Seven minutes past seven.
In his past life, navigating the shark-infested waters of corporate dinners, Suyash had learned the power of the deliberate delay. Arriving exactly on time marked you as eager, too available. Let the clock tick past the hour. Let the host wonder, just for a moment. It shifted the power dynamic before the door even opened.
Tonight, he wondered if Babita Iyer would notice the game.
The heavy wooden door of Flat 602 swung open before his knuckles could even graze the wood. She had been waiting right behind it.
"Seven o'clock," she murmured, leaning smoothly against the doorframe. "You said seven."
"I said I'd be honored," Suyash replied, his voice an easy drawl. He held up the bottle of red wine—a vintage he'd casually pulled from a high-end commercial earlier that evening. In his world, it had cost him nothing but a thought; in hers, it was a luxury she would instantly recognize. "I don't recall specifying the exact minute."
A low, resonant laugh vibrated in her throat. "Iyer is never late. He's never early, either. He arrives exactly when the schedule dictates, like a train." She stepped back, and as he crossed the threshold, the sheer fabric of her saree brushed deliberately against his forearm. "It's nice to be kept waiting. Just a little."
Flat 602 had been entirely transformed. The harsh overhead lights were off, replaced by the warm, amber glow of strategically placed lamps. Fresh marigolds spilled from a polished brass vase on the dining table, their bright orange petals contrasting sharply with the pristine cream walls. Two plates, two crystal glasses, and the rich, complex aroma of slow-roasted cumin and garlic filled the air.
But Suyash's eyes weren't on the table.
Babita had changed. The modest blue saree from the night before was gone, replaced by a deep, intoxicating burgundy—a shade that perfectly, perhaps deliberately, mirrored his silk kurta.
The front of the blouse was elegant, traditional. But as she turned to lead him inside, the illusion shattered. The back was almost entirely bare, cut in a plunging V that swept down to the small of her back, anchored only by a single, impossibly thin gold string. It was a statement. An invitation. A line drawn in the sand, daring him to cross it.
She felt his gaze. Of course she did.
"Iyer's mother gifted me this blouse," she noted casually, walking toward the open kitchen. The ambient light played across the bare curve of her spine. "She claimed it was a traditional family design. I've never worn it. I suppose I was saving it for... something special."
Something special. The words hung heavily in the spiced air between them.
Suyash set the vintage wine on the table and followed her to the kitchen archway. She was at the stove, lifting the lid off a steaming kadhai.
"You cooked all this," he stated.
"I told you I would." She didn't turn around, though he could see the slight smirk in her profile.
"When Iyer is away, cooking for one feels like clapping with one hand. But for a guest..." She turned, holding a beautifully plated dish of paneer tikka, the edges perfectly charred, garnished with fresh coriander. "For a man who brings vintage wine and actually notices things? I don't mind the effort."
She stepped into his space, close enough that the heat radiating from the stove transferred from her skin to his. "Here," she whispered. "Tell me if the marinade needs anything."
Instead of offering him a fork, she lifted a piece of the smoked paneer with her bare fingers and brought it slowly to his lips.
The air in the kitchen thickened. It was a gesture far too intimate for neighbors—a wife feeding a husband, a lover feeding a lover. Suyash held her gaze, refusing to blink, and parted his lips. She placed the food on his tongue, the pad of her thumb brushing his lower lip for a fraction of a second longer than gravity required.
The spices exploded on his palate—smoky, rich, perfect—but he barely registered the taste.
"Well?" Her dark eyes were fixed on his mouth, her hand still hovering in the space between them.
"It's flawless," he said, his voice a steady, controlled rumble. He took pride in the fact that it didn't waver.
Her smile was slow and predatory. "Good. I don't cook for new people often."
Dinner was a masterclass in tension.
They sat at the table, the marigolds glowing between them. Babita sat adjacent to him, the low back of her chair framing the sweeping architecture of her bare back.
"Tell me about yourself, Suyash." She tore a piece of garlic naan, dipping it into the rich, dark dal. When she placed it on his plate, her wrist brushed his. "Jethalal says you're a remote consultant. Very secretive."
"Consultant is just a polite corporate shield for someone who prefers not to explain his actual day job," he replied, taking a sip of the wine.
"And what is your actual day job?"
Suyash swirled the crimson liquid in his glass. In his past life, he sold things people didn't need. Now? He was a man whose hands could breach the boundary of a digital screen and pull reality from pixels.
"I solve problems," he said smoothly. "Unusual ones. The kind that require creative, untraceable solutions."
"Sounds exciting. And solitary."
"It is."
She leaned across the table to top off his glass. The movement caused the pallu of her saree to slip an inch off her shoulder, drawing his eye.
"Loneliness is a kind of problem too, isn't it?"
"Is it?"
She held his gaze, a flicker of genuine vulnerability piercing through her calculated seduction. "I think so. I think that's why we live in societies like Gokuldham, packed so tightly together we can hear each other breathe through the drywall. We're all just trying to solve the same problem."
