The golden light of Milan's early morning filtered through the lace curtains, scattering soft patterns across the marble floor. A gentle breeze wafted through the slightly open window, bringing with it the faint aroma of freshly baked bread from a distant bakery. The apartment was quiet, cocooned in that hush unique to mornings.

Ruhi stepped out of the guest bedroom slowly, barefoot and hesitant. Her pale peach kurti was slightly wrinkled from sleep, and Shivaang's white shirt was still draped over it like an oversized shrug, the cuffs rolled up to her elbows. It looked a little ridiculous, she knew but it was comfortable, and after everything, comfort was enough.

As she stepped into the living room, the clink of a cup being set down drew her attention. Shivaang appeared from the kitchen at the same time, his eyes scanning the room briefly before falling on her. His hair was damp, the sleeves of his black t-shirt pushed up, revealing forearms flecked with water.

"Good morning!" she greeted, her voice still a little sleepy.

"Morning," he replied with a nod, already turning slightly toward the corner of the room. "Your bags," he said simply, pointing.

She followed his gaze and blinked. There they were her suitcases, dusty but intact, resting neatly near the console. "Oh! It's my luggage... where did you get them?"

"Where you left them." he said, already walking toward them. "You were sleeping, so I just kept them here."

"I can take them in myself," she said quickly, reflexively.

He paused mid-step, one hand already reaching. His expression unreadable for a moment. Then he nodded. "Alright."

Ruhi moved forward and grabbed the handle of the larger bag. It felt heavier than she remembered. She hadn't actually lifted it since leaving India her friends had insisted on taking care of it at the airport, and once she reached Milan, the taxi driver had hauled it for her. Now, standing alone in a stranger's no, not a stranger's, her rescuer's living room, she realized the full weight of it.

She tugged at the bag once. Nothing. Tried again. Still no movement.

Shivaang leaned against the doorframe of the hallway, arms folded, quietly watching her struggle. His lips twitched, not quite a smile, not quite a smirk.

Ruhi, cheeks warming in embarrassment, gritted her teeth and bent down to try again. This time with all her might.

And still, nothing.

Without a word, Shivaang pushed off the wall and walked toward her. She didn't look up, too focused on not giving up. But then he bent slightly, his hand reaching to take the handle from her.

In that moment, their hands touched.

A quick, accidental brush but charged with something they couldn't quite name. Her fingers stilled, his paused. Their eyes met briefly. Ruhi withdrew her hand like she'd touched fire.

"Sorry," he said quietly, not meeting her gaze this time and taking a mental note to not make her uncomfortable again. He took both bags, one rolling easily, the other hoisted over his shoulder, and walked toward the guest room.

Ruhi stood frozen for a second, heart racing for reasons she didn't understand.

"I've kept them inside," he said, reappearing at the doorway. "Freshen up. Breakfast's on the dining table."

Before she could say thank you, he turned and walked away down the hall. She stood in place, staring after him, her lips parting only when he was out of sight.

"...thank you," she whispered anyway.

She walked into the guest room, opened one of the bags, and pulled out a soft blue kurti and white palazzo set, paired with a delicate white dupatta. Changing into it brought a strange comfort, a piece of home stitched into foreign walls.

After Freshening up, she opened one of the bags, and gently pulled out her small Shivling, cradling it with both hands as if holding her entire world. Her eyes softened with reverence, the quiet devotion of glowing in her every gesture. She glanced around the room, searching for the right direction. After a thoughtful pause, she moved toward the northeastern corner, recalling it as the most auspicious. With careful hands, she cleared a small table, wiped it clean with the edge of her dupatta, and placed the Shivling at its center. Folding her hands, she closed her eyes, and in that still moment, the world outside seemed to fade. A soft whisper of a prayer left her lips, heartfelt and simple, like a daily conversation with her divine protector.

When she emerged, the dining table surprised her.

It wasn't just breakfast. It was a full spread. A large Italian-style breakfast platter, slices of cheese-loaded vegetable pizza, buttered croissants, two kinds of pasta, a bowl of olives, bruschetta, and freshly squeezed orange juice. Standing beside it all was a woman in a chef's apron, arranging cutlery.

"Ma'am, if there's anything else you want, I'll prepare it right away," the cook offered with a kind smile.

"No, no, this is more than enough," Ruhi said, stepping closer. "Where is he? Did he eat?"

The woman tilted her head. "Who?"

"Him," Ruhi gestured vaguely, only to realize "Actually... I still don't know his name."

"Sir?" the woman clarified. "He already left. Sometimes he doesn't eat. It's fine. You please have your breakfast, ma'am."

"Doesn't eat? Why?"

"Don't know, ma'am," the cook said, clearly not keen on elaborating. "Maybe something urgent came up." With a small nod, the cook retreated to the kitchen.

Ruhi sat down at the large table and stared at the mountain of food. Slowly, she picked up a slice of pizza and turned it around in her fingers, wrinkling her nose. "Who eats this for breakfast?" she murmured.

