The Bullet's engine died at 12:47 AM.
Ishaan rolled it into the narrow lane, chained the wheel, and climbed the four flights in silence. The building slept—dogs quiet, neighbor's TV off for once. He pressed the bell once, soft.
The door cracked open. Ari stood there in her old cotton night kurta, hair loose, eyes heavy with sleep. She didn't speak, just stepped aside. He slipped off his shoes, removed the green Seiko, and padded to the living room. The thin mattress waited, already unrolled by Ari earlier. She returned to the bedroom without a word. The light clicked off.
Ishaan lay on the floor, stared at the ceiling fan turning lazy circles, and let the night settle.
5:10 AM.
His eyes opened before any alarm. The superhuman rhythm never needed one.
He rose, folded the blanket with military precision, and moved like a ghost: bathroom, 500 push-ups in eight minutes flat, 300 squats, fifteen-minute plank, three-minute meditation on the balcony while the city still snored. By 6:10 the house smelled of brewing chai and sizzling omelettes.
Ari emerged at 6:52, toothbrush in mouth, hair in a damp knot. She paused in the doorway, watching him flip the omelette with one hand while stirring dal with the other.
Ari (muffled): "Morning."
Ishaan: "Morning. Sit. Two minutes."
They ate at the small table: plain omelette for him, masala for her, toast, chai.
Ishaan broke the quiet.
Ishaan: "The party was good. Mr. Singh was happy. Everyone asked about you."
Ari nodded, but her spoon moved slower than usual. She pushed a piece of toast around the plate, eyes on the tablecloth. The air felt heavier than the humid dawn outside.
Ishaan noticed. He always noticed now.
Ishaan: "Something wrong?"
Ari opened her mouth, closed it, shook her head too quickly.
Ari: "Nothing. Just tired."
Before he could press, the bedroom door opened wider. Lajja swept out in her faded housecoat, hair in plastic curlers, face already set to scold.
Lajja: "Of course she's tired! Coming home in a taxi at night like some orphan girl. All because her husband has grown wings now—parties, late nights, promises forgotten!"
She planted herself at the table, arms crossed, glaring at Ishaan.
Lajja: "You said you'd pick and drop her every day. That was your one job! Now look—she's sad because of you."
Ari's cheeks flushed. She stared harder at her plate.
Ishaan set his cup down gently.
Ishaan: "The party was Mr. Singh's birthday. He invited all employees who performed well this year. I couldn't leave early."
Lajja snorted. "Employees? You're a driver on a bike! And now you're too big for your wife?"
Ari's voice came out small. "Ma, stop."
But Lajja was rolling. "See? Even she's upset. A good husband would've brought his wife or come straight home. Instead—taxis, parties, who knows what else!"
Ishaan pulled his phone from the charging cable, thumb moving across the screen.
He opened the UPI app, typed quickly, hit send.
A soft ping sounded from Lajja's phone on the counter.
She frowned, picked it up, opened the notification.
₹20,000 transferred from Ishaan Ahuja
Message: Gift from boss for good work. For household expenses.
The transformation was instant.
Lajja's eyes widened, curlers almost popping off. Her mouth opened, closed, then curved into the sweetest smile the flat had ever seen.
Lajja: "Arre—twenty thousand? Just like that?"
She clutched the phone to her chest like a winning lottery ticket.
Lajja: "See, Ari? This is what a real husband does! He thinks of the house first. Such a good boy. Next time bring even more!"
She reached over and actually patted Ishaan's cheek—twice—like he was a favorite nephew who'd just topped the board exams.
Ari's spoon froze halfway to her mouth.
She watched her mother's face flip from venom to honey in three seconds flat, watched the same woman who'd spent ten minutes tearing Ishaan down now beaming at him like he'd hung the moon.
Ari (quietly, stunned): "Ma… five minutes ago you were—"
Lajja waved her off, already scrolling through shopping apps.
Lajja: "That was before I knew! Twenty thousand! We can buy new curtains for the hall, maybe that pressure cooker I saw. Ishaan, you should go to more parties if the boss gives gifts like this!"
Ishaan sipped his chai, expression unchanged.
Ishaan: "I'll try."
Ari put her spoon down. She looked at her mother humming happily, looked at Ishaan calmly finishing his breakfast, and felt something twist inside her chest—part disgust, part awe, part sadness she couldn't name.
Lajja bustled to the kitchen, already planning.
Lajja (singing off-key): "My son-in-law brings money home… la la la…"
Ari stared at the empty chair beside her, then at Ishaan.
He met her eyes for a second—quiet, steady, unreadable—then stood to clear the plates.
The morning sun climbed higher.
Outside, Mumbai woke up noisy and indifferent.
Inside the tiny 2BHK, twenty thousand rupees had just bought peace, praise, and a fresh demonstration of exactly how the world worked.