"And that, that's exactly what I do. How I do."

__________________________

•○NANDINI○•

The courtroom smelled of old wood and disinfectant. A scent I’d grown used to over the years, one that clung to my suits and lingered in the folds of my case files. The air was thick with tension, murmurs, and something unspoken—judgment, perhaps.

Judgements. Some wanted, some unwanted, some necessary, some unnecessary, some that can make a fate, and some that are total waste.

Their are different types of judgements from all types of people. But the fact about them is that there always be a judgment and a "judge" to judge.

These people and their chatters were annoying. They are here to hear the hearing but can't seize their mouth for a few hours. Always ready to give their special judgment that are—in a more nice way—known as their "opinions."

Everyone can have their own "opinions," no matter how, what, and about who they are.  But once you stop giving value to the words, they become mere nonsense.

And that, that's exactly what I do. How I do.

I stood slowly, brushing an invisible crease from my black gown, and faced the bench.

My client, Mr. Devendra Mehta sat to my right—hunched, defeated, his once-proud frame now curled in on itself like a paper burned at the edges. Fifty-two. Former municipal officer. Father of two. Guilty. Not just by the court’s standards but by mine.

His guilt? Greed.

I had seen the truth in his eyes the first time we met. The regret. The weight of a terrible choice. He had embezzled government funds—millions—and when a junior colleague threatened to expose him, he had arranged a cover-up so elaborate it bordered on brilliance… until it unraveled, one thread at a time.

The prosecution had the receipts. The accounts. The witness testimonies. And worst of all: his own voice, caught in a shaky recording, muttering threats he couldn’t take back.

This was a losing case.

Still, I stood. Because even the guilty deserve to be heard.

Okay, that's too much philosophy for someone like me, I guess.

“Your Honor,” I began, my voice steady, though my hands clenched the podium tighter than I intended. Ouch, my hands. “I’m not here to paint Mr. Mehta as a saint. He is not. He has erred, grievously. But I ask this court to look not just at what he did but why he did it.”

Eyes turned toward me. Some were curious. Others hostile. I saw the prosecutor, Mr. Anish Talreja, lean back in his chair, smug, polished, knowing this was already over, with that annoying smirk of his. Idiot.

Long story short, we don't see eye to eye. We've got some bad blood between us. Him and I, we started off together, but his morals were different than my morals. And not to brag, but till dare, we've fought 5 cases against each other, including this one, and 4 of them, I won.

I controlled the urge to roll my eyes and focused on the case in hand.

“Devendra Mehta was a man who served this city for thirty years. Not flawlessly, no. But faithfully. Until he made a choice—misguided, desperate—that has brought us here. The funds he took were used, in part, to pay off his daughter’s cancer treatments. Treatments the insurance wouldn’t cover. That’s not a justification. It’s not an excuse. But it is the context. And not to forget, my client was influenced by the person, sitting beside the procecution.”

I said, indicating towards David Dennis, another suspect in this fraud. I glanced at Devendra. He didn’t look at me. He couldn’t. He messed up, but this idiot doesn’t even have it in him to cover it up. Can he make it any more obvious than he already did?

“This court must deliver justice, yes,” I continued, voice firming, “but justice must never be divorced from humanity. I ask for leniency—not for innocence, but for mercy. The law is not a blade to strike down the broken. It is a scale. Let it balance his crime against the whole of his life.”

I finished. Sat. My palms were damp. My throat was dry. A few heads nodded. Others remained unmoved. I could feel the decision weighing in the air already—like a thundercloud bloated with inevitable rain.

Well, isn’t this just the perfect sauna. Someone get me water before I melt. And the ACs? Oh, probably on vacation—because why would they work when you actually need them?

Typical government services.

And these are the ones who are going to fix the country? Yeah, right. How about fixing their own services first? Aaye bade desh ko badalne.

The prosecutor, our very own Anish Talreja, stood, crisp and cold, like a scalpel.

“Let us not forget,” he said, turning slowly to face the room, “that the man seated here not only stole from the public but attempted to intimidate a whistleblower. That junior officer is now jobless, blacklisted, and still recovering from a ‘mugging’ the week after he spoke up. Coincidence? I think not. And about Mr. David, the defense is just trying to deflect the blane without any solid proof.” and he said all that, looking dead in my eyes.

Each word was a nail. I felt them hammering into the coffin of our case.