She put it back, then spooned a small portion of pasta onto her plate. A couple of bites in, she began playing with the food instead. It was good rich and flavorful but her mind was elsewhere. She finished her plate out of courtesy and habit, then quietly returned to the guest room.

Few hours passed.

When Shivaang returned, he found her sitting cross-legged on the couch in the hall, a blanket around her shoulders, eyes fixed on the TV.

She was watching Shinchan. 

He blinked.

She didn't notice his presence until he spoke, his voice dry and mildly incredulous and the very first question he asked "How old are you?"

She flinched slightly and turned around. Her eyes widened in surprise before she answered, "Twenty-two... why?"

He didn't answer immediately, just looked at the screen...then at her. "Hmm... nothing. Kid."

Her eyebrows shot up and mouth fell open. "Kid?... Kid! Aap hume bol rahe hain?" [You are calling me kid?]

"Toh aur kaun hai yahan?" [Then who else is here?] he replied nonchalantly, coming to stand in front of her. From a small paper bag, he retrieved something and was handing it to her when -

"Toh aap kya... tees saal ke buddhe hain kya?" [So what are you... some 30-year-old old man or what?] she said, planting her hands firmly on her waist.

He froze. Box still in mid-air, his eyes fixed on her. His brows rose slightly as he searched her face looking for sarcasm, teasing, anything.

But found none.

Ruhi's hands were still on her waist, but her gaze faltered when she saw his eyes dark, calm, and unexpectedly intense. There was something about the way he looked at her, not with admiration or disdain, but quiet depth. It unnerved her more than she cared to admit.

Her bravado crumbled just a little. She looked down, pretending to adjust her dupatta. But her eyes fell on the small box still held out in his hand.

"Yeh" [this-?] she began softly, lifting her gaze only a fraction.

"Oh," Shivaang blinked, realizing he was still holding it. He cleared his throat. "Yeh phone aapke liye hai," [this phone is for you] he said simply, placing it into her hand.

Ruhi's eyes lit up. "Achha haan! Jiju ne aapko paise de diye na iske... Pakhi di se lekar?" [Oh right! Jiju gave you the money for this, didn't he... after taking it from Pakhi di?]  She looked up at him gratefully, hugging the box with delight. "Thank you!"

Shivaang stared at her, confusion clouding his expression. "Jiju? Pakhi di?" he repeated inwardly, not making sense of the reference. He didn't ask, though. He just raised an eyebrow, gave a tiny shake of his head, and turned around.

"Hmm," he muttered, walking into his study room, leaving Ruhi on the couch now happily unboxing the phone, completely unaware that she'd just baffled a trained RAW agent.

The soft hum of the city outside faded as Shivaang twisted the lock on the study door behind him. The sound of the latch falling into place echoed faintly in the quiet apartment. He pulled a bookshelf forward on silent rollers, seamlessly revealing a narrow doorway embedded in the wall.

He stepped inside the hidden chamber, the air cooler and still. A dim light flickered on automatically as the door shut behind him. Inside, the walls were lined with soundproof panels, a secure satellite router blinked in the corner, and a sleek terminal sat on the desk.

He slipped into the chair, activated the encrypted system, and within moments, a screen buzzed to life with Echo's face, sharp eyes behind rimless glasses, already mid-sentence.

"You're late."

Shivaang didn't respond. Echo didn't push it further. "Anyway. We've got threads. And not the kind you ship in containers."

The screen shifted to lines of code and route maps overlaid with data. "Someone's laundering money through textile shipments. The manifests from your Milan warehouse and two other suppliers in Belgium and Marseille show mismatched weights and phantom containers."

Shivaang leaned forward. "Arms?"

"That's the working theory," Echo said grimly. "Could be small-scale weapons easily concealed, high value. And guess what, this trail connects to Varanat, a known proxy of ZLIF."

Shivaang's expression hardened. ZLIF - the Zameen Liberation and Insaaf Front, a rogue terror outfit that masked ideology with greed, infamous for chaos in both Asia and now suspected activity in Europe.

"Primary objective still stands," Shivaang said. "We track down their financial scaffolding here, before they can stage anything."

"And the Milan elite?"

Shivaang tapped a key. "That's the rot spreading underneath. One of these names on your screen - diplomats, textile giants, fashion house patrons, is funding the loop. Our job: identify which."

Echo nodded slowly. "Understood."

"I'll start from the gallery opening tonight. Half the names will be there." Shivaang said already calculating the plan in his brain.

The screen went black.

Shivaang stared for a moment, then pulled open a drawer to reveal a folder marked with one name circled in red: Agnelli Trussardi.

He shut the drawer. The game was just beginning.

The sun had long dipped below the Milanese skyline, casting the apartment in a soft twilight. Ruhi sat curled on the couch, flipping through a random fashion magazine she had found on the side table. The distant aroma of herbs and butter drifted in from the kitchen, where the cook was preparing dinner.

