The day after the highway run, the Defender sat unusually still in the police apartment parking lot, morning dew clinging to its hood. Ranger was curled up on the couch, snoring softly, his little legs twitching in some puppy dream. Pallavi had already left for a business meeting, leaving only a sticky note on the fridge that said:
Don't glare at people today. — Pallu
Spandana smirked when she saw it, then grabbed her jacket and headed for the hospital's psychiatry wing.
Dr. Mitali Rao's office was bright and neat — too neat. Not a single pen was out of place, every file stacked with precision. She sat behind the desk with her usual composed smile, her eyes sharp but not unkind.
"Good morning, Ms. Narayanadas. How are you feeling today?"
"Fine," Spandana said, settling into the chair across from her.
Mitali studied her. "Let's talk about yesterday. How do you feel about the society you serve, especially considering your… strong reactions to certain situations?"
Spandana's gaze narrowed slightly. "You make it sound like I'm reckless."
"I didn't say that," Mitali replied calmly. "I want to understand if your anger is directed at specific injustices… or if it's uncontrolled."
"My anger," Spandana said, leaning forward, "is for good. I've always controlled it. I don't snap at random people for fun. But sometimes… holding it in too long backfires."
Mitali tapped her pen. "Backfires in what way?"
Spandana's jaw tightened. "In ways that… end with me in your office."
"Tell me more about why you hold it in."
"Because if I didn't, I'd be in jail by now. Society loves to tell you to stay calm while it walks all over you. I don't like that game. I'll stay quiet for as long as I can, but when I move… it's because someone crossed a line they shouldn't have."
Mitali's pen paused over the paper. "That's a very defensive stance. Do you trust people?"
Spandana's answer was immediate. "No. Not with my feelings, not with my safety. I have detachment issues. And yeah—hyper independence, if that's the term you want to write down. I don't wait for anyone to save me."
There was a pause. The room was quiet except for the faint ticking of the wall clock.
"Where do you think that comes from?" Mitali asked softly.
Spandana's eyes flickered — the way they did when she wasn't sure whether to shut down or speak up.
From somewhere deep in her memory, a younger Pallavi's face surfaced — pale, shaken, standing in an alley with her shirt torn at the sleeve. The night air had smelled like sweat and fear.
She inhaled. "Years ago, Pallavi was assaulted by a guy. She didn't tell anyone except me. I could see it in her eyes — the fear, the shame she shouldn't have been carrying. I hated that she froze that night."
Mitali stayed silent, letting her continue.
THE FLASHBACK:-
It began on a sticky summer afternoon.The streets were lazy with heat, the air tasting faintly of dust and metal. You were nineteen, still wearing your cadet uniform from training earlier that day, when Pallavi found you.
You'd been leaning against the gate outside your apartment complex, sipping a warm bottle of Limca, when she appeared at the corner walking fast, shoulders tight, eyes darting around like a bird searching for safety.
It took you two seconds to notice something was wrong.It took one more for your blood to start boiling.
Her right sleeve was ripped at the seam. Her hair usually a glossy, well-kept wave was messy, and there was a faint red mark along the side of her jaw.
"Pallu?" you called out, stepping toward her.
She froze when she heard your voice. Her lips parted, but no words came out — just this tiny, shaky sound you'd never heard from her before.
You grabbed her shoulders, eyes scanning her for injuries. "What happened? Who did this?"
She shook her head quickly. "It's fine. I'm fine. I don't want to—"
"Don't give me that." Your tone had gone low, dangerous. "Tell me."
Her eyes flickered toward the alley she'd just come from. "Just some guy… I was walking past, he—" She cut herself off, swallowing hard.
That was all you needed to hear.You weren't the kind of person who needed full details when fury was already flooding your veins.
But she grabbed your wrist before you could storm off. "Don't. Please. Just… let it go."
And that — that was the moment something broke in you. Not because she stopped you. Not because some guy thought he could put his hands on her. But because you saw that tiny flash of fear in Pallavi's eyes.
Fear did not belong to her.Not your Pallavi.
That night, you signed up for martial arts classes.The instructor, a lean woman named Sahana with forearms like steel cables, eyed you up and down and asked, "You here for fitness or for fighting?"
"Both," you replied. But your voice said otherwise.
You threw yourself into it. Early mornings, late nights, bruises that bloomed purple and yellow across your skin. You learned forms, throws, joint locks. You learned how to use an attacker's own strength against them.
And every time you landed a perfect strike on the training dummy, you imagined the faceless man who had made Pallavi's voice shake.
Pallavi didn't know at first. You told her you were just "getting fit" so you could pass your physicals more easily. She laughed, bought you a pair of gloves, and teased you about "wanting to be Wonder Woman."
She had no idea.
It was about six months later when the moment came.
The two of you were walking home after a late-night dosa run, sharing a paper plate of ghee roast, when a man stumbled out of a liquor shop ahead of you. He saw Pallavi first — his eyes dragging over her in a way that made your stomach churn — and then he stepped directly into your path.
"Evening, ladies," he slurred, grinning. "What's the hurry?"
"Move," you said flatly.
He stepped closer. "Come on, don't be rude. Pretty girls shouldn't—"
He reached for Pallavi's arm.
And you didn't even think.
Your hand shot out, catching his wrist in a tight grip. A twist, a pivot, and you slammed his arm against your shoulder in a lock that made his knees buckle instantly. His yelp was sharp, echoing in the empty street.
"Touch her again," you said, your voice steady and low, "and you'll never use this hand again."
You shoved him away with just enough force to make him stumble into a pile of empty crates. He cursed under his breath, but he didn't follow.
Pallavi's eyes were wide — not with fear this time, but with something else. Something like realization.
"You've been… training," she said slowly.
You shrugged, brushing ghee crumbs from your fingers. "Guess I have."
She stared at you for a long moment, then smiled — this small, proud smile that made your chest tighten.
From that night on, something shifted.She stopped being "just" your friend. She became the reason you'd throw every ounce of control out the window if it meant keeping her safe.
Back in Dr. Mitali Rao's office, the flashback faded.You sat there, staring at your own hands, remembering how steady they'd been that night.
"You were willing to risk yourself," Mitali said softly, breaking the silence. "Not out of recklessness, but out of loyalty."
"That's not risk," you corrected her. "That's instinct."
For the first time, Mitali's expression softened in something close to admiration. "So your anger is… protection."
"It's a shield," Spandana said. "And sometimes a sword. People call it dangerous because they don't like women who can defend themselves too well."
Mitali scribbled something down, then looked up. "Do you know what I think?"
"What?"
"You're not here because you can't control your anger. You're here because the world can't control you. That scares them."
Spandana smirked faintly. "They should be scared."
The session ended with no dramatic breakthrough, just an unspoken understanding. As Spandana stepped out into the corridor, the weight on her chest felt a little lighter. Maybe it was the talking. Maybe it was knowing that Ranger and Pallavi would be at the apartment when she got back.