The bass was still in her ears. A low, insistent throb that had followed her from Haze all the way back to the office, past the security guard's sleepy nod, up the empty elevator, into the dark quiet of her floor. She'd locked the cabin door behind her without thinking, kicked off her heels, and let herself fall onto the leather couch in a sprawl of bare legs and rumpled silk.

The phone was warm in her hand. Glowing.

She'd felt it buzz against her thigh in the cab, but she'd let it wait. Let the anticipation steep. There was a particular pleasure in delay, in knowing something was waiting for her and choosing the moment to open it. Like unwrapping a gift slowly, savoring the paper before the box.

Now she lifted the phone, and the pale rectangle of light fell across her collarbone, catching the sweat that still clung to her skin. Club perfume and sex and the faint salt of her own body. She didn't bother to wipe it away.

The message sat there, unsaved, unread.

Ma'am, I'm Kabir from the night shift. You asked me to text you after my induction. I didn't forget.

She read it twice. Three times.

I didn't forget.

There was something almost earnest in the phrasing. A formality that bordered on reverence. Most of the boys she dealt with were either too cocky or too nervous to string a sentence together properly. This one had written his message like he was submitting homework. Like he wanted her to know he'd followed the instruction exactly.

The leather couch creaked beneath her as she shifted, settling deeper into the cushions. Her saree had come undone somewhere between the club and the cab—the pallu had slipped from her shoulder, and the blouse underneath was damp, clinging to the curve of her breasts. She didn't fix it. There was no one to see, and the cool air against her heated skin felt good.

She scrolled to the employee files. Her thumb moved with practiced ease, the muscle memory of a woman who had spent years learning the shape of her prey before she ever made contact.

Kabir. Twenty-two. Fresh from Jaipur.

The photo loaded slowly, pixel by pixel, and she watched his face resolve into being. Young. Unsmiling. Eyes slightly averted, as if he'd been told to look at the camera and had found the request uncomfortable. Dark hair, neatly combed. A jaw that was still soft with youth, not yet sharpened by time or disappointment.

No social media presence. The HR notes flagged it as unusual—most candidates his age had at least a dormant Instagram account, a LinkedIn profile with a professional headshot. Kabir had nothing. A ghost in the digital world, which meant his life existed somewhere else entirely. Somewhere private.

She liked that.

She remembered him from orientation. That was the thing about Dipanwita—she remembered all of them. The ones who stared, the ones who pretended not to, the ones who kept their eyes fixed on the floor as if the linoleum held the secrets of the universe. Kabir had been the last kind. Shoulders slightly hunched, hands clasped in his lap, his gaze never once rising to meet hers even when she'd deliberately let her voice drop, let the silence stretch, let her presence fill the room.

He hadn't looked up.

She'd filed that away. A boy who wouldn't look up was a boy who was afraid of what he might see. Or what he might want.

The couch creaked again as she shifted her weight, crossing her legs at the ankle. Her thighs pressed together, and she felt the flicker of heat that had been building since she'd read his name. A small, sharp pulse of want.

"Kabir," she said aloud, testing the name in her mouth. The sound of it hung in the dark office, absorbed by the shadows. "Kabir from the night shift."

She imagined him at his desk right now, in some corner of the building, typing away or staring at a screen, unaware that she was here. Unaware that she had his file open, his face glowing on her phone, his name already taking root in her mind.

Or maybe he was aware. Maybe that was the thrill of it—the possibility that he'd sent the message and then spent the rest of his shift wondering what she'd say back. Whether she'd even respond. Whether she'd forgotten him entirely.

She hoped he was wondering. She hoped he was checking his phone every few minutes, trying to seem casual about it, failing.

Her thumb hovered over the keyboard. She typed slowly, deliberately, savoring each word.

Good boy.

Then she paused. Let her thumb hover over the send button. The cursor blinked at her, patient.

There was a craft to this. A rhythm. Send too fast and he'd think she was eager. Make him wait and he'd start to doubt himself, to wonder if he'd overstepped, to replay the message in his head and find flaws in it. The waiting was part of the game. It built the ache.

But she also knew when to strike. When the iron was hot enough.

She pressed send.

The message whooshed away into the dark, and she imagined it traveling through the building's servers, finding his phone, lighting up his screen. She imagined his face as he read it. The shift in his posture. The way his throat might move as he swallowed.

Tomorrow, 9 PM. I have a survey I need your help with.

She added the last line before she could second-guess it, then saved the number under a new contact.

Night Shift.

The name made her smile. A private joke, just for her. A reminder of what he was. What he'd become.

She set the phone face-down on the couch cushion, the screen dark, and let out a slow breath.

The office was silent around her. The hum of the air conditioning, the distant rumble of traffic on the street below, the faint rattle of the ceiling fan. She lay there, bare legs stretched out, saree pooled around her hips, and felt the weight of the decision settle into her bones.

The hook was set.

Tomorrow, 9 PM. A survey. A boy who wouldn't look up.

She closed her eyes, and in the dark behind her lids, she saw his face again. Young. Unsmiling. Eyes averted.

She couldn't wait to make him look.