

Bharath caught that. Train at night? Was that his version of a challenge?

That night, under flickering halogen lights and the blanket of a sleeping city, Bharath returned to the pitch. The groundskeeper--an elderly man named Gopal--was unlocking the gates.

"You're him, aren't you?" he said, voice like gravel and wind. "The Chennai lad. Just like Rahim back in '82. He trained at night too, when politics kept him on the bench."

He handed Bharath the keys to the storage shed. "I didn't see anything, okay?"

Bharath trained till his shirt clung to his back, his breath ragged, but his heart alive. No spotlight. No ego. Just the thud of the ball against the boot and grass.

One night, he noticed someone watching from the shadows--Assistant Coach Amit. He didn't say a word, just turned and left. But after that, the drills got harder. More tactical. The kind only a coach would assign without saying it aloud.

---

*22 July 2000*

The halogen lights buzzed overhead, casting long shadows across the empty pitch. At this hour, the stadium felt like a secret world--one that belonged only to Bharath, the night, and the old groundskeeper who watched from the sidelines with knowing eyes.

Gopal leaned against the goalpost, his wiry frame silhouetted against the dim glow. He chewed lazily on a betel leaf, the scent of spice and tobacco cutting through the damp night air.

"You move like Rahim," he said suddenly, his voice rough as gravel.

Bharath stopped mid-drill, the ball rolling to a stop at his feet. "Rahim? You mentioned him the other day. Who is he?"

"Syed Rahim. Played here in '82. Best damn midfielder this city ever saw." Gopal spat red into the grass. "Trained just like you--alone, at night, when no one was watching."

Bharath wiped sweat from his brow. "What happened to him?"

Gopal's eyes darkened. "Politics and intrigue. Always politics and intrigue in Calcutta football." He pushed off the post and shuffled closer. "Rahim fell for the wrong girl. Daughter of a Rising Sun director. They made sure his career ended before it truly began."

A chill ran down Bharath's spine despite the humidity. "That's why you're helping me? Because I remind you of him?"

The old man chuckled. "Na ladke. I'm helping you because you're the first player in years who cares more about the game than his own ego." He tossed Bharath a fresh ball. "Now show me that Chennai magic again."

He worked through the drills--quick feet, sharp turns, weighted passes to imaginary teammates. The ball was an extension of him tonight, responding to every thought before he had fully formed it.

Halfway through a dribbling sequence, Bharath felt eyes on him. Not Gopal's.

Coach Biswas stood in the shadows near the tunnel, arms crossed. He didn't speak, didn't move. Just watched.

Bharath pretended not to notice and kept working. When he glanced back minutes later, he was gone--but a folded piece of paper lay where he'd stood.

Gopal whistled low. "Well, well. You've got someone's attention."

He picked up the note. In precise handwriting, it read:

"4-3-3 transition drill. Focus on weak foot distribution. Left channel needs work."

No signature. No explanation.

Gopal smirked. "Guess you're not as invisible as you thought, midnight footballer."

---

*25 July 2000*

A few days later, as Bharath was leaving the training ground, he saw a familiar figure standing just outside the fence. Priya again. Her hair was down this time, brushing her shoulders. She looked different--almost out of place.

"You spying for the enemy today?" Bharath called.

She smirked. "Rising City. Please! They can destroy Heritage City without my help. Besides, if I was a real spy, you wouldn't see me. How was practice, Heritage boy?"

"Less brutal than yesterday. You didn't come all this way just for that, did you?"

She shrugged. "Had errands. Also wanted to see if you're any good. You might surprise me."

They walked toward the market together, and she pointed out landmarks along the way. Bharath repeated basic Bengali phrases after her. It felt... good. Natural.

"You're good company," she said as they crossed into the street. "Most players I've met are all ego."

"Give me a week," Bharath joked.

But she didn't laugh. Her smile faded as her eyes flicked to the other side of the street. Bharath followed her gaze--just a group of men near a tea stall.

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah. Just remembered I promised to help my father." She turned quickly. Too quickly.

Before Bharath could ask more, she was gone, slipping through the crowd like she belonged to it. He stood for a few seconds, unsettled.

---

*26 July 2000*

The next day, another training session survived. As Bharath exited the complex, he spotted her again--Priya, leaning casually against a railing like she'd been waiting.

"You're making this a habit," he said.

