777: What's your name?

Armaan had stared down at his screen for what felt like hours, not knowing how or whether he should even bother to respond to the question.

If he ignored it, made a purposeful choice not to respond, would she make a choice too? One he didn't want her to make?

A decision where he'd be left behind and she'd move on to...someone or something else.

No. He swallowed the bile in his throat.

No. He wouldn't allow it.

Dabangg: Does it matter now?

He hated himself.

So close yet so far away from revealing what he likely should have revealed long ago.

Abhira frowned at the robotic voice in her ears. It was apt, she thought, a robotic voice for a robotic man. He didn't seem to be very emotionally charged.

Perhaps it was because she'd always hidden her own emotions with a bite of sarcasm, perhaps he was just the type to be as distant as he could be, either way, she knew if she was asking him to confess then she should too.

777: It mattered at the start.

Three months ago, when he'd received an unknown number's message on a chat app that was full of insults and anger, he'd been quick to respond the same.

It lasted an entire hour until she said "Oh my goodness, I think I have the wrong person".

He'd laughed then. A sound so unfamiliar, he almost choked.

He wasn't aware that was something he could do; laugh, that is.

Though he was capable of much, he'd always marked any form of happiness as an incapability, she'd shown him differently.

In one moment, she'd changed his life, and that's when he knew he needed her.

Then a habit had formed, she'd push him to reveal, he'd push back to stay hidden and somehow between the unrelenting back and forth, he'd made a bond.

The unrelenting type that he'd run to after a hard day; some chose alcohol, some chose drugs, he chose her.

An addiction is what any Doctor in rehab would call it, but he'd never diminish her that way.

Abhira was his life line.

So, he'd took in every word she said, every fact he learnt felt like he was seeping even deeper into her thrall, and the worst part, she had no idea what she did to him, no idea how she'd changed his life.

She'd said her name was Abhira, she was in her early twenties and she had lost her sight at ten years old. She'd never revealed much more and though he wanted to know, he'd never asked.

How could he when he was hiding so much himself?

Dabangg: Would it change anything now?

Her response, instant.

777: It would make my day.

At that, he froze. Make her day?

"Just a name" he thought aloud, but it wasn't, was it? It was *his* name.

Where he came from, names mattered. They were the only label one could have to mean a multitude of different things, it was not a label one had to live up to or live within; it was freedom, it was...his.

With reckless abandon, he did what he'd usually never do. He cared. Because if that was the price to make her day, then he'd pay it, happily, over and over again.

Dabangg: Armaan.

The message had sent before he had chance to regret it. Sure, if she was a great internet sleuth, she'd be able to work out who he was, what job he did and where he came from, but he had to remember that you couldn't take without giving and she had already given him so much.

777: I prefer Khadusmaan *wink*.

His heart thundered against his chest. Could she be?

"No. Don't be stupid, Armaan" he admonished.

She had three months to flirt with him, if she wasn't doing it then, she wouldn't just start now!

He needed to get back some control. Right now, he was on a precipice, teetering dangerously on the edge and he couldn't fall.

Dabangg: Why 777?

777: My favourite number is seven, I was going to be 007, but I didn't think James Bond needed the competition.

Dabangg: Do you tend to have enough space in your home?

A puzzled expression over took her face.

777: Huh?

Dabangg: Well with an ego the size of yours, I can only imagine it's hard to get from room to room.

At that, she laughed, freely and wildly like she'd never laughed before. Her Khadusmaan could crack jokes, that was a side of him she wished he would have shown before.

777: Trying to be the class Joker now, are we?

Dabangg: I wasn't aware we were in lesson.

777: Really? I thought that's why you were used to always getting schooled.

Leaning back into his recliner, he sighed peacefully. Without realising, she had taught him many lessons; in kindness, in patience, in perseverance, in strength.

Who are you? He wanted to ask, but he was afraid of the answer he'd hear.

Instead, he typed: What are you doing to me?

But all the strength in the world wouldn't be strong enough for him to send that message.

She couldn't know. He wouldn't allow her to.

Dabangg: What if I am not who you think I am?

777: What if I'm not?

If he saw her now, dressed in a plain white dress that ran over her toes and hugged her waist, he'd think perhaps she was innocence- pure and clean- but if he looked deeper at the rips on the back that showed gnarly scars and littered bruises, he'd start to reconsider. Then, he'd see her face; battered, bruised, cut, torn. Blackened, blind eyes, swollen, cut lip and a broken nose and he'd know then, like she knew now, that she would never be what he wanted her to be.

It wasn't even a possibility.

Dabangg: You have already exceeded all of my expectations. You are smart, wise beyond your years, funny, kind. What more could I ask for from a friend?

Her breath hitched at his compliments. No one had ever seen her that way, and he hadn't even seen her.

Could this be a game? A trick? Something to do when he's bored?

Or could this be...

777: Where has this come from?

His brows furrowed at that, not because of her question, not even because she'd asked it, but because he didn't know how to answer it.

Coward. He almost growled.

He knew. He just couldn't bring himself to say it.

Dabangg: I realised the importance of words.

777: What brought that on?

Dabangg: I hurt someone.

Abhira's breath caught. No, no, no. Not him. Anyone but him. He couldn't be like the rest.

Dabangg: Not like that, Abhira.

He said it like he knew her inner turmoil, like he knew what she was thinking and how important it was for her to feel safe...here...with him.

777: Then?

Armaan sighed. Here he was, in a situation that could make or break everything he'd built with her.

He'd brought it up, he needed to see it through. Regardless of the consequence.

