“Embers Under Moonlit Marble”
Ira Kapoor (FL, 24, true-crime podcaster)
(typing…) I can’t believe you hacked my private server, Kabir. That recording was evidence.
Kabir Thakur (ML, 28, underworld fixer / “problem-solver”)
Evidence against my client, princess. Hand it over—or I’ll take something you can’t replace.
Ira
Typical threat. You broke into my apartment yesterday; tonight you’re in my inbox. How long are you going to stalk me?
Kabir
Until you stop chasing shadows that belong to me. And I don’t stalk—I orbit. Dangerous difference.
Ira
Orbit implies gravity. You’re no planet; you’re the black hole swallowing Mumbai’s conscience.
Kabir
Flattery? Careful. Black holes drag everything closer. Even bright little suns like you.
(Three dots appear as Ira hesitates, then a voice memo ping)
Voice Memo — Ira (whispered)
Kabir, listen… I know you saved those kids in Dharavi last monsoon. The city calls you a monster, but I’ve heard the other stories too. If you’ll meet me, off-record, maybe we can make a different deal. Location of my choice. Midnight.
Kabir (text)
I’ll come unarmed. But you’ll owe me a secret for every secret I surrender.
---
[Midnight – Byculla Railway Yard, rusted coaches under silver moonlight]
Ira (inhaling the metallic air): Told you to leave your gun.
Kabir (opening both palms): Metal detector me if you like.
Ira (palm flat on his chest): Heart’s racing. Liar.
Kabir: That’s just your touch, Kapoor-ji.
(She steps back; he follows. The moon glints off his scarred knuckles.)
Ira: Why the interest in me? There are easier journalists to intimidate.
Kabir: Only one who smells of sandalwood and rebellion. Besides, your father once burned my world to ashes. Call me sentimental.
Ira (voice shakes): My father died ten years ago in a CBI raid. If you want revenge—
Kabir (soft): Revenge? No. Redemption. Your story can free me from men who bury bodies in concrete. And…I like the way fear flickers behind your eyes but courage keeps the flame alive.
Ira: Poetry from a crime lord?
Kabir: I’m not poetry. I am the gunshot between stanzas.
(Wind howls through broken coaches.)
Ira: You said secrets for secrets. First: I didn’t hack your ledger; an IPS officer handed it over.
Kabir (jaw tightens): Then you’re a pawn. Second: I walk a knife-edge—one slip, the mafia turns on me. I need someone who can leak the right truths without signing my death warrant. That someone smells of sandalwood.
Ira (folds arms): You want a partner?
Kabir: I want absolution. And maybe… ruin. Both feel the same in the dark.
(Silence stretches. A train horn moans far off.)
Ira: We’re playing with fire.
Kabir (steps closer, low rasp): Let it burn.
(His thumb brushes her lower lip; she shivers.)
Ira: Don’t mistake curiosity for consent.
Kabir (eyes smolder): Then say stop.
(She doesn’t. Moonlight halos them as tension crackles.)
---
[Two weeks later – Secret Signal chat]
Ira
I dropped the edited clip. Corrupt minister resigns tomorrow. Your rivals will panic.
Kabir
And my promise?
Ira
You get the kids’ shelter we discussed. NGO already wired the funds.
Kabir
You move pieces like a grandmaster. Makes me want to tip the board just to watch you scramble.
Ira
Masochist.
Kabir
Only when pleasure trembles beside pain. Speaking of… dinner tonight. Private balcony, Marine Drive. Wear something reckless.
Ira
I don’t belong in your velvet cage.
Kabir
Not a cage—an open window overlooking ruinous possibilities.
---
[Balcony – Rain glistening on city lights, thumri playing low]
(Candle flames flicker. Ira in deep-red sari, backless blouse; Kabir in charcoal kurta.)
Kabir (feeding her a chili-chocolate bite): Tell me what you taste.
Ira (lips stained scarlet): Fire and danger.
Kabir (leans in): Exactly what I offer.
(His fingers trace the dori at her spine; thunder rolls. She sucks a breath. Rain spatters skin; sari clings.)
Ira: You promised a story, Kabir. Truth for truth.
Kabir (voice drops): My first kill was at thirteen. The man smiled as he died; he recognized the boy whose father he’d butchered. Every night since, I see that smile. I built empires to drown it.
Ira (softly brushing rain from his eyelashes): You’re still that boy.
Kabir (hoarse): And you’re the bullet finally aimed back at me. Pull the trigger.
(She kisses him—rain-warm, desperate. Candle hisses out. Her bangles scrape his jaw. He lifts her onto the marble balustrade, lips tracing wet skin. Her sari pleats crumple; his breath fogs against her throat.)
Kabir: Ira… last chance to stop this.
Ira (pulse racing): I already jumped when I met you at the yard.
(Lightning flashes. They melt into each other, backs arching, breath hitching. The screen fades to black as rain drums harder, hinting at clothes sliding, whispers mingling, and night unraveled.)
---
[Next Morning – Still-damp sheets, dawn haze]
Kabir (watching Ira sleep): You look breakable in daylight. Dangerous illusion.
Ira (eyes half-open): Your wounds—let me clean them.
Kabir: Some scars prefer to bleed.
Ira (sitting up, sheet pooling): Then at least tell me why you recorded last night on that burner phone.
Kabir (sighs, hands her device): Insurance. If the mafia believes I’ve allied with a nosy podcaster, they’ll test your mortality. One drop of blackmail keeps you safe.
