Adultery NAZRIN AN INNOCENT WIFE (With pics)

[Cuckoldindian]

Update 19:

 

Muthu moved first, unable to resist any longer. He knelt before her, his towel slipping dangerously low as he reached for her feet. His fingers traced the arch of her foot, sending shivers up her spine. "Ma'am," he whispered, his voice thick with desire, "you're so beautiful." His hands slid up her calves, fingers digging into the soft flesh above her knees.
 
Praveen joined him, pressing against her side. His breath hitched as his hand found the bare skin of her midriff. "Let us touch you properly," he pleaded, fingers sliding beneath her crop top to graze the underside of her breast. The towel around his waist tented obscenely as he leaned in.
 
Nazrin's phone buzzed violently on the coffee table—Fahim's name flashing like a warning flare. Muthu froze mid-caress, his thumb circling her anklebone. Praveen's palm stilled against her ribs. She snatched the phone, thumb trembling as she swiped accept. "Fahim?" Her voice sounded unnaturally bright. "Everything okay?"
 
But the voice wasn't Fahim's. It was clipped, bureaucratic, devoid of warmth. "Mrs. Nazrin Fahim? This is Inspector Kumar from Thiruvananthapuram East security officer Station." The words landed like ice shards. "Your husband is involved in an illegal betting ring. Loan sharks have filed a formal complaint—he borrowed a significant sum against your property papers. He's currently in custody pending bail hearing."
 
Nazrin’s hand tightened on the phone, knuckles paling. Muthu’s fingers stilled on her ankle, Praveen’s breath catching mid-exhale against her ribs. The humid air, thick with unspent desire moments before, suddenly felt suffocating. She forced her voice level, a brittle calm. "I see. What do you need from me?"
 
The inspector’s tone remained clipped, impersonal. "It’s better you come to the station and discuss the particulars, Madam. Your husband named you as his guarantor. We have the forged property documents here." A pause, heavy with implication. "And… there are other matters." Nazrin’s mind raced—*other matters?* Had Fahim dragged her into something deeper? The students exchanged bewildered glances, their arousal evaporating under the sudden chill. Praveen slowly withdrew his hand from beneath her crop top.
 
Nazrin stood abruptly, the movement dislodging Muthu’s grip. "I’ll be there within the hour," she stated, her voice unnervingly steady. Ending the call, she stared at the dark screen, the reflection showing Praveen hastily adjusting his towel, Muthu scrambling to his feet. The humid air now felt thick with dread. "You both," she commanded, not looking at them, "get dressed. Find something dry—anything—and leave. Now." Her authority sliced through the tension, sharp and absolute. This wasn’t a game anymore.
 
"But Ma'am," Muthu protested, stepping forward, his towel clutched low. "You're in trouble. We can't just leave you like this." Praveen nodded vigorously, his earlier lust replaced by earnest concern. "He's right," he added, voice firm. "Tell us what happened. We'll help you—whatever it takes." Their sudden shift from hungry boys to protective allies was jarring, almost comical in its intensity. Nazrin paused, her hand hovering over the bedroom door handle. She studied them—their damp hair, wide eyes, the genuine worry etched on their faces. A flicker of something unexpected pierced her panic: relief.
 
She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Fahim," she stated flatly, the name tasting sour, "got tangled with loan sharks. Gambling debts. He used our house papers as collateral—forged them, apparently." Her laugh was brittle, devoid of humor. "Now he's in custody, and the security officer want me because I'm the 'guarantor.' They mentioned 'other matters' too. Probably means he dragged my name through the mud." She gestured vaguely towards the storm-lashed window. "So, my cozy little world? It just collapsed. My husband’s a fool, my career hangs by a thread if this gets out, and I might lose the roof over my head." The simplicity of the statement felt surreal. Her grand rebellion had led to *this*.
 
Praveen stepped forward, his towel forgotten, pooling at his feet. His gaze wasn't hungry now; it was fierce, protective. "Ma'am," he said, voice low and urgent, cutting through her numbness. "We didn't follow you here tonight—or *any* night—just because of lust. That's not why we stayed." He glanced at Muthu, who nodded sharply, jaw set. "We really like you. Not just... *that*. You're smart, you're fierce, you don't take shit from anyone. Seeing you command a room, argue with Professor Rajan about circuit diagrams... that's what hooked us first." He swallowed hard. "The rest... it was just... finding out you felt something too."
 