"I'm invested now. If you become a star, I'll be able to say I knew you back when you were just a confused Tamil boy picking the wrong bananas."

Bharath laughed and fell into step beside her. Told her about the assistant coach nodding at one of his drills, and that the head coach had finally asked him to report for first-team practice.

"That's amazing," she said. "Even if I have to keep pretending not to care."

As they passed the market again, she tensed. Her eyes darted--not wildly, but precisely, scanning the faces like she was expecting someone.

"Priya?"

"It's nothing," she said, the words too fast. "I've got to help with stock deliveries."

Before Bharath could press her, Gopal - the groundskeeper appeared with his jangling keys.

"Ah, the midnight footballer," he said in Hindi. "Pitch 3 is available at night if you want it. Not the big stadium, but good turf."

Bharath blinked. "You're serious?"

"Ten PM. Service entrance. Lights low. Be gone before the security rounds."

Bharath nodded. "Thank you."

Gopal nodded at Priya too before shuffling away.

"You're full of surprises," she said.

"You'd be surprised how much time I've spent training alone."

She looked at Bharath for a long moment. "Want company? I could help with Bengali while you run drills."

"You'd do that? Even for a Heritage boy?"

She smiled. This one real, without tension. "Consider it cultural outreach. Besides, I'm curious about these secret training sessions."

That night, they met behind the stadium, and Gopal unlocked the gate like a conspirator. Priya wore track pants and a hoodie. Casual. Comfortable. Like she'd done this before.

The lights were dim. The air carried a hint of monsoon damp.

"Aami football kheli," she said, pacing beside Bharath as he dribbled. "I play football."

"Aami football kheli," Bharath repeated.

"Not bad. Try: Aami Heritage City er jonno kheli."

"I play for Heritage City."

They kept going. She corrected his pronunciation. He ran sprints, practiced traps, and took low shots at empty cones. She sat cross-legged, calling out grammar in between laughs.

During a break, he sat beside her. "My dad wanted me to be a businessman like him. I wanted to be a midfielder. We fought about it a lot."

"He wants you to succeed."

"Yeah--but his way."

She nodded. "My father's like that too. Always telling me what to do, who to avoid..."

Bharath studied her. "Is that what happened the other day? He told you to stay away from?"

Her face froze for half a second. Then she busied herself retying her laces. "Something like that."

Bharath didn't push. But he noticed--she hadn't mentioned her father running a market stall this time. A small thing. But he caught it.

Gopal reappeared with a flashlight beam cutting through the dark.

"Time's up, young ones. Security's on his round."

They packed up. As they walked toward the split in their paths, Bharath stopped.

"Priya--whatever's making you nervous, you can tell me. When you're ready."

She paused under the streetlight. For a moment, he thought she would.

"Maybe someday, midnight footballer," she said softly. Then she disappeared into the night.

Something about her was a puzzle, and Bharath couldn't shake the feeling that the market girl with the easy banter and Rising Sun loyalties was hiding more than she let on.

But for now, he had a friend in Calcutta. And a secret training ground.

That was enough--for tonight.

Before Bharath packed up that night, while he stretched on the pitch, Gopal shuffled over. "Watch your back, lad. Some folks don't like fresh faces getting too close to the locals. They use girls like nets... and then tighten the noose."

---

*27 July 2000*

The knocking came again--three frantic, sharp raps. Then a pause. Then four more. Faster. Desperate.

Bharath blinked, heart thrumming. No one should've been at his door this late. He peeled himself off the couch, ankle still sore from training earlier that evening. The Warrior ad magazine with Anya's face lay forgotten on the floor.

Another knock. Louder this time.

Bharath moved to the door. Through the fisheye, he saw her.

Priya!

Soaked in sweat and rain. Hair clinging to her face. Eyes wide with panic. She looked like she'd run through hell.

Bharath threw the door open. "Priya--?"

Before he could finish, she pushed past him, dragging in a wet bag, chest heaving, bare feet slapping against the tile as she hastily discarded her chappals. She stumbled into the living room and slumped against the wall.

He shut the door and locked it.

"Priya, what the hell is going on?"

She turned to me, breath shallow, trembling. "I don't want to go through with it. I bailed on the job, and now they're after me."

"What job?" Bharath demanded. "Who?"

She looked up at me, soaked, shivering, and broken. "The people I used to work for. The ones who send girls like me after guys like you."

Silence.

