The sky was dull, iron-grey. A sullen wind brushed the streets of Chennai, swaying electric poles and dry palm leaves with a whisper of foreboding. The Narayanadas had fire in her veins today—and nothing could tame it.
Spandana's black Defender roared down the hospital driveway like a possessed beast. Mud still clung to the tyres from last night's reckless detour through the marshy outskirts, and the bonnet shimmered with dried droplets from the early morning drizzle. Her eyes, hidden behind dark Ray-Bans, scanned the building like a hawk stalking prey. The parking lot was crowded, but she didn't give a damn. She spotted a clear legal spot close to the hospital's west wing, perfectly marked, and with surgical precision, parked her Defender like she was docking a warship.
She stepped out, boots crunching gravel, and slammed the door with such force that it echoed through the lot. The Defender beeped as she locked it and turned toward the building. But behind her, like a bad omen, came an irritating high-pitched voice.
"Hello madam! Whose car is this? It's blocking my way!"
Spandana turned slowly, her jaw tightening. A paunchy man in his late 30s, wearing a crumpled shirt and a tacky golden chain, pointed dramatically at her Defender, puffing up like a rooster.
"That's my car," she said, voice cold. "And it's perfectly in the slot. You're parked half into the turning lane."
"No no, see the tyre is slightly... your car's shadow is confusing my driver!"
"Your driver?" She raised an eyebrow, her anger curling at the edges. "Is your driver blind or do shadows scare him now? Should I get him a torchlight, or a brain upgrade?"
The man stepped forward, puffed with self-importance. "Don't talk like that! This isn't your police station, madam."
And then it happened.
He kicked the front tyre of her Defender.
Just a casual, arrogant tap of his polished shoe against her car—but to Spandana, it felt like someone spat on her mother's face.
She saw red.
Every suppressed emotion from the past few weeks—the suspensions, the disrespect, the therapy, the loss of control—boiled over. Her knuckles were still bandaged from her morning boxing session, but that didn't stop her from grabbing the man by the collar in one sudden, animalistic move.
"Touch her again," she growled, her voice low and venomous, "and I'll personally bury you under this parking lot. I swear on the DEFENDER you just kicked, I will decorate your grave with your own gold chain."
His face drained of color.
She shoved him backward with a force he wasn't expecting. He stumbled, falling against his own white SUV, gasping for balance.
The few passersby near the hospital froze. Even the security guards didn't dare move.
She turned around, dusting her hands off like he was trash, muttering under her breath, "Idiot thinks he's the main character in my bad day."
She climbed into her Defender, the door slamming shut like a thunderclap, and drove off in a sharp drift that left a small cloud of dust behind.
But someone had been watching it all.
From the fifth-floor psychiatry window, Dr. Mitali Rao stood with her arms folded, her jaw set in concern. She had been assigned to Spandana as a behavioral evaluator by the police department. Her job was to assess if Spandana was mentally fit for duty after the recent incident where she broke her phone in fury and had a meltdown in the station locker room.
She had seen officers with anger issues before. But this—this was different.
Spandana wasn't merely angry.
She was possessive.
Fiercely, dangerously so. Over her people, her car, her honor, her mission. Any scratch, any threat—real or imagined—and she turned into a storm.
"She's emotionally volcanic," mitali whispered. "And worse, she only erupts when something she cares about is hurt. That makes her unpredictable... and lethal."
She picked up her file and scribbled down a note.
Observation: Subject displays extreme territorial behavior. Protective instinct elevated to dangerous levels. Mild provocation results in aggressive escalation. Patient views personal attachments as sacred entities, equating damage to them as an unforgivable offense.
Dr. Mitali Rao closed the file and sighed, murmuring to herself, "Narayanadas... you are not just a storm. You are a goddamn wildfire."