Muthu moved then, grabbing his discarded wet jeans from the clothesline. He yanked them on over damp skin, ignoring the clinging discomfort. "Praveen's right," he declared, zipping up with finality. "This isn't some cheap thrill for us anymore. We're *with* you." He met her stunned gaze squarely. "So, no," he stated, his voice firm and clear, echoing slightly in the suddenly quiet room. "We're not leaving. We will accompany you to the station." He gestured sharply towards the bedroom. "Get changed, Ma'am. Something dry, something strong. We'll be ready."
 
The raw sincerity in their eyes—devoid of the practiced lust she knew so well—struck Nazrin like a physical blow. It wasn't desire clouding their judgment; it was conviction. A tremor, different from arousal, ran through her—part fear, part something startlingly close to hope. Without another word, she turned and pushed open her bedroom door. The familiar space, usually a sanctuary for secrets, felt charged. She bypassed the crumpled crop top and shorts, her fingers instead finding the folded silk of a deep emerald saree—one Fahim had once called "too severe." She pulled it out, the cool, heavy fabric whispering promises of armor. Shedding the soaked remnants of her earlier defiance felt like shedding skin. The blouse she chose was high-necked, practical. The red lace vanished beneath sober cotton. When she emerged moments later, the transformation was stark: the provocative lecturer replaced by a composed, formidable woman, her damp hair ruthlessly pinned back.
 
Muthu and Praveen stood waiting by the door. They too had transformed. Gone were the clinging towels. Muthu wore slightly-too-large trousers—likely borrowed from Fahim's forgotten wardrobe—and a plain, dry t-shirt stretched tight across his chest. Praveen had managed to pull on his own damp jeans and a dark, collared shirt buttoned to the throat. Their expressions mirrored hers: focused, serious, the playful hunger replaced by a watchful readiness. They looked less like students now, more like determined escorts. "Ready, Ma'am?" Praveen asked, his voice low and steady.
 
"Yes," Nazrin breathed, the single word carrying the weight of shattered porcelain. She didn't hesitate. They walked out into the storm together. Rain lashed down instantly, plastering her carefully pinned hair against her scalp and soaking the silk pallu of her saree within seconds. The street was a dark, wet mirror reflecting the blurred orange glow of distant streetlights. Muthu spotted the auto first—a battered yellow three-wheeler parked under a dripping neem tree. He waved sharply, his shout barely audible over the drumming rain. The auto driver, hunched beneath a plastic sheet, flicked on his headlight, bathing them in a watery yellow beam.


 
They piled into the cramped auto, Nazrin sliding onto the cracked vinyl bench first, the damp silk clinging coldly to her legs. Muthu squeezed in beside her, his borrowed trousers darkening with rainwater, while Praveen folded himself onto the jump seat facing them, water dripping from his collar onto the floor. The smell of wet clothes and stale diesel filled the tiny cabin. "Thiruvananthapuram East security officer Station," Nazrin instructed the driver, her voice clear despite the tightness in her throat. The engine coughed to life with a shudder that vibrated through the seat, and the auto lurched forward into the curtain of rain. Inside the rattling metal box, no one spoke. Nazrin stared straight ahead, her hands folded tightly in her lap, knuckles white beneath the skin. Muthu watched the rain streak down the fogged-up window beside her, his jaw clenched. Praveen kept his gaze fixed on Nazrin’s profile, his expression unreadable but intensely focused. The only sounds were the frantic swish of the wiper blades fighting a losing battle and the rhythmic thump of tires hitting unseen potholes in the flooded road.
 
