FUNNY MISUNDERSTANDING...

The soft, crackling audio continued to hum through Rex's high-security earpiece, but his sharp ears suddenly picked up a change. One sound. Then two. At first, there was just heavy, ragged breathing—harsh and irregular. Kiaan's. Rex stiffened. He leaned forward, placing his whiskey glass down slowly, his focus sharpening as that lone breath echoed through the silent surveillance room.

Then a second breath joined it. Also heavy. Also strained. But different.

Rex's jaw clenched.

"What the hell is going on in there?"

The truth, however, lay far from the implication Rex was dangerously toying with in his mind.

An hour had passed since Kiaan and Rehaan had dozed off in the dimly lit room, but Kiaan suddenly jolted awake, clutching his stomach. Sweat beaded on his forehead as a wave of nausea crashed over him. He barely made it to the bathroom before throwing up, the echoes of it muffled by the closed door. Rehaan was up in seconds, groggy but alert. Without a second thought, he rushed in, supporting Kiaan by the shoulders, rubbing his back and whispering calming words while Kiaan emptied his stomach into the toilet bowl.

"Hey—easy, easy," Rehaan whispered, holding him close, "you drank too fast. Breathe now, you're okay."

Kiaan was gasping, his lungs desperate for air. His face pale. His body trembling. The acid burn in his throat made it worse.

After a few painful minutes, Rehaan grabbed a towel, cleaned the mess up, flushed the toilet, and helped Kiaan rinse his mouth. Then he gently half-carried him back to the bed, laying him down carefully like he was fragile glass. Kiaan curled up, eyes still glossy, chest rising and falling rapidly.

Exhausted, Rehaan finally slumped down beside him, his own breathing heavy—not from emotion, but from sheer exhaustion and the overwhelming smell of the bathroom. He wiped the sweat off his forehead and sighed deeply, his breath falling in sync with Kiaan's—unintentionally giving the feed a rhythm of two labored heartbeats.

But Rex, seated miles away, heard only the rhythm.

Two sets of breath. One soft. One a little deeper. Together.

And his mind spiraled into places it wasn't meant to go.

His face remained still, but his grip tightened on the armrest, his eyes narrowing slightly as he stared at the digital line pulsing with the sound waves.

"They're breathing too damn close," Rex muttered under his breath.

Unaware of the truth—that what he thought he was losing control over, was simply two friends surviving the night after too much alcohol and too little caution.

But to Rex, who only heard and couldn't see, imagination was a dangerous fuel.

And tonight, it was set ablaze.

________________________________________

Aarav entered the surveillance room silently, the low hum of electronics and the flickering screens casting cold blue light across the otherwise dim chamber. He paused at the door, sensing the shift in air—tense, still, like the moment before a storm hits. His eyes found Rex immediately, seated stiffly in front of the laptop, elbows on the table, knuckles pressed to his mouth, jaw locked so tight it looked like he might crush his own teeth. On the screen, the feed from Kiaan's phone still pulsed—sound only. Two breaths. Deep. Slow. In sync. Intimate.

Aarav's eyes narrowed as he walked closer, brows furrowing. "Boss?" he asked cautiously, but Rex didn't respond. His gaze was fixed—haunted—like he was watching something no one else could see.

Aarav leaned in, finally hearing the same sound Rex had been listening to for over five minutes now. Two hard, close, overlapping breaths. He blinked. Confused at first. Then—concerned.

"Is that—are those—" Aarav began, his voice barely above a whisper. "That's from Kiaan's phone? Still live?"

Rex slowly nodded without looking at him. "Yes."

Aarav frowned. "But the camera feed's off, yeah? Only mic running?" He paused, listening again. "Shit. That—sounds like—"

"I know what it sounds like," Rex snapped, low and ice-cold. His voice didn't rise, but it sliced through the air like a blade. His fingers drummed once against the desk before curling into a fist. "And I've been listening to it for fifteen fucking minutes."

Aarav sat beside him, lips pressing into a thin line. "You think they're…?"

"I don't know what the hell they're doing," Rex said through clenched teeth. "But I know Kiaan. He was never reckless like this."

"But maybe he just passed out drunk—didn't Rehaan say he took him in because he was too wasted to go home?"

"Then why are there two damn breaths in sync, Aarav? That's not sleep. That's presence." His voice dropped an octave. "Something's going on."

They both stared at the laptop, each breath now feeling louder, heavier. Aarav ran a hand through his hair, glancing sideways at Rex's rigid profile.

"Boss…you're not just worried about the case, are you?"

Rex's eyes flicked toward him for a split second—something dark and unreadable swimming in them.

"I don't like not knowing things," Rex muttered.

"And I don't like anyone getting close to my agents—especially not him."

Silence fell again as the breath patterns continued—slow, intimate, and maddeningly unclear.

Somewhere in the distance, a car passed. But in that room, time froze.

And Rex Rathore sat in the cold blue glow, jaw clenched, ears full of breath, and mind full of things he could no longer control.

________________________________________

Aarav blinked, his head snapping sideways toward Rex, a half-cocked smirk tugging at his lips as disbelief painted his face. "Wait—wait, what did you just say?" he asked slowly, deliberately. "Our agent?" The word echoed in the dim-lit surveillance room like a slap. Aarav let out a low, disbelieving laugh, the kind that came from someone who couldn't decide if he'd misheard or if his boss had finally lost grip. "Rex… He's an Indian officer. A fucking transfer who's worked against us since the day his boots touched British soil. The same man who almost shut down one of your most expensive assets last week. The same agent who walks like he's got fire in his chest and justice in his veins." Aarav leaned forward, his voice lowering. "You really think he's one of ours?"

