The sun was barely dipping when Dev Malik unlocked his apartment door, stepping in first with an easy swagger, tossing his keys onto the sleek black counter. Kiaan followed behind, slower, his shoulder still aching slightly under the bandage, but his eyes alert as always, scanning the space with instinctive precision.
Dev's apartment was sharp—modern, minimalist, but lived in. No chaotic clusters of files pinned across the walls like in Kiaan's room, no cluttered board scrawled with connections and red string. Just clean surfaces, warm lighting, and a few weapons locked in hidden drawers.
> "You really don't use a board?" Kiaan raised an eyebrow, glancing around the living room, surprised by the absence of his usual tools.
Dev grinned, pulling off his jacket and throwing it lazily on the back of a chair.
> "Nope. That's your OCD. I'm not pinning papers like a maniac on my walls. That's why God made you—and Google Drive."
Kiaan chuckled faintly, letting himself sink onto the couch, exhaling slowly. The pain in his shoulder was manageable, but the mental exhaustion gnawed deeper. Dev returned with two bottles of beer and tossed one to him.
> "Since you're crashing here tonight," Dev said, flopping down beside him, "let's loosen up. No bloody notes, no viper talk, no mall raids. Just two off-duty ghosts having a drink."
Kiaan caught the bottle, opened it, and nodded. "You sure your neighbors won't call the cops if I start connecting dots on your walls?"
> "Don't worry," Dev smirked. "They're too busy trying to get in my bed."
Kiaan laughed, shaking his head. He took a long sip, the cold beer biting his throat. It felt oddly refreshing to just sit in silence for a moment.
> "You ever think about going back?" Kiaan asked suddenly. "To India. Family's there."
Dev leaned his head back on the couch. "Nah. Kolkata's home but… this life, man—it gets under your skin. Adrenaline. Secrets. The thrill of knowing things no one else knows." He paused, then with a teasing nudge, added, "And the women in London aren't exactly shy, you know."
Kiaan smirked. "Still chasing one-night stands, Malik?"
Dev winked. "I'm not the one nursing a bullet wound and making love to case files."
They both laughed. For a moment, the world outside—the case, the warnings, Reyan Malhotra—faded behind the comfort of beer, banter, and brotherhood. Kiaan's eyes drifted to the skyline outside the window. The night was settling in.
> "Let's hit the pub," Dev said suddenly, standing. "You and me. No IDs, no fear. Just two guys having a good time."
Kiaan hesitated. He hadn't gone out in weeks. But the idea of music, strangers, and a little chaos without bullets flying didn't sound so bad. He stood slowly.
> "Fine," he said with a smirk. "But if you disappear with a girl and I get into a bar fight alone, I'm shooting your leg next time."
Dev laughed. "Deal."
And with that, the two secret agents—ghosts to the system, threats to criminals—walked out into the London night like ordinary boys, chasing a fleeting illusion of freedom before reality clawed them back in.