The security officer station loomed ahead, its harsh fluorescent lights bleeding into the wet darkness like a beacon of dread. Nazrin paid the driver with numb fingers, the coins cold and slippery. Stepping out, the rain instantly plastered stray strands of hair to her temples. She didn't hesitate, pushing through the heavy wooden doors into a cacophony of noise and stale cigarette smoke. The fluorescent glare was blinding after the storm-darkened streets. A low-ceilinged room stretched before them, crowded with harried constables, anxious civilians huddled on benches, and the sharp, metallic scent of fear mixed with cheap disinfectant. Behind a high counter littered with paperwork, a bored-looking sergeant glanced up. Nazrin approached, her chin lifted, the emerald silk of her saree—now darkened by rain to near-black—looking incongruously elegant amidst the institutional grime. "Inspector Kumar," she stated, her voice cutting through the background hum. "He's expecting me. Nazrin Fahim." The sergeant’s eyes flickered over her damp form, then dismissively to Muthu and Praveen flanking her like silent, rain-soaked sentinels. He jerked his thumb towards a row of plastic chairs against a peeling yellow wall. "Wait."
 
They sat—Nazrin rigidly upright, Muthu scanning the room with narrowed eyes, Praveen bouncing his knee nervously. Minutes crawled by, punctuated by the clatter of typewriters, the crackle of radios, and the low murmur of despair. A drunkard was dragged past, shouting obscenities; a weeping woman clutched a child. Nazrin focused on a water stain spreading across the ceiling tiles, its shape vaguely like a distorted map of Kerala. The absurdity struck her: her carefully constructed world of illicit thrills collapsing into this fluorescent purgatory. Muthu leaned close, his voice barely audible. "Ma'am, whatever they say," he murmured, his breath warm against her damp ear, "remember we're here. We're *your* guarantors now." Praveen nodded fiercely, his fist clenching on his damp knee. The unexpected declaration, raw and earnest, pierced the numbness. It wasn't lust; it was allegiance forged in the downpour.
 
Inspector Kumar finally emerged—a gaunt man with tired eyes and a clipboard clutched like a shield. He beckoned Nazrin with a curt nod, his gaze flickering dismissively over Muthu and Praveen. "Only Mrs. Fahim," he stated flatly. Nazrin stood, spine straightening instinctively. "These are my students," she countered, her voice crisp, authoritative—the lecturer reclaiming her podium. "They witnessed my husband's distress call. They stay." Kumar's eyebrows lifted slightly, but he shrugged, gesturing towards a cramped, windowless interview room smelling of stale sweat and cheap disinfectant. As Nazrin followed, Muthu and Praveen fell into step behind her, their presence a tangible shield against the institutional chill.
 
Inside the stark room, Kumar settled behind a scarred metal desk piled high with files. He gestured vaguely at the single plastic chair opposite him. Nazrin remained standing, forcing Kumar to crane his neck slightly. Muthu positioned himself at her right shoulder, Praveen at her left, both adopting unnervingly still postures—like soldiers awaiting orders. Kumar cleared his throat, flipping open a file. "Mrs. Fahim," he began, his voice devoid of inflection, "your husband, Fahim Rahman, was apprehended tonight following a complaint lodged by Ragavan." He tapped a grainy photograph clipped to the file—Fahim looking terrified, flanked by two thuggish men. "Fahim borrowed two-point-five crore rupees from Ragavan—an unlicensed lender—to fund an ongoing gambling habit. Specifically, high-stakes card games." Kumar paused, his eyes lifting to meet Nazrin's. "He wagered your joint property deed as collateral. Forged your signature on the transfer documents." He slid a photocopy across the desk—a blurry signature beneath Fahim’s neat script. "He lost. Badly. The deed now legally belongs to Ragavan. Your house," Kumar stated with brutal simplicity, "was lost in the game."
 
Nazrin stared at the photocopy. The signature was a clumsy approximation—nothing like her own sharp, angular script. A strange calm washed over her—not numbness, but clarity. She leaned forward, palms flat on the cold metal desk. "I have no idea about this," she stated, her voice crisp and unwavering—the tone she used to correct a student’s faulty logic. "He said he was having a business trip and went for two days. He was supposed to come tonight." She gestured sharply towards the storm-lashed window beyond the grimy door. "That call? That was the first I heard of any gambling, any loan, any forged signature." Kumar’s expression remained impassive, but his pen stopped scratching notes. He studied her—the damp emerald silk clinging to her shoulders, the ruthlessly pinned hair, the unwavering gaze. Beside her, Praveen shifted almost imperceptibly, radiating protective tension. "He lied to you," Kumar stated flatly. "For months. This wasn't a sudden trip. He'd been frequenting underground clubs near the harbor."
 