Rex didn't respond immediately. His jaw flexed, knuckles tightening on the desk's edge. The blue flicker from the screen lit his face in a way that made his expression even colder, unreadable. He didn't look at Aarav as he spoke, voice razor-sharp and laced with something deeper than irritation—something dangerously close to obsession. "You're not listening. I didn't say he was ours. I said I don't like anyone getting close to my agents." His gaze slowly rose to meet Aarav's, and for a moment, something raw and dark passed between them. "You think I don't know who Kiaan Varma is? I've read his entire file. I've seen the way he moves through this city. Calm on the surface, but tearing through my empire from underneath like a wildfire in silence. He isn't one of us. But he's not just a rival either." Rex leaned back in his chair, running a hand down his jaw. "He's personal."

Aarav's brow furrowed, the smirk dying on his lips. "You're sounding like you respect him."

"I respect hurricanes too," Rex murmured. "Doesn't mean I won't crush them if they come near my land."

A heavy silence fell over them, the only sound in the room now the faint, overlapping breath on the audio feed—reminding both men that the hurricane was still very much alive and moving.

And Rex wasn't sure anymore whether he wanted to stop Kiaan Varma—or get closer before the storm swallowed them all.

________________________________________

A low murmur crackled through the audio feed, pulling both Rex and Aarav's attention instantly back to the screen—though all they had was sound, no visuals. "Rehaan... move, move..." came Kiaan's slightly groggy, slurred voice, muffled but clear enough to trigger an instant narrowing of Rex's eyes. Aarav stiffened beside him, exchanging a quick glance with his boss as Rehaan's half-asleep, slightly whimpering response followed: "To where...? Now it's okay, right...? Don't push me hard, Kiaan..." There was a pause. A shift in breathing. The creaking of a bed.

Rex's brows knitted, his jaw clenching tighter as the sound of rustling sheets followed, almost too rhythmic.

Aarav tilted his head slightly, an uncertain expression growing on his face—half confusion, half suspicion. "What the hell are they doing?" he muttered under his breath. But in truth, within the four quiet walls of Rehaan's modest apartment, the scene couldn't have been more harmless.

Kiaan had rolled to the edge of the bed, slightly dizzy and uncomfortable, and his arm bumped into Rehaan's back—who had been unknowingly pressed against the wall due to the limited space on the mattress.

"Rehaan, move—move," Kiaan muttered with sleepy irritation, his hand half-heartedly pushing against Rehaan's shoulder.

Rehaan, still caught in the fog of sleep, groaned and shifted his position slightly. "Where to move, man? I'm already stuck at the wall," he mumbled, letting out a lazy laugh. "Don't push too hard, Kiaan..." he added, not thinking twice about the words.

To them, it was a simple, tired exchange between two close friends—drunk, exhausted, and trying to share a bed too narrow for two grown men. But in the dark confines of the surveillance room, with only the distorted audio echoing into their ears, Rex's face had gone cold and unreadable, while Aarav leaned in slightly, trying to decipher the reality behind what he was hearing.

Silence thickened around them like smoke—only broken by the occasional shifting of fabric and the steady beat of breath. Rex didn't speak, but his fingers drummed faintly on the desk, his mind racing—not with clarity, but with a thousand dangerous interpretations.

________________________________________

The soft rays of morning broke through the blinds of Rex's surveillance chamber, but he hadn't moved an inch all night. His sharp eyes remained fixed on the audio interface, still active, still relaying every sound from Kiaan's phone.

A dark shadow rested under his eyes, yet his focus didn't waver. Aarav returned with two coffees, only to freeze again when a new sound cut the morning silence. "Hey Kiaan, get up... let's bath," Rehaan's casual voice rang out, clear and far too intimate for comfort. Rex's fingers paused around the cup. Aarav shot a side glance at his boss, tension rippling in the air. "Rehaan... take that towel also," came Kiaan's half-awake, husky groan a few moments later. Silence.

Then the faint shuffle of movement. To the outside ear, it was a scene easily misinterpreted—two agents, one apartment, barely any words but just enough to spark dangerous implications.

Rex's jaw tightened. "They're too close," Aarav muttered under his breath, unease lacing his voice. But far away from their suspicions and screens, in the reality of a small, half-messy apartment, the morning had unfolded far more innocently.

Rehaan had woken up first, shaken off his hangover, and lazily taken a quick shower. Still toweling his hair, he walked out to find Kiaan groaning with his face half-buried in a pillow. "Bro, get up! You smell like regret and beer. Let's bathe before your stepmom finds you like this and murders you." He playfully tugged Kiaan's arm. Kiaan groaned, rubbing his eyes and dragging himself toward the bathroom.

Inside, he splashed cold water on his face, blinking at his reflection, still pale from the night before. "Rehaan!" he called out, noticing the towel hanging outside the bathroom door. "Pass that towel also!" Rehaan, now shirtless and sipping coffee in the kitchen, called back, "Yeah, yeah, take it. I'm not your maid!" With a laugh, he tossed the towel toward the bathroom, then wandered off, humming.

Yet Rex and Aarav, isolated in a room of screens, heard none of the normalcy—only the filtered, fragmented intimacy of voices, devoid of context. Rex leaned back slowly in his chair, unreadable, but the grip on his pen tightened. In the world of intelligence and shadows, perception was often more dangerous than truth—and right now, he wasn't sure which one he was staring into.