Ira (thumb deletes video): My safety isn’t leverage. Next time, ask.
Kabir (smirks): Next time?
(Her blush answers. But a ping interrupts—anonymous number.)
SMS: “You stole the fixer from the family. Trade: your life for Kabir’s freedom. Come alone, Nariman Point pier, tonight 10.”
Kabir (grabs phone, eyes narrowing): Vihaan Rao. My half-brother. Snake thinks he can bargain.
Ira: Let me handle the drop. I’m nobody on their radar.
Kabir: You’re everybody in my world now. I won’t risk it.
Ira (voice barely a tremor): Then we both go. Equality, remember?
(Kabir holsters two daggers. Ira slips USB devices into her dupatta.)
---
[10 p.m. – Nariman Point pier, Arabian Sea thrashing]
Vihaan Rao (Kabir’s half-brother, 30, mafia lieutenant)
Well, well. The witch journalist arrives with the fallen prince.
Kabir
Drop the melodrama, Vihaan. Release the hostages.
(Behind Vihaan, two orphanage kids cry, tied to railing.)
Vihaan
Your weakness leaking all over the city, bhai. Girls and children—soft targets. Hand over your accounts. Or we start carving.
Ira (steps forward): Accounts are here—encrypted. But I wired detonators across your offshore funds. Hurt them, and billions vanish.
Vihaan (laughs): Bluffs bore me.
Kabir (quiet fury): She never bluffs. Let them go, and I’ll stay.
Vihaan: A martyr offers himself? Touching. But I want squeals. Her squeals.
(He reaches for Ira; Kabir lunges, blade flashes; Vihaan’s arm slashes open.)
Vihaan (snarling): Fine. We bleed.
(Gunfire erupts from shadows—Kabir’s loyal driver, Rahim, opens cover fire. Pier lights explode; chaos. Ira unties children, shoves them toward Rahim.)
Ira: Run!
(Vihaan aims at Ira; Kabir tackles him. They crash onto slick planks. Kabir’s dagger glints.)
Kabir (growling in Vihaan’s ear): You drew the line at children. I erase lines.
(Steel sinks; Vihaan gasps. Sirens wail in the distance.)
Ira (grabbing Kabir’s blood-spattered hand): We have to go—now!
Kabir (panting): Too late. Police net is closing.
Ira: Then surrender; I’ll testify you saved the kids.
Kabir (smiles sad): A fixer’s ledger won’t let me walk. But my death might free you.
Ira (eyes blaze): I decide who survives my story. If you give up, I’ll broadcast every corrupt officer on your payroll—they’ll bury the case to save themselves.
Kabir: Marry me for immunity?
Ira (half-laugh, half-sob): You propose in gunpowder? Typical.
---
[Three Days Later – Midnight courthouse wedding, flicker of diyas]
(Kabir in ivory sherwani, Ira in crimson lehenga with black rose embroidery.)
Registrar
Do you, Kabir Thakur, take Ira Kapoor—
Kabir
I take her fire, her fury, her future. Yes.
Registrar
Do you, Ira Kapoor, take this man—
Ira
I take his sins, his scars, his soul. Forever.
(Sindoor streak glows; mangalsutra settles on her collarbones. Cameras click—journalists stunned: crime lord weds journalist.)
---
[Honeymoon safe-house, Rajasthan desert fort]
Ira (twirling in candlelight): Married to danger. Feels wicked.
Kabir (pulls her close): Tonight, we write fresh crimes—just on each other’s skin.
(He lifts her onto antique desk strewn with maps. Kisses trail along her clavicle; she tugs his kurta strings, breathless. Spicy scent of raat-ki-rani fills the air.)
Ira: Shouldn’t we run? Vihaan’s allies—
Kabir (tongue brushes her ear): Let them chase. Predators forget how to hunt when prey becomes wildfire.
(Her nails rake his shoulders. He slides her lehenga higher; desert wind sighs through jharokhas. Candles flicker; shadows entwine.)
Kabir (murmur against her stomach): Tell me a secret.
Ira (voice husky): I recorded this—backup leverage.
Kabir (chuckles dark): And I deleted the world for you. Quid pro quo.
(They collapse into silk cushions; screen fades before explicit detail, only their whispered names and thunder of heartbeats remain.)
---
[A Month Later – Guardian podcast ‘Smoke & Sindoor’ goes viral]
Intro clip — Ira’s voice
“Once upon a crime, justice wore a scarred smile. This is the story of how love bled darkness back into light.”
(Montage of exposés: child-trafficking ring dismantled, corrupt minister jailed, police commissioner resigning.)
---
Kabir (Signal text, photo of sunrise over Thar dunes)
World’s quieter without gunfire. Boring. Come home, journalist-wife.
Ira
Finish breakfast; I’m on my way—with another bombshell episode.
Kabir
Explosive enough to keep me in headlines?
Ira
Always. But tonight’s explosion is private. Desert under moonlight. Bring the chili-chocolate. Lose the rest.
Kabir
Already melting. Orbit complete, sun.
(A red-heart sticker appears; chat ends.)
---
Closing Narration — Ira (podcast outro)
“Some love stories bloom in gardens; ours sprouted in graveyards, roots watered by sin. But even graveyard soil can birth wildflowers—tough, untamed, beautifully wrong. Call our romance dark, call it reckless; I call it the ember that keeps me burning through Mumbai’s endless night.”
End.