"Can I see him?" Nazrin cut in, her voice slicing through Kumar's monotone. Her eyes locked onto his, unblinking. "I want to ask him myself." The request wasn't pleading; it was a demand. Kumar hesitated, his gaze flickering to Muthu and Praveen—their silent, watchful presence amplifying Nazrin's authority. After a beat, he sighed, pushing his chair back with a metallic scbang. "Five minutes," he conceded, standing. "Supervised." He gestured towards a heavy metal door at the back of the room. "Through there. Holding cells."
 
Nazrin followed Kumar down a narrow corridor smelling of bleach and despair. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering intermittently. Behind her, Muthu and Praveen moved in tandem, their footsteps echoing—a protective flank against the institutional chill. Kumar stopped before a reinforced door, peering through a wire-mesh window. Inside, Fahim sat hunched on a concrete bench, head in his hands, his tailored shirt rumpled and stained. Kumar unlocked the door with a heavy clunk. "Five minutes," he repeated, stepping aside but remaining in the doorway, arms crossed.
 
Nazrin entered alone. The cell smelled of stale urine and cheap soap. Fahim looked up, his eyes bloodshot, widening in desperate hope. "Nazrin!" he rasped, scrambling to his feet. "Thank god—you'll fix this, right? Tell them it's a mistake!" His hands trembled as he reached for her. She remained still, her emerald silk pooling at her ankles like frozen water. "Two-point-five crore," she stated, her voice unnervingly calm. "Gambling debts. Our house papers forged." Fahim flinched, his gaze darting to Kumar's impassive silhouette in the doorway. "They—they pressured me! Ragavan's men—they threatened you!" Nazrin tilted her head, studying him as if he were a flawed circuit diagram. "Threatened *me*? And you solved that by gambling away our home?" A brittle laugh escaped her. "Tell me the truth, Fahim. Did you even think of me once?"
 
Fahim crumpled onto the bench, burying his face in his hands. "I'm sorry—so sorry!" he sobbed, the sound echoing off concrete walls. "Please, Nazrin, save me! I know you don't have money, but we'll figure something out!" His fingers dug into his scalp. "Sell your jewellery, take a loan—anything! They'll kill me if I don't pay!" Nazrin watched a cockroach scuttle along the damp floor seam. "A loan?" she echoed softly. "Against what? The house Ragavan already owns?" She stepped closer, her shadow falling over him. "You didn't protect me, Fahim. You sold my safety for a hand of cards." His head snapped up, tears streaking grime on his cheeks. "What about us? Our marriage?" Nazrin's smile was knife-thin. "Our marriage died months ago. You just didn't notice."
 
She remembered the early days—Fahim pressing steaming chai into her hands during monsoon fevers, laughing as he carried her across flooded streets. How he’d traced her eyebrow scar with reverence, whispering *"My warrior queen."* Now those hands had forged her signature, traded their roof for roulette chips. The disconnect was dizzying. She inhaled the stench of bleach and hopelessness. "Fine," she said, voice flat as a guillotine blade. "I'll see what I can do." Fahim lunged forward, grasping her saree pallu. "Thank you—thank you! I'll change, I swear!" Nazrin pried his fingers off the silk. "Don't touch me."
 
In the corridor, Kumar leaned against peeling paint, watching Muthu and Praveen flank Nazrin like twin pillars. She stepped close, rain-soaked silk whispering against Kumar's uniform sleeve. "Is there any chance of getting him out *now*?" Her voice was low, urgent—a lecturer debating a flawed theorem. Kumar scratched his stubble, gaze sliding to the students. "You can pay twenty-five thousand rupees," he conceded. "Take him on bail tonight." He paused, letting the number hang—a month's salary. "But he reports here daily at nine sharp. Signs the register." Kumar's eyes narrowed. "Every single day. Till his case closes"
 
Nazrin didn't hesitate. "Fine." She turned to Muthu and Praveen, their borrowed clothes dripping onto cracked tiles. "Come." They walked back through the fluorescent glare—past weeping families, past a drunkard vomiting into a plastic bin—towards the registrar's cage. Nazrin pulled her phone from her damp blouse pocket, fingers trembling only once as she logged into her banking app. The screen glowed: ₹25,327.86. Her last salary. Her emergency fund. Her escape money. She tapped *transfer*, entered Kumar's scribbled UPI ID, keyed in the amount. The confirmation chime sounded like shattering glass.
 
