She was building a life. He was fighting the system.
She didn't believe in distractions. He couldn't look away.
When a fierce, duty-bound woman meets a man with rebellion in his veins, love doesn't arrive gently-it breaks in, uninvited.
He fell firs...
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I stood at the far end of the courtroom, mask pulled up, cap tugged low. In this place, anonymity was my armor. I hadn't stepped into a court in years, yet every scent, every echo, every tick of the fan blades above dragged me back. The air was thick with the staleness of arguments—some genuine, most bought.
On the dais, the Hon'ble Judge shuffled the pages, his voice steady, almost indifferent, as he delivered the order.
"Bail granted."
The words cut sharper than they should have. I didn't flinch, didn't move, but my fists clenched inside my pockets. Five men stood in the accused dock a moment ago—policemen and rowdies alike, tied together by one thing: blood on their hands. And now they were walking out, heads bowed, acting the part of wronged innocents. Victims.
My jaw worked as I tracked them. Even with masks, I knew those smug grins hiding beneath. One even dared to fold his hands dramatically to the press outside, as if he had been saved from injustice.
I couldn't breathe here. I turned and walked out before the session ended, my boots hitting the floor with more force than I intended. Outside, the sun was merciless, the kind of heat that only Madurai knew how to pour on its people. Still, I crossed to the shade of a neem tree and sat on the stone bench beneath it.
The voices from inside carried faintly. Clerks stacking files, lawyers chuckling, phones buzzing. Business as usual. For them, this was routine. For me, every syllable was a reminder of why I had walked away from this cesspool.
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, dragging a hand through my hair. My mask still on, my eyes staring blankly at the dust dancing in the sunlight. Rage itched at my veins, but rage wasn't new to me. What unsettled me was something else—something pulling. A whisper in the back of my head: Patterns repeat. Look closer.
Minutes slipped by, heavy and slow.
Then footsteps.
"Sir..." Jeyaram's voice broke the silence.
I looked up. The boy stood before me, his bag slung over one shoulder, his shirt sticking with sweat. His face carried the weight of defeat, the kind I'd seen on juniors too many times before. Not the defeat of inexperience, but the helplessness of watching the scales tip toward power, not truth.
His shoulders slumped as he sank onto the bench beside me, avoiding my gaze at first. The silence stretched. He exhaled sharply, finally speaking, "Judge nalla sonna pathi points koda kekala, sir. Planned session madhri irukku."
I studied him for a moment, then leaned back, arms folded, staring at the branches above. The neem leaves swayed slightly in the heat. "Politicians' involvement-la idhella nadakkala-na dha adhisayame. Hearing-la pathuklam."
