The Tales of Arshi

Decoding Danger!

The clock on the wall ticked with a cruel monotony, each passing second mocking Arnav Singh Raizada's patience. His sharp jaw tightened as his gaze flickered to the phone screen for the umpteenth time. Still no call, no message. Two hours past the meeting time, and Khushi Kumari Gupta—his fiery assistant—had yet to appear.

This wasn't like her.

She was infuriating, yes. Quirky and clumsy, sure. But irresponsible? Never. Arnav leaned back in his leather chair, his hands drumming against the polished wood of his desk. She had left the office earlier that morning to retrieve a crucial file—one that could either seal the biggest deal of his career or ruin everything he'd built.

His phone buzzed. He snatched it up, his heartbeat quickening, but it was Aman, his ever-reliable manager.

"ASR, there's a problem," Aman's tone was grave, and Arnav's grip tightened on the phone.

"What now?" he snapped, though the unease creeping into his chest betrayed his impatience.

"An important document has gone missing from our archives. It's one we've been using to negotiate with Mr. Kapoor's firm... and Khushi was the last one seen near it before she left this morning."

Arnav's world stilled. The document. The file. Khushi.

The realization hit him like a freight train, and a sensation he wasn't prepared for flooded him—fear. For her. For the chaos that could unfold if the wrong hands got hold of that file.

He shot up from his chair. "I want every possible detail on where she went and who she spoke to before she left. Now!"

"On it, ASR," Aman said, already moving.

Arnav ended the call and slammed his fist on the desk, frustration gnawing at him. Khushi. Why didn't she answer her damn phone?

________________________

Khushi Kumari Gupta slumped against the icy, damp wall, her wrists screaming in protest against the coarse rope biting into her skin. The dim, flickering light did little to brighten the dingy room, where the air smelled of mold, rust, and poor life choices. Her head throbbed, her lips were cracked, and her heart was somewhere between screaming in fear and muttering sarcastically about her luck.

Standing before her was a towering brute of a man, his scarred face set in a sneer that was more cartoon villain than intimidating. In his grubby hands was the file. The very same file she had grabbed in a rush this morning while juggling coffee, a ringing phone, and Arnav Singh Raizada's endless demands.

"So, this is Raizada's little lapdog?" he sneered, his voice dripping with mockery. "How does it feel to waltz into danger like a clueless fool? Must be a talent."

Khushi's stomach flipped, but she mustered her most unimpressed expression. "Talent? Tumne mujhe Jalebi banaate kaabhi dekha nhi hai!! Usse bada talent koi nhi!!"

The man's brow furrowed. Clearly, he hadn't expected this. Good. Let him be confused.

"Don't play games with me, sweetheart," he growled, shaking the file in front of her face. "You've got something valuable here. Decode it, or I'll make sure you regret the day you picked it up."

"Listen, Scarface," she snapped, wincing as her cheek throbbed, "Agar ye file decode karna hume aata toh hum uss Laad governor ke assistant thodi na hote!! Kamaal baat karte hai."

The brute crouched, his scar twisting into what might've been a grin if it didn't scream psychopath. "Decode the file, or we'll teach you how."

"Waah," she shot back, narrowing her eyes. "Bas ek baat clear karni thi—yeh free course hai ya un subscription waale dhokhon mein se? Kyunki humare paas paise toh bilkul bhi nahi hain, samjhe?"