Outside, the rain had softened to a misty drizzle. Fahim stumbled between them, shivering in his stained shirt, Kumar's warning about daily sign-ins ringing in the humid air. Nazrin hailed another auto—smaller, reeking of stale betel nut. They squeezed in: Fahim hunched on the jump seat, avoiding her eyes; Muthu and Praveen bracketing Nazrin on the bench, thighs pressed warm against hers through damp silk. No one spoke. The auto rattled past shuttered shops, through puddles reflecting neon *paan* signs. At their apartment gate, Nazrin paid the driver with wet coins. Fahim mumbled something about a shower, fleeing inside without meeting her gaze.
 
They followed—Nazrin first, then Praveen, then Muthu—and froze just past the threshold. The living room light blazed. Two sleek black SUVs with tinted windows were parked haphazardly on their narrow driveway, doors left open like gaping jaws. Inside, their modest space felt violated: the coffee table shoved aside, Fahim's prized bonsai overturned on the rug. Five men stood motionless—impossibly broad-shouldered, necks thick as tree trunks, clad in identical black tracksuits. Their stillness was more terrifying than any shout. Seated calmly on their frayed velvet sofa was a man in his fifties: silver hair swept back, sharp charcoal suit immaculate, one polished loafer resting lightly on Fahim's crumpled shirt from earlier. He held a steaming cup of tea in a delicate porcelain cup, incongruous against his predatory stillness.
 
The silver-haired man took a slow sip, his eyes—cold and assessing—locking onto Nazrin. "Am Ragavan," he announced, his voice smooth as poured oil. He gestured dismissively towards the hallway where Fahim had fled. "And you must be this fucker’s wife." He placed the teacup down with deliberate precision. "Your husband owes me two-point-five crore rupees. Plus"—he flicked a manicured finger—"vig. Daily compounding." His gaze swept over her damp emerald silk, then flickered to Muthu and Praveen flanking her. A faint, contemptuous smile touched his lips. "Pretty boys. Sentiment won't erase debts."
 
Nazrin stepped forward, placing herself squarely between Ragavan and the students. Her voice emerged brittle but clear—the clipped cadence of a lecturer explaining a fundamental theorem to slow learners. "Am his wife Nazrin," she stated, her tamil accent thickening deliberately. "I did not know anything about this debt. Just now, at security officer station, Kumar-sir told me." She spread her hands, palms upturned—a gesture of empty pockets. "We are very poor people. I work as professor—salary twenty-five thousand rupees only." She met Ragavan’s icy stare unflinchingly. "Please show some mercy. How can I pay you back?"
 
Ragavan’s gaze slid past her shoulder like oil on water, settling on Muthu and Praveen. "Who are the boys?" he asked, his tone deceptively mild. One of his enforcers shifted—a drill press of muscle tensing beneath a black tracksuit. Nazrin didn’t turn. "My students," she replied, her voice gaining steel. "They escorted me through the storm after Kumar-sir released Fahim." Behind her, Praveen’s jaw tightened; Muthu’s knuckles whitened on the damp hem of his borrowed shirt. Ragavan’s smile deepened, revealing teeth too white and even. "Students," he echoed, savoring the word. "Loyal. Admirable." He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. "But loyalty doesn’t pay vig, Professor. Neither does twenty-five thousand rupees."
 
Fahim whimpered from the hallway shadows, a sound like a kicked dog. Ragavan snapped his fingers without looking. Two enforcers hauled Fahim forward by his collar, dumping him at Ragavan’s polished loafers. He curled there, trembling, face pressed to the rug beside his overturned bonsai. Ragavan studied him dispassionately. "Your husband," he murmured, almost conversationally, "betrayed you. Forged your name. Gambled away your roof." He lifted his hand—a slow, deliberate arc—and brought it down hard. *Crack.* The slap echoed off the walls. Fahim cried out, head jerking sideways. Ragavan struck again. *Crack.* Blood bloomed bright on Fahim’s lip. "This house," Ragavan declared, gesturing at the cramped living room with its peeling paint and water-stained ceiling, "is mine now. Fifty lakhs’ compensation." He paused, wiping his palm on a silk handkerchief produced by an enforcer. "Remaining two crores." His eyes pinned Nazrin. "When? How?"
 
