Sidhant slammed the door of the dimly lit police interrogation room shut and locked it. The fluorescent lights buzzed above them. Sana sat on the metal chair with her legs crossed, wearing a short black leather skirt, torn fishnet stockings, and a tight red crop top that barely contained her breasts. Her makeup was bold, lips painted dark red, and she had that signature defiant smirk on her face.

“Again, Sana?” Sidhant growled, his deep voice echoing in the room. He was in full uniform — khaki shirt stretched tight over his muscular chest, badge shining, gun holstered at his side. “Third time this month. Street racing, public indecency, and now you punched a civilian? You really want to rot in jail, you little troublemaker?”