Niyati opened the "Connect With Anyone You Desire" app and began scrolling through it.

“Bro, this isn’t just some random dating app,” she muttered, her brows knitting together. “It’s online prostitution. Just look at this.”

She turned the laptop toward Samira, Aryahi, and Swathi, who were sitting across from her on the couch. The screen glowed with rows of glossy profiles — women wearing carefully curated smiles and calculated seduction. Profile after profile appeared — women of every age, each displayed with her name, photos, service rates, and the “types” of services she claimed to provide. The sterile layout made the obscenity of it all even more jarring.

Niyati clicked on one at random. A young woman’s face filled the screen — her bio read like a catalog description, disturbingly transactional. A soft gasp escaped her.

“They’ve built an entire marketplace out of people,” she murmured, half to herself.

Samira’s tone cut through the silence — calm, controlled, but sharp. “Open Swathi’s profile.”

Niyati’s fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment before she nodded and typed the name into the search bar. The page loaded in seconds.

Swathi’s heart seemed to stop. Her name — her face — stared back at them. Beneath it were photos she had never taken. Some bold, some obscene, and a contact number listed in bold.

“I… I never took those kinds of photos, ma’am,” Swathi stammered, her voice breaking. “Only the profile picture is mine.”

Niyati leaned closer, her eyes narrowing in concentration. She compared the images side by side, tracing each subtle difference with meticulous focus.

“As expected,” she said after a beat, her tone clipped with certainty. “They’re morphed.”

She highlighted the edges of one image, zooming in to expose faint pixel inconsistencies. “See this? Different lighting, distorted proportions. Whoever did this used her real photo as a base and patched the rest together.”

Samira’s jaw tightened. “Find out who’s behind this.”

“I tried,” Niyati replied, her fingers flying across the keyboard, lines of code reflecting in her glasses. “But to trace the source, I’ll need to log in first. The data is encrypted behind a dummy layer.”

Samira crossed her arms, her voice steady. “What’s your plan now?”

Niyati smirked faintly — the kind of smile that meant she already had one.
“It’s simple, actually,” she said, her tone gaining an edge. “I’ll use the same bait they used.”

She minimized the browser and opened her photo gallery. The bluish glow of the monitor painted her face in cold light as she scrolled — one image after another flashing past until she stopped. “Got it,” she whispered.

Her finger hovered over a photo of Surya — natural, friendly, and perfect for the trap she was about to set.

Within moments, her fingers danced across the keys, embedding a traceable access code deep within the image — a digital snare, invisible to the unsuspecting user.

Then, she opened a new account under the name Surya, filling out the necessary details with chilling precision. The fake profile was convincing — disarmingly so.

Next, she began typing a message:

Hi gorgeous, I’m Surya. I know you’ve probably heard this from a lot of guys, but I couldn’t stop myself from saying it — you’re absolutely sexy. Damn hot. Here’s a photo of me, in case you’re curious.

She attached the coded photo and sent it directly to Swathi’s fake account.

“The message was sent. A single notification blinked — the waiting game had begun.”

“Done,” Niyati murmured, leaning back with calm, predatory satisfaction. “The moment they click that photo, I’ll have them — right where I want them.”

Her lips curved into a grim smile. “Whoever it is… they’re digging their own grave.”

Swathi slouched back on the couch, shoulders heavy, as though the weight of unspoken words pressed down on her chest.

“Don’t get too relaxed yet, dear,” Aryahi said with a small, knowing smile. Her eyes lingered on Swathi, soft but piercing, as if she could see the storm brewing beneath that fragile calm.

Swathi let out a faint sigh, her fingers nervously tracing invisible circles on the couch’s fabric. “Ah, yes… Nivi,” she murmured, the name slipping from her lips like a confession. “I don’t expect her to forgive me.” She looked up, her voice falling to a whisper. “But… will she even hear me out?”

Aryahi rose from her seat and walked toward her. “Come,” she said gently, extending a hand.

Swathi hesitated, shaking her head. “I can’t—”

“Arey, come on,” Aryahi urged softly, her tone more coaxing now than commanding.

From the other side of the couch, Samira’s calm voice slipped through the thickening silence.