Nazrin sank to her knees beside Fahim’s crumpled form. The damp silk of her saree pooled around her like spilled ink. She didn’t touch him. Her shoulders shook—not with sobs, but with a tremor of pure, distilled fury. Her voice cracked open, raw and jagged: "*Lease* sir," she choked, the Tamil word thick with desperation, "*give me some time. And I will see what can I do. Please—I beg you.*" Tears tracked hot paths down her cheeks, mingling with rainwater still clinging to her temples. She pressed her forehead to the rug, fingers digging into the coarse weave. "*Please.*" Behind her, Muthu made a low noise—half protest, half anguish. Praveen took an involuntary step forward, halted by the sudden shift of an enforcer’s bulk. Ragavan watched Nazrin’s abasement, his expression unreadable. He sipped his tea. The porcelain clicked softly against the saucer.
 
"Okay," Ragavan said at last. His voice was a silk-covered blade. "I will give you one week." He placed the teacup down with unnerving precision. "Seven days. Not a minute more." His gaze swept over her bowed head, then flicked dismissively to Muthu and Praveen. "But understand—this isn't charity. Vig accrues daily. Ten percent." He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his polished loafer nudging Fahim’s shuddering shoulder. "Fail," he murmured, "and I take more than money." His eyes lingered on Nazrin’s exposed nape, damp hair clinging to skin. "Your husband’s hands. His tongue. Perhaps," his voice dropped to a whisper, "something... *precious*... from you." Behind him, an enforcer cracked his knuckles—a sound like snapping twigs.
 
Nazrin lifted her head slowly. Her tears were gone, replaced by a terrifying stillness. She met Ragavan’s gaze directly. "One week is not enough for two crores," she stated, her voice brittle but clear—the lecturer correcting a fundamental miscalculation. Her Tamil accent thickened deliberately. "I need at least two months." She didn’t plead. She *calculated*. "Sixty days. Properly structured." Her eyes flicked to Fahim’s bleeding lip, then back to Ragavan. "Give me time, and I will pay *everything*. Principal and vig." She held his stare, unblinking. "You want your money? Or just… sport?"
 
Ragavan leaned back, studying her damp emerald silk, the defiant set of her shoulders. A slow, reptilian smile spread across his face. "Two months?" He chuckled softly, tapping a manicured finger against his knee. "In that manner, Professor…" His voice dropped to a silken murmur. "Let’s say you give me twenty-five lakhs every week. Like clockwork." He leaned forward, his polished loafer pressing down on Fahim’s trembling shoulder. "*Then* in two months… two crores will be paid." He paused, letting the impossible figure hang—a weekly ransom larger than her yearly salary. "Fail *one* payment," he added softly, "and the deal vanishes. We revert to… original terms." Behind him, an enforcer cracked his knuckles again—a punctuation mark.


 
Nazrin didn’t flinch. Her mind raced—calculating, discarding, restructuring. Twenty-five lakhs weekly wasn’t sustainable; it was annihilation. Yet, it bought sixty days. Sixty days to breathe, to strategize, to find leverage Ragavan couldn’t crush. "Agreed," she stated, her voice stripped bare of tremor. She met his icy stare. "But I need confirmation. In writing. Terms clear. Payment schedule." She gestured towards Fahim, still pinned beneath Ragavan’s shoe. "And he stays *here*, untouched. Under my watch." Ragavan’s smile widened fractionally—a predator amused by prey negotiating cage dimensions. He snapped his fingers. An enforcer produced a sleek leather-bound notebook and a gold pen. Ragavan scrawled swiftly, tore out the page, and held it out. Nazrin took it, the paper crisp against her damp palm. The numbers glared back: *₹25,00,000. Weekly. Commencing 7 days.*
 
Ragavan rose, smoothing his charcoal suit. His polished loafer lifted from Fahim’s shoulder. "One late payment," he murmured, his voice silkier now, almost conversational, "and the deal evaporates." He paused, letting the silence thicken like clotting blood. His gaze slid over Nazrin’s emerald silk, then lingered—deliberate, invasive—on Muthu and Praveen’s rigid stances. "And you," he added, the threat shifting shape, viscous and explicit, "will get fucked. By whoever I choose." He didn’t elaborate. Didn’t need to. The implication hung—a blade suspended over flesh. "Street sweeper. Taxi driver. My enforcer here." He nodded towards the mountain of muscle beside him. "Or perhaps..." His eyes flicked back to the students, "...these loyal boys. Wouldn’t that be poetic? Payment in flesh instead of cash." Behind Nazrin, Praveen inhaled sharply; Muthu’s hand curled into a fist. Ragavan smiled. "I don’t care *how* you get the money. Steal it. Sell yourself. Sell *them*. Just deliver."
 
