The badge sat heavy in her palm, no longer pinned to her chest. Spandana Narayanadas stood frozen outside the commissioner's office, the dull fluorescent lights buzzing above her like mosquitoes waiting for blood. Her jaw clenched, knuckles white around the rim of her duty cap. A breath heaved in her lungs like a tide pulling back before the storm.
Suspended. Again.
The word didn't sting anymore. What hurt was the same old silence in the aftermath. The way her parents didn't even flinch this time, the way her best friend Meena paused mid-bite of her samosa on the call and simply said, "What did you do this time, Spandy?"
What did she do?
She slapped a man who deserved more than a slap.
72 Hours Earlier:-
Heat thickened the Hyderabad evening like molasses. The crime branch's confidential intel had sent her to an abandoned textile mill in Katedan-one of those godforsaken structures where ghosts of laborers and blood money lingered in the dust. Her bulletproof Defender rumbled to a halt in front of the rust-ridden gates, engine ticking like a heartbeat. No backup. No warrant. Just Spandana's instinct, rage, and .32 Beretta.
She stepped out, the gravel crunching under her black combat boots. Her hips swayed with that fierce feminine grace that only came from years of martial training. The long braid of black hair sliced through the air behind her like a whip. She didn't dress like the movies showed cops did. No khakis today—just fitted black cargos, a ribbed tank top beneath a lightweight Kevlar vest, and a loose linen shirt unbuttoned, flapping like wings.
She had eyes like monsoon clouds—dark, heavy, and full of wrath. And tonight, they were fixed on one man: Gowtham Iyer, alias Tiger, alias scum of the earth.
He ran trafficking rings. Children. Girls. Boys. Broken dreams sold to foreign bidders like cattle. And word was, he was here—hiding like a rat in silk sheets.
She slid in through the side of the mill, booted a rusted grate clean off its hinges, and made her way silently up the stairwell. Her Glock was loaded. Her conscience was clear.
The noises upstairs weren't just whispers or shuffles. They were moans. Disgusting, sloppy sounds that dripped with powerplay. She kicked open the door, and what she saw made the bile in her stomach curdle.
There he was. Naked. All gut and grunts. A teenage girl beneath him, writhing not in pleasure but desperation. A trap, she realized too late—the girl was no victim. She was an accomplice.
"You disgusting worm," Spandana spat.
The girl leapt off the bed like a cat, launching herself at Spandana. Her nails scratched, her knee aimed for Spandana's ribs. Wrong move.
Spandana ducked, swiveled, and landed a palm strike so hard the girl flew sideways into a dresser. Her cheek split open. Her eyes glazed over like she'd time-traveled into her own repressed memories.
"Don't try to make me feel bad," Spandana growled. "You chose this. You're old enough to know better."
Tiger grabbed for his gun on the nightstand.
Bang.
The bullet tore through his thigh, painting the wall crimson. He howled.
"Get dressed. Both of you. Now," she commanded, flicking blood off her blade-like fingers.
Five minutes later, she dragged them down the stairs, half-naked, through rust and rats, to her Defender.
But the jungle never lets go of its king that easy. Two black Jeeps emerged from the shadows of the outer compound. Armed men. Ten. Maybe twelve. Spandana didn't blink.
She holstered her Glock and reached for her twin tonfa sticks.
"Come, bastards."
It was over in minutes. Blood. Bone. Screams. One broke his shin on her boot. Another had his throat crushed under her knee. The rest ran when she cracked the leader's skull open like a coconut.
Back at the station, she stormed in with Gowtham limping behind her. The officers looked up from their desks like schoolboys caught sleeping.
"File it," she tossed the criminal at the constable.
The DYSP, Dinesh Rao, emerged from his office like a stormcloud. He was short, oily-haired, and smug with the illusion of power.
"CI Spandana Narayanadas," he barked. "You're out of control. Who the hell do you think you are barging into an unofficial raid and dragging a respected party leader like a dog?"
"Respected party leader?" she sneered. "He was balls-deep in a trafficked minor and had a gun under the pillow. That's not a man. That's meat."
"You think your job is to play judge and executioner?"
"No, sir. I think my job is to protect the innocent. But since you seem to have forgotten that, I'm happy to remind you."
"You're suspended! Effective immediately!"
"No. I'm not suspended yet. And I won't be, not until I hear it from someone with a spine."
His eyes widened. "Watch your tone!"
She took a step forward. Her presence was towering. "You want to protect criminals, be my guest. But don't expect me to be your puppet. I didn't bleed and train and throw my life into this uniform so you can kiss the ring of men who sell children for a living."
He pointed a trembling finger at her. "You are done here."He pointed a trembling finger at her, eyes narrowing with venom. "You are done here, you rabid, over-glorified street dog. You think your hips and a hot temper make you a hero? You're just a liability with lipstick. A disgrace wearing a badge."
Crack.
Her palm connected with his cheek in a loud, sickening slap that echoed across the entire station.
Gasps.
Silence.
He stumbled back into the doorframe, the red welt already rising like shame.
"I quit," she said, her voice a blade of ice. She unpinned her badge with measured grace and placed it on the table between them. "Now go ahead and call your friends. Tell them the wild bitch is off their leash."
She turned, braid swinging like a whip, and walked out without another word.