The waiter stared too long.
That's how it started.
Ashray and Ira sat at a quiet café near Green Park. Public. Safe. Neutral. She wore sunglasses indoors. He wore the exhaustion of a man unsure if he was being stalked—or just going mad.
"You keep looking around," Ira said, sipping her Americano. No milk. No sugar. Always bitter.
"I feel watched."
"You are. We all are. Delhi has too many windows and not enough curtains."
Ashray leaned in. "Someone took a photo of us. Left it at my door. Then it vanished."
Ira froze.
"I told you," she said quietly. "They know."
"Who's 'they'?"
She didn't answer.
He reached for her hand. Cold. Still.
"You're not telling me everything."
"I never promised to," she whispered.
There was a silence, heavy with half-truths.
Ashray stood suddenly and walked to the restroom. When he returned, their bill was already paid. And the man who'd been sitting behind them was gone.
"Ira—who was that guy behind us?"
She blinked. "What guy?"
Back at his flat, he double-locked the door for the first time.
He didn't even own a gun. But for the first time in years, he wished he did.