She clenched her jaw. "I was supposed to get close to you. Make you trust me. Feed them details. What you earn. Who you talk to. Where you live. When you're alone."

Bharath's blood ran cold. "So you were spying on me?"

"I was," she said quickly.

"But I couldn't do it. I swear. I couldn't go through with it. I had a change of heart. You aren't like the others. I have been meaning to get out for a while now. You were my tipping point. I want out and you were my catalyst. So - I packed my bags and ran. I don't have anywhere to go. You were the only person I could think of. So here I am"

Bharath folded his arms. "Tell me everything. Who are they?"

She hesitated. Then, slowly, she sank onto the floor. Her voice, when it came, was low but clear.

"They call themselves the Syndicate. It is a web of crooks, con men, politicians, bureaucrats, cops, a few Page 3 connections, and a few high-society fixers. They use girls like me--pretty, poor, invisible--to lure in men. Not to rob them directly--no. It's cleaner than that."

Bharath didn't interrupt.

"We hook you emotionally. Build a bond. Then nudge you into bad decisions. 'Investments.' Secrets. Pillow talk. It all gets recorded. Sometimes the man's bank accounts get drained. Sometimes he ends up in a scandal. Sometimes..." She swallowed. "Sometimes they never recover."

She met his eyes. "I did it. Many times. The men were usually naive or older or divorced and bitter. I didn't feel anything for them. I played my part and walked away. Easy."

"But me," Bharath said, voice tight.

"You weren't like them. You didn't flirt. You didn't leer. You didn't think you automatically owned my body because you are rich. You didn't chase. You just existed... like you didn't care whether I came or went. It made me curious. Then it made me jealous." She exhaled. "And then I got stupid and admired you. I didn't want to ruin you"

Bharath's throat went dry.

"I tried pulling back. Tried to convince myself that you weren't a good mark. Move on to someone else. But at some point I realized I did not want to do this anymore. I could not live this kind of life anymore. But they won't let me go so easily. I can't just turn in my papers and walk away. I escaped once. But they pulled me back in. Tonight, I had to report on my latest mark. They would have known it was you if I had reported it. Even if I didn't want to continue they would have assigned you to someone else. You are young and new to town. I found out more about you. You are rich and alone in town. I just had to run."

A beat passed.

"And now," she said quietly, "if they find me, they'll make me disappear."

Bharath sat on the edge of the coffee table, watching her, processing everything that she said. "How do I know this isn't still part of the con?"

She didn't argue. She just reached into her hastily stuffed bag and pulled out something from the side pocket-a tiny plastic device. She placed it on the table beside me.

A recorder.

"I was supposed to plant that in your apartment. Tonight. They would have wanted me to bug your apartment once I confirmed that you were my mark"

She didn't cry. Didn't even blink. Just sat there, waiting for judgment.

"I didn't do it," she added. "And I came here instead. Because I didn't know where else to go. Because I was scared. "I didn't want to disappear... not like this. Not as someone who used you."

Bharath let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

"You can sleep here tonight," he said. "And tomorrow, we figure out how to get you out of this. But I'm not just helping you because I feel bad. I need the truth. All of it. From now on."

She nodded, silent but resolute.

She emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a towel, her wet hair falling in soft waves. Bharath handed her an old t-shirt and a pair of shorts. They hung loosely on her svelte frame.

"Thanks," she said. Her voice had steadied. "I haven't felt clean in days."

She walked slowly toward the couch, wrapped herself in the blanket he laid out.

"You're still here," she murmured.

"Where else would I be?", he replied. "It's my apartment".

She curled up under the blanket. There was a long silence. Then she smirked. "So... Warrior magazine, huh?"

Bharath sighed. "I'm doing you a favor and you're still going to tease me?"

"Hey, a girl's got to reclaim some dignity," she said, eyes sparkling faintly. "But I know why she's on your mind."

She shifted, propping herself on her elbow. "You know, Anya Das isn't just a pretty face either. People say her mother's trying to get her married off to someone powerful. Big industrialist, maybe a minister's son. Apparently, Rekha's been burning bridges in Page 3 circles for years trying to find the right buyer--sorry, suitor--for her daughter."

Bharath's gut twisted. "You're serious?"

"She's famous for smiling at the camera and cutting throats behind the scenes," Priya said. "But Anya... from what little I know, she's not like that. Word is, she's trying to break out. But with a mother like that?" She shook her head. "The whole city watches her like she's already sold."

