Junoon

The dim lighting in the subway did little to guide Aiza as she pushed through the crowd, trying to make her way out. Commuters bustled past in every direction, jostling her as she hurried up the steps from the platform. It was already 7:00 PM. She was five minutes late. Her shift technically hadn’t even started; she wasn’t even supposed to be working tonight. Still, she had promised to come in to help her friend, the bar’s manager, until they could hire more staff.

She cursed under her breath as another shoulder knocked into hers. The bar was only ten minutes away if she ran, but the city streets were packed and impatient. Her boots thudded against the pavement as she weaved between people, hoping she wouldn’t show up too flustered to actually be of help.

Aiza absolutely hated Mumbai sometimes.

She pulled out her phone to check the time and swore under her breath. She was so late. Why hadn’t she just left earlier?

Dodging motorbikes, honking rickshaws, and a sea of impatient pedestrians, she sprinted the final few blocks. Her lungs burned as she finally reached the club, The Bombi Club. The name usually made her giggle, but not today.

She slipped around the alley and pushed through the back door. The moment she entered, she was met by the exasperated face of her best friend and the club’s manager, Natasha.

“Fucking finally!” Natasha hissed, hands on her hips.

“I’m sorry. The rush was insane today,” Aiza said, already hurrying to her locker. She peeled off her outside clothes with practiced speed and started changing into her uniform.

“Well, the rush is insane here too,” Natasha snapped, pacing.

“I’ll make it up to you,” Aiza offered. She buttoned up the black uniform shirt, well, most of it. The top three buttons refused to cooperate. The shirt was too tight, and she really needed a bigger size. But this one showed off just enough cleavage to keep the tips coming.

She hated the sleazy stares, the way some men looked at her like she was part of the décor, but the extra cash always made it a little easier to ignore.

“You have exactly one minute. Quick!” Natasha barked before vanishing down the hallway.

Aiza moved fast. She stripped off her pants and shimmied into her short black skirt. Boots off, heels on, then a quick dash of kajal, a swipe of mascara, and a gloss. No time for highlighter or shimmer today.

She grabbed her white server’s apron, tied it tightly around her waist, and headed straight out into the kitchen. She waved at two of the chefs on the way, who barely glanced up from their roaring burners.

Then she stepped into the bar and fuck.

It was packed.

Rasha, her other friend and fellow server, looked like she was two seconds away from combusting. Strands of hair stuck out of her bun like wires as she darted between customers, scribbling orders and dropping drinks.

Aiza snapped into work mode. She approached the counter where two guests had just walked up and offered her best customer-service smile.

“Hello! Welcome to The Bombi Club. What can I get you started with tonight?”

After that, everything blurred. She couldn’t even remember how many drinks she poured, how many tables she cleared, or how many times she forced a smile she didn’t feel. One customer after another, one order after the next.

It wasn’t until 11 PM that the chaos finally began to ease. The club was still buzzing, music thumping but the frantic, back-to-back madness had ebbed just enough for her to take a breath.

Rasha walked up to her, “I’m taking a break. You owe that to me.”

Aiza barely looked up, focused on mixing a drink. “Go,” she muttered, nodding. She slid the glass across the counter to a waiting guest with a fake smile and didn’t even register the moment Rasha disappeared behind her.

With no new customers approaching, Aiza finally exhaled. Her shoulders relaxed for the first time all night. That was intense.

She let her gaze wander across the club.

The Bombi was pulsing with low light and expensive perfume. As always, the place was crawling with the city’s rich and ruthless, goons in designer suits, spoiled trust fund kids, lawyers, and businessmen nursing their overpriced cocktails. This was the usual Bombi crowd.

They people that came her were powerful, arrogant, and loaded. This meant the tips were incredible.

When she wasn’t working on drinks or counting her tips, she liked to watch them.

Their behavior fascinated her. The way they talked, loud, boastful, like they needed the room to know their worth. They bragged about deals closed, money made, or whose yacht they’d partied on last weekend. There was always a performance.

These people were easy targets for Aiza. All she had to do was feign interest and ask a few flattering questions and they’d spill their entire life story. Their egos practically begged for attention.

After that, they would become her regulars. Some would return every weekend, requesting her by name. And the tips? Always generous. Routine, even. For the price of a smile and a little well-timed flattery, she had them wrapped around her finger.

It was a game she played well charming them just enough to keep them coming back, without ever letting them too close.

Then there were the others. The quiet operators. The ones who didn’t come to party they came to work. They used the relaxed vibe of the club to blur boundaries. Under the cover of dim lighting and loud music, they slipped into casual business discussions. They always played a game: buying drinks, feigning interest, softening their targets until the real talk started. Aiza had seen it all. Jokes hiding negotiations. Power plays disguised as charm.

As Aiza’s eyes swept across the room, they landed on a man sitting alone in the far corner half-shadowed in the dim lighting, a cigar resting casually between his fingers.

He was staring directly at her.

A jolt of electricity shot through her, unexpected and sharp. Their eyes locked for a second too long, and she immediately looked away, her breath catching. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, suddenly hyper-aware of herself.

That was… weird.

Curiosity tugged at her. After a moment, she glanced back.

He was still watching.

He sat relaxed in a booth at the other end of the room, completely at ease, as if he owned the place. He took a long drag from his cigar, then exhaled slowly eyes never leaving hers.

His gaze was intense. Unsettling. It made her feel hot, rooted to the floor, like he could see right through her performance. She didn’t understand why, but something about him made her pulse spike.