By the time the cardamom-laced kulfi was served, she had abandoned her chair entirely to sit beside him on the sofa.
"I don't usually eat dessert," she murmured, her shoulder brushing his as she held out a silver spoon.
Suyash took the spoon from her, his fingers deliberately wrapping over hers for a heartbeat before pulling away. "You're very controlled," she observed, watching him taste the sweet, icy cream.
"Most men your age would have tried something by now. A hand on the knee. A cheap joke. Something."
"Maybe I'm not most men."
"No," she agreed softly. "You aren't."
She turned fully toward him. The space between them collapsed to a matter of inches. He could smell the jasmine in her hair, the wine on her breath.
"Iyer is a good man. He provides. He's faithful," she whispered, the playful mask dropping. "But he doesn't see me, Suyash. He sees a function. A wife. A piece of fine furniture waiting in his flat. Jethalal sees a fantasy. The rest of the men see a married woman. But you..." Her fingers traced the pulse point on his wrist. "You look at me like I'm a person."
The gravity of her body pulled at him. It would be effortless to close the gap. To slide his hand down the smooth, bare dip of her spine. To taste the cardamom on her lips.
But Suyash was a man playing a long game.
He caught her wandering hand, his grip firm but gentle, and lowered it to her lap. "I see you, Babita," he said, his tone dead serious. "Which is exactly why I don't want you to regret this in the morning."
She froze. "Regret?"
"You're lonely. I understand that better than anyone," he said, glancing around the meticulously staged room. "But this dinner, that blouse, this moment... it's a reaction to the quiet. It's not a solution."
She stared at him, stunned. Then, a sharp, disbelieving laugh broke from her lips. "Are you turning me down? A woman sitting in front of you in a backless blouse, husband hundreds of miles away, and you're turning me down?"
"I'm not turning you down," Suyash corrected, his eyes locking onto hers with burning intensity. "I'm asking you to wait. Until you're sure you want me, and not just an escape from him."
A new, profound respect flickered in her eyes. She slowly stood up, smoothing her saree. "You're dangerous, Suyash."
"I try to be."
He walked toward the door, and she followed closely. When he turned to say goodnight, she was right there. Too close. Her chest brushed against his. Her hands came up to rest flat against his silk kurta, pinning him in place.
"Thank you," she breathed, looking up through her lashes. "For the wine. For..."
Her body pressed fully against him. Soft, warm, yielding.
Suyash's breath hitched. His iron-clad control slipped for a fraction of a second. A raw, unadulterated spike of desire flared in his chest—
BOOM.
From directly above them, tearing through the ceiling of Flat 602, came the deafening blast of a Bollywood orchestra.
Music. High-definition, surround-sound music. It was the soaring, dramatic climax of a romance movie—the exact same movie from which Suyash had pulled a gold necklace days ago. The hero was screaming his love from the Swiss Alps, the violins shrieking in a crescendo of cinematic passion.
The intimate spell shattered like glass.
Babita leaped back, her eyes wide, a hand flying to her chest. "Is that... is that coming from your flat?"
Suyash's blood ran cold. My TV was off.
"I—I must have left an alarm on," he lied, the excuse tasting like ash. "A timer. To wake me up."
She looked at him, bewildered. "It sounds like a love song."
The chorus hit its peak, vibrating the chandelier above them.
"I have to go turn it off. Goodnight, Babita."
He didn't wait for a response. He bolted out the door, taking the stairs two at a time, the music growing louder with every step toward the seventh floor. He slammed his key into the lock, throwing the door open.
The living room was bathed in the blue light of the massive LED screen. The TV had turned itself on. Snow fell on the Swiss Alps while the hero pulled the heroine into a passionate embrace.
Suyash snatched the remote and killed the power.
Silence slammed back into the apartment. He stood in the dark, chest heaving, staring at his hands.
It activated without me reaching out. When Babita pressed against him, his physical desire had overridden his mental discipline. The power hadn't just reacted—it had reached out on its own, locking onto the nearest screen and ripping an auditory manifestation of his internal state into reality.
He wasn't just pulling objects anymore. His emotions were leaking into the digital ether.
Suyash walked to the balcony, staring down at the glowing window of Flat 602. If his power responded violently to his deepest wants, he needed to put an absolute chokehold on his desires.
But as he watched Babita's silhouette pace nervously behind the sheer curtains, he knew that was going to be the hardest task of all.
The next morning, the Gokuldham compound was bathed in pale sunlight. Suyash, dressed down in a simple white linen shirt and jeans, was returning from the local dairy stall when he crossed paths with Jethalal.
"Suyash bhai!" Jethalal called out from his shop's stoop, his eyes narrowing suspiciously over the top of a newspaper. "How was your dinner? With Babita ji?"
"It was excellent," Suyash replied effortlessly, not breaking stride. "She's a fantastic cook."
"Fantastic cook," Jethalal muttered to himself, his tone laced with a distinct, sour flavor.
Suyash ignored him, heading toward his wing. As he passed the sixth floor, the door to Flat 602 clicked open.