Bharath said nothing. Just stared at the ceiling, thinking about the dreams. The connection.

Priya's voice softened. "I know I've messed up. But I'll prove I mean it when I say I'm done with them."

She turned over. "Goodnight, Bharath."

"... Goodnight, Priya."

But sleep didn't come easy. Not with all that he had just heard. And not with Anya's eyes still following him from the page on the floor.

After Priya fell asleep on the couch, Bharath stayed up, pacing quietly.

His eyes drifted to the open Warrior magazine on the floor, Anya's photo still catching the light. She looked regal. Untouchable.

But something in her eyes--like she was screaming under glass--made his heart twist.

He picked it up, thumb tracing her face.

"Where are you tonight, Anya? You belong here with me."

He lay down on the mattress and shut his eyes, the scent of rain and fear still clinging to the air.

---

The white Mercedes purred to a stop beneath the chandelier-lit portico of the Calcutta Racquet Club. Its marble steps glowed under the soft yellow haze of vintage street lamps. Anya exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of diamonds at her throat--an heirloom choker too tight, hiding bruises from last night's "posture correction."

"Smile, beti," Rekha purred, her voice warm and toxic, like gin laced with menthol. "The Sports Minister's secretary has a nephew at Femina. You want that feature, don't you?" Her scarlet-tipped nails pinched Anya's bare shoulder just enough to mark.

Anya stepped out, the borrowed emerald lehenga glittering under flashbulbs like a promise she had no intention of keeping.

"Anya! Over here!"

"One with your lovely mother!"

"Rekha madam, looking beautiful tonight! Pose please!"

Rekha yanked her into a syrupy side-hug, whispering through a smile honed by decades of Page 3 diplomacy. "Stand straight. That shipping heir is watching."

---

Inside, the ballroom glowed with opulence. Gleaming floors, marigold garlands, and the low hum of live sitar music masked the stink of power and desperation. Men in silk bandhgalas and women in clingy sequins orbited one another like perfume-slicked planets.

Anya swirled a tepid Limca in her glass, eyes scanning for exits. Her goal: remain untouched, unclaimed, unseen--at least by the men her mother wanted her to charm.

"Anya, darling!" A paunchy industrialist with dyed hair and an accent picked up in Heathrow leaned in. "You're a vision tonight. Like Madhubala dipped in diamonds."

She smiled sweetly. "And you look like Elvis... after the third heart attack."

His grin faltered. "Feisty!"

"Indigestion, mostly," she replied, floating away toward the buffet.

At the bar, a politician's son blocked her path, grinning. "You know, if I had a rupee for every time someone called you India's next sweetheart..."

"You could almost afford my attention," she quipped, patting him on his cheek. "Try again after a few more times."

---

She escaped onto the candlelit west balcony, where whispers of conversation drifted through the humid air. She suddenly felt a delicious chill down her spine and a faint tug.

Then--clear as day--a voice curled around her name: "Where are you tonight, Anya? You belong here with me."

She froze.

No one near her. Just diplomats nursing single malts and socialites mid-gossip. But that voice--husky, accented, unmistakably male--brushed against her skin like fingertips.

She knew that voice.

She dreamed of that voice. The man from her dreams. The phantom who kissed her like she was sacred and filthy all at once.

Limca forgotten, pulse pounding, she ducked back inside.

---

The powder room was pristine: gold fixtures, polished marble, soft lighting that made everyone look perfect and no one feel real.

Anya locked the far stall. Sat down. And broke.

Her breath hitched.

It started as a tremor in her thighs. Her thoughts fluttered to him--the man in her dreams. Always half-shadow, always watching, never touching her like they did out here.

No one had touched her. Not really. She'd kissed no one. Not out of purity, but preservation.

Yet in her dreams, he did. Reverent. Rough. Real.

Anya slid her hand past the waistband of her lehenga, silk whispering over skin. Her fingers found heat. Need. Memory.

His calloused hands... the weight of him pressing her into moon-warmed stone. The hitch in his breath when she cried out his name. The scent of sandalwood and rain on his skin. His mouth worshiped her like a mantra.

She bit her lip as pressure built. Her thighs trembled.

He pushed her against the carved temple wall in her dream, fingers threading through her hair, mouth hot on her neck. Her breasts pressed against his chest, every inch of her bared to his devotion.

Anya's head rolled back against the stall wall, the rhythm of her fingers tightening. A broken moan slipped past her lips.

