The University of Mumbai library was a world away from the gritty chaos of Bhuleshwar. Here, the air smelled of old paper and dust motes dancing in the slanted afternoon light, not solder and sweat. For Harsh, his weekly visits to meet Priya had become an anchor, a sacred slice of time where he could shed the skin of "Harsh Bhai," the street-smart dealer, and simply be… Harsh. The boy who liked clever ideas.
Their meetings had evolved from transactional to something far more delicate. He no longer just brought her repaired electronics or picked up language tapes. He brought her problems. Not the dangerous, life-threatening kind, but intricate puzzles from his work.
Today, it was a circuit diagram he'd sketched on a piece of scrap paper. A particularly stubborn amplifier from a 1970s German radio that was defeating even his best efforts.
"The sound distorts at high volume," he explained, his voice low in the respectful quiet of the library. He pointed to a section of his crude drawing. "I've replaced the capacitors, checked the resistors… everything tests fine. But it's like the signal is… choking."
Priya listened, her brow furrowed in concentration. She took the paper, her fingers brushing against his. A simple touch, but it sent a jolt through him that no business deal ever could.
She studied the diagram, not as a technician, but as a physicist. She saw the flow of electrons, the logic of the design.
"It's not the components," she said after a moment, her voice a soft, confident whisper. She tapped the part of the circuit that handled the power supply. "It's the load. Look. When you demand more power for volume, the voltage here… it must be dipping. Just slightly. But enough to distort the waveform. You don't need a new part. You need a… a buffer. A capacitor with a higher uF rating right here to act as a reservoir for the peak demand."
Harsh stared at the diagram, then at her. It was so obvious. He'd been looking for a broken part; she'd diagnosed a systemic weakness.
"You're a genius," he breathed, the admiration in his voice utterly genuine.
A faint blush coloured her cheeks. "It's basic electronics. You just… you think like a repairman. I think like a scientist."
It was the perfect summary of them. He was practical, resourceful, grounded in the gritty how. She was theoretical, brilliant, focused on the elegant why. Together, they were unstoppable.
These sessions became their language. He brought her broken things, and she helped him see how to fix them. In return, he brought her stories from the world outside the university walls—not the dangerous truth, but carefully sanitized versions. He told her about "difficult customers" and "supply chain issues," making his life sound like a challenging small business, not a high-stakes thriller.
She, in turn, shared her dreams. Of getting a scholarship to study abroad. Of working in a real research lab. Of building things that hadn't been built before. He listened, mesmerized. Her ambitions were pure, untarnished by the need for survival that drove his every move. She was building a future. He was building a fortress.
One afternoon, as they walked through the university's leafy grounds, the illusion fractured.
He was explaining a negotiation he'd had with a "stubborn component supplier," his hands gesturing animatedly. As he moved, the cuff of his shirt rode up, revealing a dark, ugly bruise on his wrist—a souvenir from a crate that had slipped during a late-night unloading with Shetty's men.
Priya's hand shot out, her fingers gently encircling his wrist, stopping his story mid-sentence. Her touch was electric, but her eyes were filled with sudden concern.
"Harsh," she said, her voice losing its softness. "What is this?"
He tried to pull away, to make a joke. "It's nothing. I'm clumsy."
She didn't let go. Her intelligent eyes, usually so full of theoretical curiosity, were now sharp, probing. They saw past the lie. They saw the faint, permanent stain of solder on his cuticles that even the most vigorous scrubbing couldn't remove. They saw the new, hard edge in his gaze that hadn't been there weeks ago.
"This isn't from being clumsy," she said, her voice low and serious. "And your 'supplier'… he doesn't just supply components, does he?"
The carefully constructed wall between his two lives developed a hairline crack. He looked away, unable to meet her piercing gaze.
"My business… it's complicated, Priya. The market is a tough place."
"I know it's tough," she persisted, her voice softening with worry, not judgment. "I read the papers. I hear stories. The smuggling at the docks. The fights between gangs. That man who was beaten… Ravi? They said it was over a business dispute."
Harsh's blood ran cold. The story had reached even here.
Priya stepped closer, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. "I'm not a fool, Harsh. I see how smart you are. How driven. That kind of drive in a place like Bhuleshwar… it doesn't lead to a simple repair shop." She searched his face, her expression a mixture of fear and something else—a desperate hope that he would prove her wrong. "The money for that scooter… it wasn't just from tutoring, was it?"
He was cornered. Not by an enemy, but by her care. He could lie, but a lie now would be a betrayal of the connection they'd built. He chose a sliver of the truth.
"Some of my suppliers… they operate in a grey area," he admitted, the words feeling like a confession. "The tariffs are so high. Sometimes goods… slip through. I get better prices. It's the only way to compete."
It was a sanitized version of the truth, but it was enough. Priya's face fell. The fantasy of the brilliant, legitimate young entrepreneur evaporated.
"Harsh," she said, her voice tight with alarm. "That's dangerous. Those men… they're not just 'suppliers.' What if you get caught? What if they decide they don't need you anymore?"
Her words echoed his deepest fears with terrifying clarity. She saw the risks as clearly as he did, perhaps more clearly, because she wasn't blinded by the profit.
"I'm careful," he said, the defense sounding weak even to his own ears.
"You can't be careful enough," she insisted. "You're playing with fire. For what? A bigger profit? A faster scooter?" She looked at him, her eyes shining with a frustration that bordered on anger. "Your mind… you could do so much more. You could build something real. Something that doesn't leave bruises on your wrists."
Her warning hung in the air between them, a cold splash of reality. It was the first time anyone had looked at his empire not as an achievement, but as a risk. As a waste of his potential.
He had no answer for her. The silence stretched, filled with the distant sound of students laughing, a world away from the dangers she had just named.
The romance was still there, the connection undeniable. But it was now underscored by a new, sobering tension. She admired the builder in him, but feared the gambler. And for the first time, seeing that fear in her eyes, Harsh began to fear him too. The cliffhanger was no longer about business; it was about the very soul of the man he was becoming, and whether the girl who saw his best self would still be there if the worst one won.