THEM 'Ishman'

Sinful Heaven (1)

Okay, let's move a little from soft and fluff... ('~')

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The conference room was cold, bathed in the sterile glow of fluorescent lights, but the atmosphere inside was anything but clinical.

Officer Ishan Kishan sat at the head of the long glass table, his posture immaculate, eyes sharp. Dressed in a crisp white shirt rolled up at the elbows, his navy-blue tie slightly loosened, he radiated an aura of authority mixed with boyish charm. 

His honey-brown eyes were fixed on the case file in front of him, pretending not to notice the man across the table.

That man was Shubman Gill. 

The name itself was enough to send whispers through corridors, not just for his legendary escapades in the criminal underworld but for the way he carried himself—a masterpiece in human form. 

Clad in a black suit that looked as if it had been tailored by gods themselves, his rakish smile and piercing eyes were weapons more dangerous than his alleged crimes. 

His tousled hair fell over his forehead, framing a face that could make marble statues jealous.

His jawline could cut glass, and his intense hazel eyes held a devil-may-care glint, as though he owned the room despite the fact that he was handcuffed to the chair. 

A slow smirk played on his lips, the kind that could make anyone's pulse quicken. He looked like a Greek god who had descended to earth just to cause chaos.

But it wasn't just his looks that turned heads. Shubman had a voice that was dark velvet, wrapping around words like a slow-burning fire. It was this voice that finally broke the silence.

"Officer Ishan, I must say, your reputation precedes you. But no one told me you'd be this.....distracting." Shubman began, his voice low and smooth, a seductive melody that could weaken even the strongest resolve. 

Ishan didn't flinch, didn't even glance up. "Distracting, Mr. Gill, is something you clearly excel at. Too bad it won't work here." He said, his tone icy.

"So, Officer Kishan, are we going to sit here in silence, or are you going to ask me how I prefer my coffee?" Shubman drawled, leaning back in his chair with feline grace.

Ishan didn't bother looking up. "Criminals don't get coffee, Mr. Gill. They get cold, hard truth. And I suggest you start spilling it."

A smirk played on Shubman's lips as he tilted his head, watching Ishan intently. 

"You know if looks could kill, Officer Kishan, you'd be my fiercest competitor." He murmured, his tone laced with mischief.

Ishan didn't bother looking up. "Spare me the theatrics, Gill. We both know why you're here."

"Do we?" Shubman leaned forward, the chains of his cuffs clinking softly. 

"Because I'm starting to think you called this little meeting just to spend some quality time with me. Not that I blame you—I do have that effect on people."

Ishan's pen froze mid-sentence, but he didn't lift his gaze. "Flattery won't get you out of this room, Gill." He replied coolly. 

"Try harder."

"Oh, I don't need to try, darling. You're already trembling in my presence." Shubman said, his voice dropping an octave.

Ishan finally looked up, his expression unimpressed but undeniably striking. 

His features were sharp but softened by the faintest hint of boyish charm, a contrast to Shubman's raw, masculine energy.

Finally, Ishan raised his head, arching a single eyebrow.