The way the shadows clung to his features, the sharp cut of his black suit, the way he held that cigar it all made him look dangerous. Menacing, even.

And yet, undeniably hot.

Aiza took a shaky breath and forced herself to look away. Don’t look back, she told herself, don’t give him the satisfaction.

Thankfully, a new drink order came in, and she threw herself into the task, grateful for the distraction. Still, she couldn’t shake the sensation of being watched the invisible prickling on the back of her neck. Her hands moved on autopilot, mixing and pouring.

She handed the finished drink to a waiting customer, flashing her usual practiced smile.

Then, from the corner of her eye, she saw someone else step up to the counter.

“Hello, what can I get—” she began, turning toward them. Her voice cut off mid-sentence.

It was him.

The man from across the room.

Up close, he was even more devastating. His eyes were dark, deep, bottomless black, and framed by lashes far too long for someone so unnervingly masculine. His hair was a mess, styled like he’d run his hands through it out of habit. A faint stubble lined his jaw, adding to his masculine appeal.

And he was tall. Too tall. Even in heels, Aiza had to crane her neck to meet his gaze.

He smiled, and it wasn’t polite it was slow, knowing, and disarming. Aiza was suddenly very grateful for the counter between them.

She cleared her throat, trying to gather the scattered pieces of her composure. “What can I get for you?”

Her voice came out a little too breathy.

The man’s smile deepened.

He moved with unnerving ease, settling into one of the bar stools like he had all the time in the world. His posture was relaxed and yet something about him radiated control. Even after sitting down, he remained at eye level with her, which only made it worse.

Being this close didn’t make him less intimidating it amplified it.

He tilted his head slightly, studying her like she was a puzzle he intended to take his time with. “Hello,” he said, his voice smooth and low.

Then his eyes dipped to her name tag.

“Aiza,” he drawled, letting the syllables linger a second too long.

She visibly shivered.

What the hell is wrong with me? She thought. Why was this man pulling such a reaction out of her? Her body felt wired, her skin buzzing under his gaze, and it was maddening.

“Hello,” she echoed, forcing herself to sound normal. Professional. Calm. Unbothered.

She slapped on her most practiced, plastic smile. “What can I get for you?” She asked again for the second time.

It was the fakest smile she’d worn all night and somehow, she had the sinking feeling he saw right through it.

“Whiskey.” Was his one word reply.

Aiza nodded, turning to the shelves behind her, grateful to have something to do. But his eyes didn’t leave her. She could feel them tracing every move she made, and the weight of his stare made her fingers clumsy.

The glass nearly slipped from her hand twice.

She drew in a steadying breath and focused on pouring, but even that was shaky. The amber liquid trembled in the bottle as she filled the glass, the sound of the pour louder than usual in her ears.

She slid the drink across to him, but as he reached out to take it, their hands brushed.

Just for a second.

But that second was electric.

Sparks erupted from the contact, shooting up her arm and straight into her chest. Her breath caught, and she yanked her hand back like he’d burned her. Her fingers tingled.

She glanced up in surprise only to find that he wasn’t smiling anymore.

His expression had shifted. The lazy confidence was gone. In its place was something else curiosity. Intrigue. Like he had just discovered something… unexpected.

Aiza’s stomach flipped.

Oh no. No no no. This is bad, she thought, panic blooming in her chest. Whatever just happened, he felt it too.

And now he was interested.

Really interested.

It felt like she had just caught the attention of a shark. Silent, precise, and dangerous.

He leaned in slightly, parting his lips like he was about to say something, but before he could speak, salvation arrived. Rasha came back out from her break.

“Rasha!” Aiza practically shouted, her voice a touch too loud. “Cover for me? Just a sec!”

Rasha blinked, still catching up. “Wait, what—?”

But Aiza was already gone.

She slipped behind the bar and disappeared through the staff door into the backroom.

Her heart pounded as she leaned back against the wall, breathing hard.

What the hell was that?

It was raw and strange and too intense.

Aiza didn’t have the nerve to go back out again.

She lingered in the backroom far longer than necessary, pretending to reorganize her locker, checking her phone for messages that weren’t there. Her heart was still fluttering from that bizarre encounter.

Eventually, though, Natasha burst in and gave her no choice.

Reluctantly, Aiza went back out, trying to steady her nerves. She glanced toward the bar and to her relief, he was gone.

She exhaled, long and shaky. But the feeling he left behind still clung to her, heavy and strange, like static on her skin.

As the night drew to a close, she went back to the lockers and changed back into her regular clothes. Rasha joined her a few minutes later, humming as she peeled off her heels.

They made small talk tips, annoying customers, a weird drink someone requested. Aiza forced a few laughs, trying to pretend she felt normal again.

But just as she was about to leave, Rasha called out, “Oh! I almost forgot.”

Aiza turned. “Yeah?”

“The guy at the bar you were with? The one you had before you went on a break?” Rasha said. “He left this for you.”

She handed Aiza a plain white envelope. Aiza’s brows knit together as she opened it. Inside was a crisp ₹1000 note and a card.

She pulled it out slowly.

Kabir Durrahni. Durrahni Law Firm.

Aiza’s breath hitched.

Her fingers curled tighter around the card as a cold shiver ran through her.

Kabir Durrahni. The name echoed in her mind.

The city’s most powerful and ruthless lawyer.

She had caught his attention.