"Anya," he whispered.

She climaxed, thighs clenching, lips parting in a silent cry. It hit her like monsoon thunder--waves of light and longing breaking through her.

"Anya"

And then--

The stall door burst open.

"AN--YA!"

Rekha stood frozen. A bellgirl behind her dropped a stack of towels, eyes wide.

For three long seconds, no one breathed.

Anya sat there--flushed, vulnerable, radiant. Her lehenga askew, panties halfway up, two delicate fingers inside her, slick with longing, still glistening from the climaxes that had claimed her, eyes wide, chest rising, lips bitten, the echo of pleasure still in her eyes.

Rekha's expression curdled.

"Get. Up. Now."

"Out," Rekha hissed at the bellgirl. She vanished.

The door shut.

For a moment, Rekha stared. Then her face twisted with disgust.

"You filthy, shameless little liar. Pretending to be so pure, so above it all--and now I find you fingering yourself in a bloody bathroom stall like a cheap whore?"

Anya's voice was hoarse. "You don't understand--"

"Oh, I understand perfectly," Rekha snarled. "All this 'holier-than-thou' nonsense while you moan like a slut behind closed doors. Who was it, huh? That minister's boy? The shipping heir? That half-baked actor?"

Anya flushed crimson. "It wasn't anyone--"

"Liar!"

---

The car's leather seats were icy, but Rekha's fury was molten.

"You think I haven't heard you?" she spat. "You think I don't know what happens when you think I'm asleep?"

Anya pressed a tissue to her bleeding lip. "You weren't even there the last two nights."

"Oh, so it's a ghost, then?" Rekha lit a cigarette with trembling fingers. "Some phantom lover who shows up in your dirty little dreams?"

Anya turned to the window, quiet.

Rekha laughed--jagged, mean. "You're my daughter. You'll never escape this world. My world. Next week, you'll meet Rana's son and you will smile."

Anya exhaled. When she turned back, her eyes were clear.

"I'll smile," she said, voice razor-sharp. "And when I slit his ego open with a word, you'll act like it's an accident. Just like always."

Rekha glared. "You think you're clever."

"No," Anya replied softly. "I know I'm clever. That's why you're afraid of me."

The rest of the ride passed in silence.

But in Anya's mind, the boy's voice echoed again--low, reverent, inevitable.

"You belong here with me."

And she believed him.

---

The mist swirled in moonlight as Anya stepped into the clearing, her breath hitching the moment their eyes met. Bharath stood like a god sculpted from desire and longing, the silver glow brushing his skin like worship.

"Bharath..." Her voice cracked, overwhelmed by the sight of him.

He closed the distance in a flash, hands cupping her face, lips trembling as they hovered over hers. "I thought I lost you. We haven't met for so long!"

"You found me," she whispered.

Their mouths met in a kiss so deep it felt like drowning in honey. She moaned into him, hands sliding into his thick hair as he lifted her off her feet. Her legs wrapped around his waist, her silk robe falling away like mist to reveal smooth, golden skin kissed by moonlight. She was breathtaking--her nipples hard from the night air, her body burning for his touch.

Bharath laid her down in the grass as if setting her upon an altar. "Let me see you," he whispered, his fingers trailing down her throat, past her collarbone, brushing the undersides of her breasts with reverence.

Anya gasped, arching into him as his palms molded to her curves. "Touch me everywhere," she breathed. "Learn me."

"I will," he promised.

He explored her body slowly, thoroughly. His hands traced the lines of her hips, the slope of her thighs, the delicate heat between her legs. He kissed the insides of her knees, her navel, the soft swells of her breasts, each flick of his tongue drawing soft cries from her lips. Her hands roamed him in return--smoothing over his hard chest, his shoulders, his back, memorizing every muscle, every scar.

She took his length in her hands, marveling at him, her eyes glazed with desire. "You're perfect," she whispered.

"And you're mine." He kissed her again, more urgently now. "Let me in."

She guided him into her with an aching need. The moment he entered her, they both stilled--foreheads pressed together, gasping.

Time warped. Stars wheeled above them. Their bodies moved as one.

Bharath rocked into her slowly, the tight heat of her body clenching around him like a velvet vice. Her moans deepened, her nails raking down his back as she bucked her hips to meet his thrusts. They explored each other's rhythms, learning where to kiss, where to bite, where to whisper.

