The night at Night Heaven was following its usual, predictable script. The air was a thick cocktail of expensive cologne, bass-heavy music, and the artificial glow of neon lights. Rohan was in his element, leaning against the bar, a drink in one hand and a half-eaten plate of arrabbiata pasta in front of him. He was mid-sentence, casting a practiced, devastating smile at a group of girls, when the world tilted.
Bang.
A blunt, heavy force slammed into the back of his head.
The impact was so sudden that Rohan's face was driven straight forward. There was a sickening squelch as his nose and cheeks met the pool of spicy tomato sauce on his plate.
Adrenaline, sharp and hot, flooded his system. His "playboy" persona vanished, replaced by the raw instinct of a man used to defending himself. He spun around, his chair screeching against the floor, his fist already cocked back and halfway through a lethal arc—
"STOP!"
The shout wasn't loud, but it was desperate.
Rohan's fist froze inches away from a face he didn't recognize. It wasn't a rival. It wasn't a disgruntled boyfriend.
It was a girl.
She stood there, breathing hard, her eyes wide and wild with a strange mix of terror and defiance. She was clutching a heavy handbag like a weapon. Rohan stood there, frozen, the absurdity of the moment crashing down on him. Reality hit harder than the bag had—mostly because he could feel the warm, red pasta sauce dripping off his chin and onto his designer shirt.
Roy appeared out of the shadows of the stage, his face pale with alarm. "Rohan! What happened—"
Roy stopped. He looked at the girl. He looked at Rohan's face, which currently resembled a murder scene made of carbohydrates. The alarm on Roy's face twitched. His lips trembled. A second later, he lost it.
The "calm, composed musician" doubled over, a rich, belly-aching laugh erupting from his chest.
"It's not... haha... it's not funny, Roy!" Rohan hissed, reaching for a napkin, his ego bruised far worse than his head. He turned back to the girl, his temper flaring. "What the hell is wrong with you? You think you can just—"
Bang.
She swung again. The bag clipped his shoulder this time as he ducked.
"Hey!" Rohan shouted, his voice a mix of shock and genuine anger.
As she prepared for a third strike, Roy's instincts finally kicked in. He moved with the grace of a performer, stepping between them and catching her wrist mid-swing. "That's enough," Roy said firmly but gently.
The girl didn't fight back. Instead, she stumbled forward. The fire in her eyes went out like a snuffed candle. She collapsed into Roy's chest, her body going completely limp.
"She—" Roy's voice dropped to a whisper. "Rohan, she's out cold."
The Aftermath
The silence that followed was heavy. The last of the customers had trickled out into the night, and the club staff were dimming the house lights. The thumping bass had been replaced by the hum of a refrigerator.
They tried to wake her. They called out to her, patted her cold cheeks, and even tried to get her to sip some water. Nothing. Her phone, when Roy found it in her bag, was a black, lifeless screen—completely dead.
"We can't just leave her on the sidewalk," Roy said, looking up at Rohan.
"Fine," Rohan snapped, trying to wipe the last of the red stains from his neck. "But she's not coming to my place. I've got a meeting at eight, and I don't need a crazy girl breaking my TV."
They both knew the truth: Rohan's apartment was a wreck, a place of beer bottles and chaos. It wasn't a place for a girl who looked this fragile.
At Roy's house, the atmosphere changed. The smell of jasmine and old wood greeted them. Roy carried her into the guest room with a reverence that made Rohan feel oddly restless.
Rohan watched from the doorway as Roy moved with quiet, methodical care. Roy removed her worn-out slippers and placed them neatly by the bed. He pulled a soft duvet over her shoulders and, finding her charger in her bag, plugged her phone into the wall. Every movement was thoughtful—the way one might handle a piece of cracked porcelain.
When Roy finally stepped into the hallway, closing the door softly, Rohan was pacing like a caged animal.
"Who does she think she is?" Rohan whispered-yelled. "She attacks me, ruins my shirt, and now we're playing host? We should've called a cab and sent her to a police station."
Roy leaned against the white wall, his expression unreadable under the soft hall light. "Calm down, Rohan. She's a girl. It's nearly 2 AM. Look at her—she's exhausted, she's scared. We couldn't leave her."
Rohan scoffed, crossing his arms. "She's a menace. You saw her."
"And what if something had happened to her?" Roy asked, his voice dropping to a level of deadly seriousness. "If we'd left her out there, and she ran into someone... what if she met boys like you, Rohan?"
Rohan's retort died in his throat. He opened his mouth to snap back, to say something arrogant, something "playboy-like." But he looked at Roy's disappointed, honest eyes and then back at the closed door where the girl lay sleeping.
For the first time that night, the man who always had a comeback was left in total, echoing silence.