Babita stood there in a simple, unadorned cotton saree. No makeup. Hair tied back. She looked stripped down, entirely human.
"Morning," she said softly, glancing up and down the corridor to ensure they were alone. "Iyer's flight lands this afternoon."
"I know."
She hesitated, her fingers worrying the edge of her saree. "Last night... that song from your apartment." She looked up, her dark eyes searching his face. "Was that for me?"
He could play it safe. He could repeat the lie about the alarm clock. He could shut the door on the danger entirely.
But Suyash was tired of playing safe.
"Yes," he said. The word was quiet, but it landed like a physical blow.
Babita inhaled sharply, her lips parting in shock.
"But Iyer comes back today," Suyash continued, his voice cold and steady. "And I don't intend to complicate your life. Not until you're ready for it."
He didn't look back as he took the stairs to the seventh floor, leaving her standing breathless in the hallway.
She reached out. Her fingertips brushed the white linen of his sleeve—a touch so feather-light it barely registered, yet it sent a sharp, electric jolt straight to his core.
"That gold chain you gave me," she murmured, her voice dropping to a silken whisper meant only for him. "I'm going to wear it today. Not because my husband is away. But because I want to. Because you gave it to me."
She let her hand drop, the physical connection severing but the invisible tether between them pulling tighter. "See you in the compound, Suyash."
The heavy door clicked shut, the deadbolt sliding into place with a definitive thud.
Suyash stood frozen in the corridor. The plastic packet of milk in his hand was slowly growing warm, but his mind was miles away, still anchored to the heavy, spiced scent of her perfume. After a long moment, he turned and took the stairs to the seventh floor, his footsteps utterly silent on the marble.
He tossed the milk onto the kitchen counter and stepped out onto his balcony.
Below him, the morning routine of Gokuldham Society played out like a perfectly scripted sitcom. Jethalal was meticulously arranging his newspapers, a frown creasing his forehead as he scanned the headlines. Popatlal burst from his wing, umbrella firmly in hand, already rushing toward a destiny that would inevitably disappoint him. Dr. Hathi lumbered toward the main gate for his obligatory morning stroll.
It was ordinary. Unchanged. Unbroken.
They were all playing their designated roles in this chaotic, noisy little ecosystem. But they had absolutely no idea that the rules of their world had been rewritten. They didn't know that right beneath Suyash's feet, hidden behind the closed doors of Flat 602, the most coveted woman in the society was clasping a gold chain around her neck—a chain that didn't exist in this reality until Suyash pulled it from a digital screen.
A secret shared in the dark. A glitch in their mundane matrix.
Suyash stepped back inside and dropped onto the sofa. Across the room, the massive LED TV sat completely dark. He rested his thumb over the power button of the remote, his eyes locked on his own faint reflection in the black glass.
He thought about the terrifying, exhilarating cheat he had awakened. The power to breach the boundary between fiction and reality, to reach into the digital ether and drag out whatever his heart desired. But last night had changed the paradigm. Last night, the power hadn't just been a tool—it had been a mirror. It had reacted to his subconscious, amplifying his raw, unspoken desire and broadcasting it as a Bollywood love song through the floorboards.
He thought about Babita. The sweeping curve of her bare back bathed in amber candlelight. The taste of cardamom on her lips. The desperate, yielding weight of her body pressed against his chest. The way her voice had trembled when she asked if the song was for her.
I need to be careful, he warned himself, his jaw clenching. I need absolute, iron-clad control.
But even as the thought formed, he knew it was a lie. Control was an illusion. This power wasn't just a passive inventory system; it possessed a primal will of its own. It fed on his wants. It responded to the dark, quiet things he refused to say out loud.
And what he wanted, more than anything, was sitting in the flat directly below his, wearing a necklace forged by his power, her mind entirely consumed by a romantic fantasy he had orchestrated.
Suyash hit the power button.
The screen flared to life, illuminating the living room in harsh, vivid color. He cycled through the channels, flipping past news anchors and soap operas until he hit a high-definition music station.
The soft, sweeping violins from last night were gone.
Instead, a heavy, driving bassline pounded from the surround-sound speakers. It was a fast-paced, high-octane track—a song about chasing, about running, about the intoxicating, dangerous thrill of the hunt.
Suyash watched the screen, his right hand slowly raising. He let his palm hover just an inch from the glass. He could feel the familiar, static hum of the digital world calling to him, begging him to reach in and take whatever he pleased.
He held his hand there for ten seconds. Then, he slowly curled his fingers into a fist and pulled back.
Not today, he told himself, killing the power and plunging the room back into silence. Not yet.
He had the ultimate power. He had time. And in the treacherous, gossiping halls of Gokuldham—where every secret was eventually dragged into the light, and every hidden desire was eventually weaponized—he was going to need plenty of both to win this game.
The golden morning light spilled across his living room floor. Somewhere on the sixth floor, Babita Iyer was wearing his necklace against her bare skin
And for now? That was more than enough.