After a while, she peeked toward the dining area. The table was already being set glassware clinked, plates gleamed under the warm yellow lights. Still, no sign of him.

She stood and wandered in, the soft cotton of her plazo brushing her ankles. "Umm... dinner is almost ready?" she asked casually.

"Yes, ma'am," the cook smiled. "Just plating it now."

Ruhi glanced around. "Where's... he?" She hadn't yet asked his name, and the hesitation in her voice gave her away.

The cook's hand stilled for a moment before continuing to arrange the bowls. "Sir stepped out earlier," she said simply.

"Oh... where?" Ruhi asked, feigning casualness but failing to mask her curiosity.

"Don't know, ma'am. He just said he might be late."

That was all.

Ruhi's brows furrowed slightly. There was no sound of the door opening or closing earlier. She'd been in the hall, watching Shinchan, half-aware of every movement in the apartment. How had he left so quietly?

She nodded absently, took a seat at the table, and muttered, "He's a strange man..."

The cook chuckled lightly but offered nothing more.

Ruhi picked at the warm food on her plate, the silence around her suddenly feeling larger. It wasn't worry exactly... just a creeping awareness that she was living in a stranger's house. A stranger who didn't speak much, moved like air, and disappeared without trace.

The gallery buzzed with whispers and clinks of crystal. Art lined the walls vivid, surrealist works all subtly themed around fabric and freedom. At the center stood Isabella Mancini, the event's curator. Draped in an emerald gown, she greeted guests with kisses on both cheeks, a glass of wine never far from her manicured fingers.

Shivaang entered just in time to see her laughing with Agnelli Trussardi.

Trussardi, ever the flamboyant icon, wore an embroidered coat that shouted money and influence. But it was Isabella who held Shivaang's focus. The Intel from Aarush had shown a thread of irregular money transfers from a textile-linked holding company in Prague to an offshore account that suspiciously aligned with Isabella's family trust.

"Ah, Mr. Shrivastav!" Isabella greeted him when their eyes met, her voice syrupy and crisp. "We've heard of your exports. Delighted you could come. Milan's finest fabric needs a global voice."

"A pleasure," Shivaang said, smile in place. "You've made this gallery look like the Louvre."

She laughed, pleased. "Careful, I might take that seriously."

As she turned to greet others, Shivaang subtly activated the voice recorder in his watch. He moved through the crowd, quietly observing interactions Trussardi's unusually long chat with a Turkish diplomat, Isabella's keen interest in who donated to which art pieces, and the quiet nod exchanged between her and a man from a Luxembourg bank.

Later that night, in his secure chamber, he'd analyze every blink, every handshake.

Because in the world of espionage, sometimes the most beautiful galleries hung the ugliest truths.

It was past midnight when Shivaang finally returned home. The corridors were quiet, dimly lit by the wall sconces, and the old wooden floors creaked softly under his footsteps. He was headed straight to his room, loosening the collar of his shirt, exhaustion settling into his shoulders, when he paused. His eyes flicked toward the guest room.

She was still a guest, technically. He told himself it was just basic courtesy, a brief check to make sure she was alright. Nothing more.

The door wasn't locked. That, in itself, tugged at something in him. Quietly, he pushed it open.

The moonlight spilled in through the tall window, casting silver shadows across the room. His gaze found her immediately, curled up beneath the blanket, one hand tucked near her cheek, her face serene in sleep. Her features were soft in the pale light, strands of hair spilling across the pillow like ink. She looked... innocent. Unfiltered. Like someone who hadn't let the world harden her yet.

For a moment, he didn't move. Just watched. Something about the sight eased a strange knot inside him, one he hadn't even known was there.

Then his eyes shifted to the table near the window. Her sketchbook lay open, catching the moonlight like a canvas. He stepped closer, curiosity pulling him in, and glanced over the page.

Designs, clean, inventive. One of them had an unusual silhouette, dramatic, yet wearable. Another had intricate hand embroidery paired with bold structure. He blinked, eyebrows rising slightly. Impressive. He hadn't expected that level of thought from someone so young.

And just as he turned to leave, she stirred. With a small, unconscious grunt, she kicked the blanket off and flung it halfway under the bed...like a sleepy child resisting warmth. Shivaang paused mid-step, lips twitching faintly.

He walked back, picked up the blanket, and carefully draped it over her again. Then, almost instinctively, he tucked the edges around her, as if sealing her back into that bubble of peace.

He turned toward the door.

Paused.

Then turned back again.

He walked to the side cabinet, pulled out two extra pillows, and gently placed one on either side of her. A small, inexplicable gesture, but the kind that made sense only in the quiet hours of the night.

"She sleeps like a child," he murmured in his mind. "What if she rolls off like one too?"

With one last glance at her now cocooned frame, he left the room, closing the door halfway behind him. The corridor swallowed his silhouette in shadows, but a flicker of something softer lingered in his eyes.

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That was just guest-like-concern nothing else!🙂

Anyways stay tuned,

Love,
Reva ♡