Anya rode him in the soft moonlight, her breasts bouncing with every movement, her hair wild and damp with sweat. She ground down with purpose, biting her lip as he thrust up into her from below, his hands gripping her waist.

"You're incredible," he groaned, watching her with awe.

"So are you," she gasped, trembling. "I belong to you, Bharath. My body, my heart, my soul. All of it."

His thumb found her swollen bud, rubbing tight circles as she cried out, her body arching like a bowstring before unraveling in orgasm. "Bharath!" she screamed, eyes squeezed shut.

He flipped her gently onto her back, slipping back inside her slick heat and kissing her fiercely as he chased his own release.

"Say it again."

"I'm yours," she moaned, legs locking around him. "Yours. No one else. Never."

He came with a growl, spilling deep inside her, shuddering as her walls pulsed around him. Their bodies shook with the force of it, waves crashing through them both.

But it didn't end.

They kept going.

Exploring new positions with ease--his mouth between her legs, her lips wrapped around him, her thighs spread wide as he took her from behind, whispering filth and poetry into her ear. Her fingers dragged across his chest as she bounced on top of him again, her hips rolling with learned skill, his hands clutching her ass like he couldn't let go.

Their bodies--innocent in the waking world--became experts in this realm.

And every time they came, they healed a little more. Wounds stitched. Scars faded. Spirits mended.

When at last they lay together, tangled and panting, their bodies glowing faintly with the aftermath of their union, she smiled sleepily against his chest.

"I don't want to wake up."

"You will," Bharath whispered. "But now you'll never be alone."

Across the city, Anya sat cross-legged on her bed, her fingers curled in her lap. She'd woken up smiling--smiling, after days of bleak emptiness.

Her body felt... whole. Her skin tingled in places his lips had kissed. She could still feel his hands on her hips, his weight above her, his candied words in her ear.

She belonged to him. And she didn't regret it.

She was humming softly when Rekha burst in.

"You're awake already?" her mother said, eyeing her suspiciously. "You look... fresh."

Anya looked up, her smile lazy and luminous. "Do I?"

Rekha frowned. "You've had four shoots in three days. You were dead on your feet last night. And now... you're practically glowing."

Anya only shrugged, biting back a secret grin. "Maybe I had a good dream."

"A good dream?" Rekha said, arms crossed. "What on earth--"

"I don't remember much," Anya lied smoothly, rising to her feet with surprising grace. "But I feel amazing."

Rekha stared at her like she was a puzzle.

Anya only walked to the window, brushing her hair behind her ear as the sunlight hit her bare skin. In her mind, Bharath's voice still echoed: "You're mine."

And she whispered back, to no one in particular--

"Yes. I am."

---

*28 July 2000*

Bharath woke up to a stillness that didn't feel like Calcutta.

His body felt... light. No ache in his ankle, no fatigue from the double training sessions. He stretched his arms, the motion fluid and painless, as though he had been dipped in some ancient balm overnight. But it wasn't just physical. Something deeper had shifted. His heart was calm in a way he hadn't known in years.

The memory of the dream hit him like a slow, crashing tide.

Anya.

Her lips, her body, the way her eyes never left him when he promised to rescue her. He could still feel her on him, around me, the echo of her voice whispering, "I belong to you."

A rustle from the corner of the apartment pulled Bharath out of his reverie. Priya was still asleep, curled up under a borrowed bedsheet on the sofa, her long hair damp and spread like ink across the pillow. She looked peaceful--free of the fear and desperation that had chased her to his door.

Bharath knew that he was being naive.

She came into his apartment in the middle of the night telling him that he was her mark. She was sent to con him. Maybe worse. And yet here she was--wrapped in a bedsheet like a rani, sleeping like she belonged here.

They had hardly known each other for a few days. He wasn't attracted to her. Not like Anya - yet something in his heart told him that she was trustworthy. He decided to take a leap of faith with her. His intuition told him that she was safe.

Bharath padded to the kitchen and cracked four eggs into a bowl, whisking them with some salt, pepper, chillies and onions. He threw together a quick masala omelette and toasted some pav with butter. It wasn't fancy, but it was hot.

By the time the scent wafted through the apartment, Priya stirred. She blinked at him, eyes adjusting to the morning light.

"You're making breakfast?"

"I figured you could use a proper meal."

She sat up slowly, still wrapped in the sheet. "You're full of surprises, football boy."