He had facts. We had… grief.

Well, technically, he had grief.

It was a mirror what the verdict was going to be. And anyone who still didn't get it.. is a fool.

The judge’s voice rang out some twenty minutes later, cutting through the silence.

“Mr. Devendra Mehta, this court finds you guilty under Sections 409, 420, and 120B of the Indian Penal Code. You are hereby sentenced to seven years of rigorous imprisonment.”

There it was. Final. Irrevocable.

Devendra didn’t flinch. He didn’t plead. He just closed his eyes. Served him right.

I felt something cold settle in my chest. Not a surprise. Not even sadness. Just the familiar ache of watching someone drown while holding out a rope they never took.

Anish looked at me and smirked. Fool. I smirked back. It looked taken aback. But I didn't bother saying anything else and made my way out.

Outside the courtroom, the press was already gathering. I slipped past them with my head low, ignoring the flashes, the questions, the accusations flung like arrows.

Inside my car, I sat still for a long while, staring at my reflection in the rearview mirror.

I had done what I could. Argued fiercely. Pleaded, honestly. But sometimes the truth is too heavy to lift.

Sometimes, the law doesn’t fail you.

Sometimes, it simply… wins.

But that didn't mean I lost.

___________________________

I sat in my office, scrolling through the files of the new case in hand.

A historian. Omkara Shastri. Who claimed to have found some ancient scrolls that prove that the land where a multi complex building is about to be built belongs to the regional tribals. But the ones who were building that complex accused him to have manipulated the documents.

But being stubborn, he held his grounds and came to me to help him out. Honestly, this case was too much drama for me, but I had my own reasons to take it.

I was engrossed in files when my assistant/ best friend walked in. Judging by his expressions not in the best mood, I see.

I am the girl in our friendship, but trust me when I say he has more moodswings.

He stood before me, crossing his arms, staring at me. Chodo, iska roj ka hi hai. The documents that Mr. Omkara was accused to forge, he said he found it while—

"Why did we lose the case?" His annoying rang in my ears. Bhai, meri marzi, mera case.

"Because our client was guilty." I deadpanned, not bothering to look up. I knew what his expression must be right now. So done, so fed up, so wanting a pilgrim trip, and so very annoyed. Chikchik bhot karta hai ye aadmi.

He exhaled heavily, trying to calm himself down. "Then why did we take the case in the first place?" He kinda snapped.

Isn't it obvious? Come on, buddy, you, of all people, should know it well. Money. "Because he was paying a heavy sum." I deadpanned again. In a slight mocking, slight obvious tone.

"Then why did you purposefully lose?!" He fully snapped. Bola tha bhot chikchik karta hai ye.

"Because the opposition paid more."

The way his jaw dropped was priceless—no, actually, affordable. After all, I earned quite the dhan today. Two kutto ki ladai mein billi malamaal ho gyi.

"You played the client." He stated, more than he asked. Wasn't it obvious again? He took the seat on the couch that was kept near the balcony.

"I did." I nodded. He was guilty. Got what he deserved. Besides, David Dennis did pay a good sone to keep his name out.

"You’re just too much, Nandini." He said in a resignated tone, settling in my sofa, as if it was his royal bed.

Did I properly introduce him, though? I guess not. Isko itni importance thodi deti hu mai.

Prem Ahuja. My Assisstant/ best friend. He and I, we grew up in the same orphanage, and since then, we have been inseparable. We went to the same school, same college, same university, studied law together, and now, we live together, too. So, to say, He lives with me because he had a beef with his landlord, and the said landlord very respectfully kicked him out.

I watched as Prem slumped onto the couch near the balcony, that familiar crease of frustration carved deep into his forehead. He looked like he wanted to throw something—or maybe just throw me. Too bad for him, I was in far too good a mood.

He, for some reason, is constantly worried about me. Because of my 'antics' as he calls them. He doesn't like it when I don't play 'fair' or 'deceive' people like this. But honestly, I'm just a girl trying to make money in this sinful world.

"I didn’t force him into anything, Prem," I said coolly, my fingers tapping idly on the armrest of my chair. I tilted my head, studying him like he was a puzzle I’d already solved. "He made his own bed. I just gave him the bedsheet."

He exhaled sharply and rubbed his face. Classic Prem move when he didn’t know whether to yell at me or laugh at the absurdity of my choices. “You’re still playing with fire, Nandini. One day, it’s gonna blow up in your face. What if it does?” His voice dropped an octave, serious, worried. Soft. Ugh.