Dabangg: I said something I shouldn't have. Something I can't take back.

Abhira closed her eyes, her shoulders slacking as she imagined her Khadusmaan being... khadus.

777: Then how are you going to make it right?

Dabangg: I...didn't know I could.

777: Of course you can!

He knew she was smiling now.

777: But I can't tell you how to do that. It has to be from the heart.

"The heart" he repeated aloud, nodding.

How did he use that again?

***

With smudged eyeliner staining her thinning cheekbones, Abhira stood still, her frail body shivering under the relentless rain. The drops hit her like icy bullets, soaking through her thin dress, the fabric clinging to her skin as if trying to hold her from falling apart.

She tipped her chin upwards, letting the cold water kiss her chapped lips. The smell of wet earth filled her senses, grounding her in the moment, if only for a breath. She shook her wet locks, feeling them bounce atop her shoulders.

"Excuse me?"

The voice startled her, low and familiar. She tensed, recognizing the tone, the scent of spice and wood lingering in the air around him.

She knew him.

Her body stiffened, but she didn't turn. She didn't need to.

"Detective," she murmured, her voice tired, worn. "Was the other day of insults not enough?"

Armaan stood a few paces behind her, his chest rising and falling with steady breaths as the rain drenched them both. His hand instinctively moved to rub his jaw, a habit he'd developed when he felt the urge to release some of the anger pent up within.

"It wasn't my finest moment".

Abhira's lips twisted into a sardonic smile, though she kept her back to him. "And this is?"

He hesitated, the rain mixing with the quiet crackling tension between them. "No," he finally said, his voice softer, almost raw. "This isn't either."

She let out a small, bitter laugh, but it carried no joy. "So why are you here, Detective? Here to rub salt in the wound? Make sure I remember my place?"

"I'm here to make amends."

Her laughter turned cold, cutting through the space between them like a blade. "Amends," she repeated, shaking her head. "Consider them made, then".

She turned to leave, her wet hair slapping against her neck, but before she could take another step, his hand reached out, catching her wrist. His grip was firm but not forceful, a silent plea wrapped in the touch.

"Don't," she whispered, her voice suddenly fragile, a faint tremor in her words. "If anyone saw me here talking to a Detective, I'd be dead by tomorrow morning. Let go of my hand so I don't lose my life tonight."

Her words were like blades, gutting him from inside out. For a second, he didn't know what to say. He could feel the weight of her reality pressing down on them both. This wasn't just a conversation anymore; it was survival. He knew that. But he wasn't ready to walk away. Not yet.

"How much?"

The words left his mouth before he could stop them. He didn't mean it like that, not really, but it was all he could think of—a desperate attempt to keep her there, to stop her from slipping away.

Abhira froze, her breath catching in her throat. Her body twisted toward him in a bend that made her ribs ache and her hair smack harshly against her cut lip. Her body trembled but this time, not from the cold. Her blind eyes stared straight through him, but the accusation was clear.

"For you?" she asked, her tone sharp, but laced with something broken, something wounded. "Seven thousand."

He wouldn't pay it. She hoped.

She wasn't worth that. She knew.

Armaan blinked, taken aback by her words. "Don't suppose you take cheques?" He hoped to lighten the mood.

She stood, unwavering, unmoved by his aim at humour.

He sighed. "Done".

Placing his card in her hand, his fingers brushed against her wrist, soft and deliberate. "Pin is 5849," he said, his voice low, almost regretful. As if he understood the gravity of what he'd just done.

The tension between them thickened, and for a moment, Abhira stood frozen, the card heavy in her hand. She hated him. Hated him for being just like the rest.

Allowing her lashes to flutter close, she waited with bated breath for what she knew was to come, what always came after money had reached her hand. A shadow passed her sight and she flinched, cowering into herself.

"Aren't you coming?"

Her brow furrowed, her body stiffening. Did he want to abuse her in private? "What?"

"To get something to eat?" Armaan's voice was softer now, almost gentle, as if he was afraid of shattering whatever fragile thing existed between them.

Abhira's heart skipped a beat and her eyes flew open. "Eat?" she repeated, her tone sharp and disbelieving.

The rain kept falling around them, the silence stretching thin. She could feel the world closing in, her past clawing at her like a shadow she could never escape.

"Is this some kind of joke? Lure me in on the pretence of food so you can dash my hopes with your fists?"

"Come, don't come, do what you want" he threw his hands up. "Doesn't make a damn bit of difference to me" he spat from gritted teeth.

There it was. The familiarity. The anger. The burn. It was a blaze that surrounded him, protected him.

"If it doesn't make a difference, then why are you here?" She shouted out, not really caring if it made him stop or not.

Because it mattered to Abhira.

That was why. That was always why.

But that would make no sense to this woman, he couldn't tell her that he needed to know what it was to be seen by the blind so he could prepare for when the woman he wanted to be seen by, looked his way.

"Because I have to be" he swore under his breath as he faced her again.

"Have to be?" She stepped closer to him now, an inch away from being able to touch him if she wanted to.

"I have to know".

Abhira lifted her head, her hand resting on his chest, feeling his muscles ripple beneath her palm. "Have to know what?" Her voice a mere whisper as she searched his gaze for something she knew she'd never see but hoped she'd be able to feel.

Jumping back as if burnt, he recoiled inward. His head shook in dismay, gaze dropping. "What it's like to be seen".

She laughed, melodic and delirious. "Well I can't help you there, Detective".

A small smile edged his upper lip at the familiarity. "Someone like you can".