The enforcers filed out—silent, efficient—leaving behind the scent of expensive cologne and stale betel nut. The front door clicked shut. Nazrin didn’t move. She remained kneeling on the rug, Ragavan’s handwritten contract crumpled in her damp palm. Fahim whimpered beside her, a low, continuous sound like a leaking pipe. The overturned bonsai lay shattered, soil spilled across the synthetic fibers. Muthu shifted first. "Madam..." he began, his voice tight. Nazrin raised a hand—silencing. Her eyes stayed fixed on the closed door. "Water," she ordered, her tone flat, detached. "Bring water. And a cloth." Praveen moved towards the kitchen, his borrowed trousers clinging to his thighs. Muthu hovered, uncertain. Nazrin finally turned her head, her gaze landing on Fahim’s bleeding lip, his trembling hands. "Get up," she commanded, no pity in her voice. "Clean yourself."
 
Fahim scrambled backwards, pressing himself against the peeling wallpaper. "Nazrin—please—" he stammered, tears mixing with blood on his chin. "I didn’t know—I didn’t think—" Nazrin unfolded her legs, rising smoothly. She stepped over the bonsai debris, ignoring him. Praveen returned with a chipped enamel bowl and a faded dish towel. Nazrin took both without thanks. She dipped the cloth, wrung it hard, then knelt again—not to Fahim, but to wipe the muddy footprint Ragavan’s loafer had left on her rug. Methodical. Precise. The silence stretched, broken only by Fahim’s ragged breathing and the drip-drip of rainwater from Muthu’s sleeves onto the linoleum. Nazrin finished scrubbing, tossed the soiled cloth into the bowl. "Twenty-five lakhs," she stated, her voice unnervingly calm. "Every seven days. Starting next Tuesday." She looked up, her eyes sweeping over Fahim’s cowering form, then lifting to meet Praveen’s horrified stare, Muthu’s clenched jaw. "Ideas?"
 
Praveen shifted his weight, rainwater pooling around his worn sneakers. "We’ll work it out, Madam," he insisted, his voice low but fierce. "Somehow." He stepped forward, deliberately placing himself between Nazrin and the hallway where Fahim trembled. "We know people." His gaze flicked to Muthu, a silent signal passing between them. "Connections. Resources." Muthu nodded sharply, cracking his knuckles—a sound like dry twigs snapping. "Yeah," he growled, his eyes fixed on Fahim with undisguised contempt. "Sir?" Muthu’s voice was thick with challenge. "Any idea *you* got? Or just bleeding on Madam’s floor?"
 
Fahim pushed himself upright against the peeling wallpaper, wiping blood from his split lip with a shaking hand. His eyes darted wildly between Praveen’s protective stance and Muthu’s coiled aggression. "Who the hell are you?" Fahim spat, voice ragged with panic and indignation. He jabbed a trembling finger at the students. "Why are *they* here? In my house? Looking at me like—like *that*?" His gaze locked onto Nazrin, desperate and accusing. "Nazrin! Tell them to leave!"
 
Nazrin didn’t turn. She remained kneeling by the stained rug, her damp emerald silk pooling around her like spilled poison. When she spoke, her voice wasn’t a shout—it was a blade honed to a lethal edge, slicing through the humid air. "They are my students," she stated, each syllable precise and glacial. "They stood with me tonight at the security officer station when Kumar-sir told me you forged my signature. They stood with me when Ragavan put his boot on your neck." She finally lifted her head, her eyes meeting Fahim’s—devoid of pity, burning with contempt. "They stood with me when *no one else did*. Not like you—selling our roof, selling *me*, to gundas for your gambling debts."