I shrugged, leaning forward just enough to let him see the spark in my eyes. “Then I’ll burn with it. Not like I haven’t before. But I’ll make sure the ones who lit the match get roasted, too.” I gave him a little wink—mocking, daring, Nandini-style. Ye har bar bhul jata hai ki Nandini stress leti nhi deti hai.

He looked exhausted, like my entire existence was a headache he willingly signed up for. Probably because it was. “You’re crazy,” he muttered.

I smirked. “And yet here you are.”

He chuckled, but it was that half-defeated, ‘you drive me insane but I’ll stick around’ kind of chuckle. I knew it well.

"You clean up the mess, Prem. You always do. That’s our rhythm. I make the moves, you handle the dust."

“Yeah, sure,” he said, sinking further into the couch. “What’s the next mess, then?”

"Omkara Shastri." I said, letting the name hang in the air like it carried its own weight. Which, to be fair, it did.

Prem raised an eyebrow. “Who?”

“A historian,” I said, turning halfway toward him, smoke trailing from my fingers. “Old-school, tweed-coat kind of guy. Claims to have found some dusty ancient scrolls tucked away in a forgotten temple archive. Says those scrolls prove that the land—where that shiny new multi-complex is about to rise—belongs to the regional tribals.”

Prem blinked. “Wait, the one that’s supposed to be worth, like, a hundred crores?”

I gave him a look. “One hundred and twenty, to be precise. And counting.”

He whistled low. “So let me guess. The real estate guys are foaming at the mouth?”

“Like rabid dogs.” I closed the file. “They’ve accused Omkara of forging the documents. Said he fabricated the scrolls, manipulated the language, and pulled a nice little scam.”

“And what does he say?”

I crossed my arms and leaned against the railing. “He’s stubborn. Old, cranky, but dead serious. Swears by his dead ancestors that he’s telling the truth. Even came to me, looking all frantic, clutching a bundle of parchment like it was the Bhagavad Gita itself.”

“And you agreed?” Prem sounded almost betrayed.

I gave him a little smile. “Didn’t I say I like drama?”

He rolled his eyes. “You hate drama.”

"Only when I'm not the one causing it."

“And what’s his story?” Prem asked.

I turned toward him, leaning back against the edge of the balcony railing. “He’s stubborn. Righteous. And honestly? A little annoying. But he’s not lying.” I know it in my soul, that he's not lying.

Prem squinted at me. “And you know this because…?”

“Because Omkara Shastri is the reason I didn’t end up dead at ten,” I said flatly. Memories flooding through my mind.

“Back then, when no one gave a damn, he did. Took me in for a few months. No strings. No savior complex. Just… gave me a cot, food, and space to breathe. Then, he dropped to our orphanage.” I looked away. “Didn’t ask questions. Didn’t expect gratitude.”

Prem’s face shifted, the sharpness in his features softening. “I didn’t know.” As if you know everything.

“Because I don’t talk about it.” I blew out smoke. “He didn’t save my life. But he made sure I had the chance to survive it.”

Prem nodded slowly, letting that sink in. “So now you’re repaying a debt.” Debt? No. Nandini Sanyal doesn't do sentiments. It asked for help. I'm providing it. Because he is indeed the reason, I'm still alive.

“No,” I said, flicking the cap of the pen away. “I’m closing a chapter.” After this, I won't feel bound to anything. To anyone.

I walked towards the balcony, tossing a file onto the table. “Also, the opposition’s case is too clean. Their ‘proof’ landed before the accusation even hit the press. They’re hiding something.”

Prem picked up the file, already flipping through the pages. “Politics, money, buried history. Classic recipe.”

I gave him a sharp grin. “Exactly. Which means we dig. Hard.”

He exhaled, already exhausted. “This one’s going to be ugly.”

“Good,” I said, grabbing my coat. “Ugly cases make the cleanest victories. And it's only ugly when you play fair. And who said we were playing fair?” I raised an eyebrow.

“And make the dirtiest enemies,” he muttered. I didn't bother to answer. I had an important case to prepare for.

___________________________

I was in the courtroom. Finally, the day of his hearing. Omkara sir was in the palisade. While the procecution was questioning him. Damn, these people with connections.

My mind raced with tactics to tackle the situation in my favor.

