The morning light filtered through the thin curtains of their cramped 2BHK, casting long shadows across the floor where Ishaan's mattress lay neatly folded in the corner. He had risen at his usual 5:17 AM, the superhuman rhythm of his body kicking in without effort. House chores done in a blur—bucket filled, floor swept, plates soaked. Exercise followed like a storm: 500 push-ups in under ten minutes, knuckles grazing the tiles with precision; 300 squats that left the air humming; a fifteen-minute plank, his core unyielding as steel. Meditation on the balcony lasted exactly three minutes, mind cleared of eviction worries and uncle dramas, the distant sea link a silent witness. By the time he lit the gas for chai and omelette, the apartment smelled of elaichi and fresh toast.
Ari stirred at 6:45, padding out in her night kurta, toothbrush in hand. She emerged from the bathroom at 7:05, hair in a wet bun, slipping into yesterday's charcoal PJ and white silk shirt. Breakfast was quiet—masala omelette for her, plain for him—eaten at the tiny table with the comfort of routine.
As they cleared plates, Ishaan broke the silence, wiping his hands on a towel. Ishaan: "Company party tonight. Mr. Singh's birthday. Starts at six. I won't pick you up—too late." Ari nodded, sipping the last of her chai. Ari: "Okay. Drop me now. And wear the new ones—the cream coat, sky-blue shirt, brown pants. No tie. Dark brown shoes. And the watch."
Ishaan raised an eyebrow but complied, changing in the bedroom while she waited. When he stepped out, the transformation hit like sunlight on water. The cream coat draped his 6'3" frame perfectly, sharpening the predator lines of his shoulders. Sky-blue shirt hugged his 8% body-fat torso, veins faint on forearms. Brown pants broke clean over polished dark brown shoes. The green-dial Seiko caught the light, adding a subtle flash. His silk-black hair, loose and gleaming with that natural blue undertone, framed a jawline that could cut glass. He walked with that effortless grace, like the room bent around him.
Ari's breath caught. She circled him slowly, eyes wide, a flush creeping up her neck. He looked too good—dangerously handsome, the kind that turned heads without trying. He shouldn't look this good going out alone, she thought, a shy jealousy mixing with pride. Women will stare. But he's mine.
Ari: "You… look perfect. Too perfect. Don't smile at anyone." Ishaan chuckled softly, adjusting the coat. Ishaan: "Only smiling for you. Bullet's ready."
They locked up at 7:25—Lajja still snoring, Misahay already out for the orange farm. The Bullet roared through empty roads, Ari's arms light around his waist. Legacy Construction porch by 8:12. She hopped off, tote adjusted, quick nod before jogging inside. Ishaan watched her go, then gunned toward Santacruz East.
The broker waited under Tower A's shade, clipboard in hand. Ishaan killed the engine, pulled two cheques from his wallet—one for ₹2,00,000 (as he'd told Ari), the other ₹1,20,000 from his hidden gigs. Total deposit: ₹3,20,000. Four months covered.
Broker: "Papers signed? Good. Keys yours. Rent from next month—₹80,000." Ishaan handed the cheques without a word, pocketed the originals. The flat was locked in—2300 sq ft of space, L-shaped balcony, gym, pool, garden views. Theirs. He fired off a quick text to Ari: Confirmed. Keys tomorrow. Shifting starts. No mention of the extra₹1,20,000. His secret, for now.
Ravi arrived by taxi at 10:30, helmet under arm, paperwork bundle in hand. They met at a chai stall, filter coffee steaming in steel tumblers. Office hunt began—no time wasted. Two-three locations blurred by: cramped ground-floor shops with leaky roofs, windowless basements smelling of damp, high-rises with nosy neighbors. Rejections piled up—too small, too noisy, too far.
The fifth stopped them cold. A half-commercial, half-residential tower, just a fifteen-minute ride from the new flats. 20th floor. Hey The elevator hummed them up, doors opening to a studio that screamed potential. Previous tenants—a defunct photo shoot company—had left it half-ready. A massive 1000 sq ft hall dominated, white walls begging for matte black paint. An open kitchen attached—granite counter, sink, cabinets—perfect for quick meals during shoots. A 100 sq ft changing room tucked in the corner, mirrored walls intact. Big bathroom with shower, tiles gleaming. But the crown: a full glass wall window, floor-to-ceiling, framing the city skyline like a living backdrop—Mumbai's chaos below, sea horizon beyond.
Ishaan walked the hall, testing acoustics—echo perfect for voiceovers. Ravi paced the glass wall, eyes lighting up. Ravi: "This. Blackout curtains here—block sun for controlled lighting. Green screen on that wall. Ring lights, softboxes. AC upgrade. We own Modern Ninja here." Ishaan nodded, envisioning reels against the city glow, masked model shoots with dramatic backdrops. Ishaan: "Rent?" Broker: "₹40,000 monthly. Deposit ₹2,00,000. From next month."
They shook on it. Ishaan covered the deposit from channel funds—his half wired instantly. Ravi handled paperwork, grinning. Ravi: "I shift to my flat in 2-3 days. Use company cash for gear—new cameras, lights, mods. Big flex curtain for the window—no glare. Paint black, foam walls for sound. Office ready same time as home Hi." Ishaan: "Split costs fair. I haul if needed." Ravi: "Deal. Brothers building empires."
Ravi taxied off for packing and loan finals. Ishaan rode home, mind mapping the studio—Modern Ninja Entertainment Pvt. Ltd.'s first real HQ. He stowed the Bullet, slipped off the Seiko (no watch at rest), changed into casuals. A quick lunch—poha from the dabba—then prep for the party.
By 5:30 PM, he was back in the suit, cream coat crisp, sky-blue shirt tucked, brown pants sharp, dark brown shoes polished. Seiko on wrist again. Bullet purred toward Juhu villa, sunset bleeding orange over the sea. The party awaited—Mr. Singh's gratitude, Simi's energy, networks to tap. Ishaan's aura shimmered faintly as he focused, predator grace in every turn.
New flat locked. Studio secured. Empire expanding.