“Swathi,” she said, her tone steady, grounding, unhurried. “There’s no such thing as the right time. The longer you wait to tell your side of the story, the more the distance will grow.”

She paused, letting the words breathe. Her eyes met Swathi’s — unwavering, patient, understanding.
“And I just hope,” she added quietly, “it won’t be too late.”

Something in those words broke through Swathi’s hesitation. She nodded faintly, almost to herself, and reached for Aryahi’s hand. Their fingers clasped — a silent pact of courage — and together they walked toward the garden.

Outside, the evening air was cool and fragrant with the scent of jasmine. The fading sunlight scattered across the garden, painting the world in hues of amber and gold. At a distance, Surya and Nivedita sat on the stone bench beneath the frangipani tree, laughing softly — a sound so natural, it almost seemed to belong to the breeze itself.

“That’s Surya,” Aryahi whispered, tilting her chin in his direction.

As if sensing their gaze, Surya turned. The moment he saw Aryahi, his expression brightened, a warm and effortless smile spreading across his face. “Hey,” he greeted, lifting a hand in an easy wave.

Aryahi smiled back and started toward him, with Swathi trailing a hesitant step behind.

But the moment Nivedita’s gaze fell upon Swathi, her smile faded. The laughter between her and Surya dissolved into a tense stillness.

Swathi froze for a heartbeat, every apology she’d rehearsed scattering from her mind like startled birds.

“Nivi, please…” Her voice trembled. “I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you. At least—at least hear me out.”

Nivedita stood still, her arms folded across her chest. Her silence felt louder than any words. Sensing the tension, Aryahi gently touched Surya’s arm. “Let’s give them some space,” she whispered. He nodded, and together they stepped away, leaving the two friends — caught between past hurt and fragile hope — alone beneath the soft rustle of the evening breeze.

Swathi took a shaky breath. “I’ll take your silence as a yes,” she said with a weak smile, trying to steady her voice. “I wanted to tell you everything, but that day… you didn’t come to college. And later, when you did, you were already worried about the marriage your father had arranged. You said you were grounded, and I… I didn’t want to burden you when you were already dealing with so much.”

Her eyes glistened as memories clawed their way to the surface. “Harika met me at our usual spot in college. She noticed something was off and asked what was wrong. So I told her.” Her voice wavered, breaking mid-sentence. “But do you know what she said, Nivi?” Swathi’s lips quivered. “She said, ‘Why would they call and message you unless you gave them something first, Swathi? Are you that desperate?’”

Tears welled and rolled down her cheeks.

Nivedita’s jaw clenched. “Bloody bitch,” she hissed, anger flashing in her eyes. “Why the hell did you even tell her?”

“She’s our friend…” Swathi whispered, her voice fragile, uncertain — though she didn’t seem to believe her own words anymore.

“She’s not my friend,” Nivedita shot back sharply. “I only spoke to her because you said she was yours.”

Swathi looked down, her shoulders shaking. “I was scared, Nivi… scared you wouldn’t believe me either. Scared you’d walk away.”

Her words came out like a confession of fear more than guilt.

Her throat tightened. “I’m sorry, Nivi. I was terrified— What if you stopped talking to me? What if you stopped being my friend? What if—”

Before she could finish, Nivedita stepped forward and pulled her into a fierce, unexpected hug.

“Stop,” Nivedita whispered, her voice breaking. “Please… stop. Damn it, Swathi.”

Tears slipped down her cheeks, warm and unrestrained, soaking into Swathi’s shoulder. Her voice trembled as she spoke again. “I’m sorry too — for not making you believe that I had your back all along.”

She drew back just enough to cup Swathi’s face, her thumbs brushing away the tears that wouldn’t stop falling. “But from this moment on,” she said softly but with conviction, “if you ever face a problem — big or small — you come to me first. No more running, no more hiding. Promise me.”

Swathi’s lips quivered as she nodded through her tears. She clasped Nivedita’s outstretched hand and held it as though she were holding on to something sacred. Then she leaned forward, resting her forehead against Nivedita’s shoulder.

“I promise,” she whispered. “And I mean it, Nivi.”

The two friends stood there, holding onto each other as the dusk deepened around them — two silhouettes framed against the soft glow of the garden lights, bound again not by the absence of pain, but by the courage to forgive.