The courtroom felt suffocating — not from heat, not from the dying AC, but from the sheer weight of stupidity I was surrounded by. Sab ke sab gadhe hai yaha.

The judge looked like he’d rather be home with his newspaper. The opposition lawyer had the same smirk people wear when they think they’ve already won.

And Omkara Sir? That man was sweating more than my reputation could carry. His scrolls were being called “unverified emotional bait,” and the tribe’s historical claim was being dismissed like some folk tale passed down after too much mahua. Seriously, in logo mein emotions, sentiments naamki koi cheez nhi hai kya? Lalchi kahi ke.

It was pathetic. And for once, I didn’t have the edge.

Soon after, When the judge announced a 30-minute recess, I walked out like I was going to murder someone behind the building. Which, honestly, wasn’t too far off the mood.

I didn’t wait for Prem to follow — he knew better than to speak when I was calculating losses. How do I tackle this situation? How, how, how? Think, Nandini.

The tea stall outside the court had seen better days. Hell, so had I. I was going to drink hot tea in this weather. Yep, I've totally gone mad.

The tea guy handed me a cup without a word. Bless his soul — he knew I didn’t want the fake sugar, just the real kind.

The reports of the documents were also forged by them. The other archeological experts and historians are also bought.

Ab toh apne pe aana hi padega.

I sipped my tea, running my mind, when I heard some commotion nearby. Kon pagal ho gya? Kiske andar aatma aayi? I dismissed it, focusing on the matter in hand.

When someone suddenly bumped into me, making my tea go flying on the face of the uncle sitting on the table in front of me. Oh, shit.

The uncle glared at me, and was about to open his mouth. But I turned around, ignoring him, charging towards the culprit.

"Couldn't you see? Watch where you were going. See what you did. Ab, iss chai ke paise kya tera baap dene ayega?" I lashed before I thought before I saw before I understood.

I looked up, and up, and up.

That’s when I saw him.

Standing there, staring at me like I was about to cast a spell to turn him into a frog. He was tall, too tall, must be 6'7 or something — broad-shouldered, wrapped in layers of thick, unfamiliar fabric like he’d been pulled from a battlefield. He had dark eyes—a mix of green, brown, and onyx. Long, dark hair swept back and messy, his boots scuffed, muddy, and completely out of sync with this century.

Iss jamane mein aise kapde aur joote kon pehenta hai? Unless he's a TV serial actor. Or a drama artist. Or a cosplayer cosplaying as some ancient king.

And who was he? Looking so out of the world. And his height, is it even possible for a normal person to be this tall, this musclular. This.. charismatic.

His expression was too sharp. Too real. And his eyes — gods, his eyes were ancient. Not tired, not old. Ancient. Like they remembered the weight of swords and oaths. Like they’d seen cities burn and men fall for power.

I never knew eyes could be this deep, this telling, this attractive.

Fuck, what are you doing Nandini, snap out of it!

I looked at him to see him staring at me uttterly confused. He looked lost. As if trying to figure me out. Pehle kabhi koi ladki nhi dekhi kya?

I snapped my fingers in front of him, and his eyes narrowed. He looked rather offended. As if questioning my audacity to do that to him. Aise kapde pehenkar khudko sach mein kahi ka Raja samajh raha tha kya?

"I asked you something. Are you deaf? Why did you bump into like that? Apologize, now. Or I'll sue you." I warned, giving him my own glare. He looked at me up and down, making me a little conscious under his intense gaze. Why was he still looking at me like that? Confused, lost, trying to figure out, trying to understand. Is he mute?

"Are you mute? And deaf? And dumb? Totally disabled?" I blurted out.

Too bad, if he is dumb with this body, this physique. Greek godly body. What a waste!

He looked around, then cleared his throat. "Ji, hum kshamaprarthi hai parantu aap, ya yaha jitni bhi jan hai, woh jis bhasa ka prayog kar rahe hai ye humari visheshagyata se pare hai." He spoke. That voice, that goddamn voice.

My understanding went downhill. But his way of speaking was so regal. That deep voice. Commanding, firm, unyeilding, demanding.

__________________________

So, Nandini and the mysterious yet hot stranger dressed as a cosplayer?

Trust me, you're gonna have a lot of fun reading the next chapter.

I hope you liked it.

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Id - thelost_girll

Adios, Mariposas🦋

Till next chapter...