Bharath smiled but said nothing, placing a plate on the counter for her. She walked over barefoot, still wearing his oversized T-shirt from the night before, and sat beside him without a word.

Bharath handed her an extra toothbrush he had packed from Chennai and let her get herself ready. After a quick shower she joined him back at the counter.

For a few minutes, they just ate.

No questions. No tension. Just warmth and silence broken only by the clink of metal on ceramic.

"I'll head to the club in an hour," Bharath said between bites. "You'll be safe here. No one comes to this place. Not even my teammates. Tell me something though... how did you find my apartment?"

"I followed you pagol. Duh."

Then she nodded, chewing thoughtfully. "Thank you... for everything."

Bharath didn't answer. He just stood and grabbed his boots from under the cot.

---

The sun was already blazing overhead as Bharath jogged onto the pitch. The first-teamers were still in their locker room, but the reserves had begun warmups. As he joined the group, there was a visible shift--fewer rolled eyes, less whispering behind backs. The air felt... less cold.

Karan, one of the senior reserves, gave him a once-over before muttering, "Heard you ghosted half the defense in that second-half drill yesterday."

Bharath shrugged. "They left the door open."

Someone snorted. A few others chuckled. The hostility had thinned--still there, but hollow now.

Training began, and he poured himself into it. Another assistant coach watching over the reserves today, a wiry Goan named Pinto, barked instructions, but every so often his eyes landed on Bharath with the faintest hint of approval.

Midway through a 4-3-3 transition drill, he found himself in a tight pocket with two markers pressing hard. He feinted left, drew them in, then cut back with his weaker foot--left channel--just like the note had said. A perfect through ball to the trailing winger.

Whistles and claps followed. Even Pinto grunted, "Not bad, Tamil Tiger."

Bharath allowed himself a small grin.

When the session ended, instead of walking alone, a few of the guys actually walked with him to the locker room. Karan nudged me,

"Still training at night, aren't you?"

Bharath nodded.

Karan cracked a half-smile. "Just don't show us all up too fast, yeah?"

---

Bharath sat on the low boundary wall outside the Heritage City grounds, untying his boots slowly, letting the evening heat cling to his sweat-soaked skin. Today had gone better than he expected.

Not perfect. Not by a long shot.

But there was a difference.

Kunal didn't yell at him once during the last drill. A couple of the reserve boys--guys who wouldn't even share water with him a week ago--had quietly nodded when he left the pitch.

Grudging respect.

The sweetest kind.

Bharath's hands moved automatically, pulling out his Nokia phone from his kitbag. He dialed home. Devi picked up on the second ring, the background hum of some Tamil soap blaring faintly.

"Oye bigshot Calcutta boy," her voice chirped immediately, sharp as always. "Survived the day or did they finally stomp you into the mud?"

He smiled despite himself.

"Better than survived."

There was a pause, then real curiosity crept into her tone. "Tell me."

Bharath told her everything -- about how ugly football worked here. How Calcutta boys respected elbows more than elegance. How his night sessions were finally bleeding into his daylight play. About Kunal nodding slightly at a well-placed cross.

And about the notes.

That shadow advice pinned quietly near Pitch 3 every night.

"Don't overcommit to second balls," he quoted. "Who writes stuff like that and doesn't want credit?"

Devi laughed. "A real coach. Or an old warrior."

"I think it's our head coach Biswas," Bharath admitted. "He watches from the shadows like some secret guru."

There was a beat of thoughtful silence.

"Keep learning, Anna," Devi said softly. "Play their game. Play ugly when they expect it. But when it's your moment--remind them why you're different."

That stayed with him.

Not advice from a coach.

Not from his father.

But from Devi -- sharp-eyed, ruthless little Devi who saw football not as art, but as war.

---

When Bharath walked into his apartment that night, half expecting it to be emptied, the place smelled faintly of incense.

Priya was sitting cross-legged on the floor, hugging her knees, staring blankly at the muted TV. It was playing some overwrought Bengali soap -- rich people crying in palatial homes -- the usual.

But she wasn't watching it.

Her head snapped toward him the second the lock clicked shut.

"You're late," she said -- not accusing, not teasing -- just... tense.

"Had to survive another day," he replied, dropping his kitbag by the door. "The Calcutta welcome committee is still testing me."

A ghost of a smile tugged at her lips -- there, then gone.