Surya and Aryahi stepped back into the house, their footsteps muted against the carpet. The faint scent of rain clung to them, mingling with the lingering aroma of freshly brewed coffee that drifted through the living room. Niyati and Samira sat on the couch — the atmosphere calm, yet beneath that calm ran a taut, humming thread of expectancy.

“So,” Samira asked, her gaze drifting briefly toward the window overlooking the garden, “how’s it going out there?”
Surya leaned back into the armchair, his posture relaxed, a faint, knowing smile curving his lips. “They’ll come around,” he said reassuringly. “It might take some time, but they will. Trust me.”

Samira’s shoulders relaxed slightly. “That’s good to hear,” she murmured, a note of relief softening her voice.

For a moment, silence settled between them — comfortable, but charged. Then Niyati, who had been unusually quiet until now, leaned forward, her eyes gleaming with restrained excitement. “And speaking of good news…” she began, her voice taking on a livelier edge. “I have something to share.”

That was all it took. Three pairs of eyes — Surya’s, Aryahi’s, and Samira’s — turned toward her at once.

“I got him,” Niyati declared, her voice tinged with quiet triumph. “He took the bait.”

She spun the laptop around on the coffee table so everyone could see. The screen displayed a photograph — a young man in an oversized white T-shirt and ripped blue jeans, his rugged charm almost too deliberate. A pair of tinted sunglasses sat low on the bridge of his nose, half-hiding a smirk that carried more arrogance than ease. He leaned lazily against a KTM Super Duke motorcycle, one hand shoved into his pocket — the kind of picture that screamed confidence without caution.

“Sudheer Chowdary,” Niyati said crisply, her voice taking on the steady tone she used when presenting facts. “Twenty-two years old. Lives in SR Nagar — Vrindavanam Apartments. Final-year student at BITS Pilani, Hyderabad campus. No criminal record apparently.”

Samira’s expression hardened, her calm gaze sharpening with intent. “Then let’s get him,” she said firmly. “We can’t afford to wait any longer.”

“I’ll go,” Surya said at once, leaning forward. His voice was steady, laced with quiet confidence. “I know where I can find him — and bring him in without arousing any suspicion.”

Niyati arched an eyebrow, crossing her arms. “Oh? And where exactly is this mysterious place you’ve discovered that even I couldn’t find?”

Surya’s smirk deepened — that familiar glint of mischief lighting his eyes. “Here,” he said simply, turning his own laptop toward her. He scrolled through a series of posts on Sudheer’s social media feed — snapshots of late-night rides, dimly lit selfies, and candid street scenes. He stopped at one particular image: a modest roadside tea stall, its yellow bulbs glowing faintly against the night.

“He’s posted several photos from this spot,” Surya explained, zooming in on the caption beneath the image. “‘My hangout place’ — he even tagged the location. Consistent time stamps too. Late evenings, between eight and nine. That’s his comfort zone. His routine.”

Niyati leaned closer, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “So he’s predictable,” she murmured. “That makes our job easier.”

Surya nodded. “Exactly. I can find him there, talk to him casually, and bring him in — clean and quiet.”

He turned to Samira then, holding her gaze. He didn’t need to say more, but the silence  that followed carried its own question — Do I have your go-ahead?

Samira studied him for a moment, her expression unreadable. Finally, she nodded slowly. “Alright,” she said, her tone measured. “But be careful, Surya. I don’t want any more drama.”

Surya chuckled — low, warm, with that teasing glint that always managed to soften her sternness. “Drama adds a little spice to our routine life, Samira,” he said, rising from his seat. “Come on — let’s stir things up a bit, shall we?”

“Surya,” Samira said warningly, exasperation threading through her voice.

He only grinned wider, gave her a playful wink, and slid on his sunglasses. “Relax, boss,” he said lightly. “I’ll bring him in before you even miss me.” With lazy confidence, he turned and strode toward the door, his footsteps echoing faintly through the quiet house.

As the door clicked shut behind him, silence settled over the room — but this time, it carried an undercurrent of tension. Samira’s eyes lingered on the door longer than she intended, her thoughts following him into the fading light. Outside, a gust of wind swept through the garden, brushing the bougainvillea leaves against the glass in a soft, restless whisper.