They sat in silence for a few seconds. Both of them were too aware that time was moving faster than either of them liked.

Finally, Bharath broke the silence.

"Priya," he said slowly, "this thing we're planning -- getting you out -- it's not enough, is it?"

Her eyes flicked to his-- sharp, calculating -- the street instincts kicking in.

"They'll come after me," she admitted. "The moment they know I ran... that I didn't reel you in... they'll come for me. Escape is not a choice that is allowed"

She didn't say what it meant for him. She didn't have to.

His jaw clenched.

"Then we don't just run," he said, voice low. "We break them."

That got her attention. For the first time since she'd walked into his life, Priya looked at him like she wasn't sure if he was crazy... or exactly what she needed.

"You're serious."

Bharath nodded. "We pull their world apart piece by piece before you disappear."

A long silence.

Then -- without warning -- she stood up, crossed to his tiny table, and grabbed a pen from his bookshelf.

"Alright then, football boy," she said, rolling up her sleeves. "Let me show you exactly where we can hit them where it hurts. You said you wanted to break them?", she asked, sliding a fresh sheet of paper toward him.

"Then let's start with the devil I know."

---

They cleared the floor.

Priya worked fast. Efficient. No drama. Just cold, hard knowledge.

"This is Arjun." She circled a crude name at the top of the page. "Not muscle. Not a street thug. Cool. Calm. Ruthless. He stays behind the scenes -- he is the head of the Syndicate in Calcutta."

Lines spiderwebbed from there.

Safehouses. Recruiters. Madams. Handlers. Fake gold loan fronts. Blackmail dens. Shady internet cafes that ran scams on foreign visitors.

"But the real money," she said, tapping the paper, "is in the trafficking of girls. Honeytraps. Whoring... Girls like me".

"I was assigned to being a honey trap. I am educated, well-read and pretty. I had to find new marks every weekend or two. Usually rich out-of-towners or naive men. Some politicians. NRI types. Businessmen nobody will miss for a night. They get lured, get drugged, get filmed... then it's blackmail."

She drew a square around a small section labelled Bankra Road.

"This was my prison," she whispered. "There are usually six to seven of us here at any point in time. All girls like me - pretty, intelligent, worldly. All honey traps. We are considered to be one of the more profitable centers of the Syndicate."

Bharath leaned forward.

"If I can get this into the right hands..."

They stared at the rough map Priya had drawn. At the cold, brutal shape of Arjun's world - the Syndicate.

"You destroy their leverage at places like Bankra Road," Bharath repeated softly. "The girls. That's what keeps them in power."

Priya leaned back, hugging her knees again. "Yeah. But that's suicide unless you have protection. Arjun doesn't back off. He is a ruthless man. Forget him, the entire organization is full of lethal killers. Besides, we're nobodies. If we tip off the cops, we will vanish before anyone lifts a finger."

Bharath looked at her.

"What about the people above him?"

Her laugh was bitter.

"He is the top. He has people that dance to his tunes here in Calcutta. Politicians. Builders. People like Rekha Das." She spat the name like it tasted rotten.

That made Bharath pause.

Rekha Das. Anya's mother.

High society. Page 3 regular. Powerful... but not untouchable.

"She works for people like Arjun?" he asked slowly.

Priya shrugged. "Rumors. Everyone knows she's got her own skeletons. Doesn't mean she's directly involved. Or maybe not. Some even say that she handles the whole trafficking ring for Arjun."

Silence.

But something about it wouldn't leave him.

A woman like Rekha -- obsessed with status, desperate to control her daughter's image -- what would she do if someone like Arjun offered to handle dirty secrets? He knew those types of ladies from Chennai. His mother was a master at navigating that world. She told him of all the whispers and dangers that world involved.

But speculation wasn't proof.

And without proof... it was nothing.

"We need confirmation," he said finally.

Priya frowned. "How?"

"Follow the money. Follow the fear."

Her eyebrows rose.

Bharath pointed at the map -- at Bankra Road.

"These guys must keep records," Bharath said. "Not for taxes. For insurance. Threat files. Evidence."

She went still.

"And if Rekha's name is anywhere in that mess..."

"We weaponize it."

Anonymous blackmail. Quiet. Surgical.

Enough to make Rekha panic.

Enough to make the Syndicate's own men start whispering that she was leaking secrets.

Enough to buy Priya her freedom.

Maybe even enough to save the other girls caught in the web.