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Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains of the mansion's living room, casting golden stripes across the floor where Krishna, Rukmini, and Ram sat like they were plotting a government overthrow. A map of the city was spread across the coffee table, post-its, pens, and half a chocolate bar marking "strategic points" of interest. Krishna tapped a finger on one corner. "Fake student riots. Disruptions in public discourse. And all conveniently pointing away from Jarasand's business deals."

Rukmini leaned forward, brows furrowed. "He's using students to create chaos and gain sympathy. If we can trace who's funding the noise, we'll have proof." Ram ran a hand through his hair. "The problem is, we need someone inside. Someone who can move around without raising suspicion."

Before either of them could suggest anything, there was a loud thunk followed by a crash and a dramatic gasp from the hallway. Subhadra marched in, holding her phone in one hand and a bag of chips in the other, completely unfazed by whatever furniture she'd just tripped over. "Just fought with a vending machine and lost," she announced, flopping onto the sofa. "Also, I think there's a fire drill at the uni tomorrow. Or a protest. Hard to tell."

The three older siblings exchanged a look. The kind of look that only spelled doom for whoever it landed on. Krishna said slowly, "What I'm thinking... is exactly what you're thinking." Rukmini and Ram both nodded in perfect sync. Subhadra narrowed her eyes. "No. Nope. Whatever weird trio-telepathy this is—count me out."

She started to get up, but Ram caught her by the elbow before she could bolt. "You're a student. You go to Ravensworth. You already blend in." Subhadra's mouth fell open. "You want me to be your spy in a riot? I fake headaches to avoid quizzes, and you want me to infiltrate a potential crime scene?"

Krishna leaned back with a grin. "Exactly. You're unpredictable. You'll be invisible in the chaos. And no one would ever suspect you because... well, you talk too much." "Excuse me?" Subhadra looked deeply offended. "I communicate."

"We'll provide backup," Rukmini said calmly. "All you have to do is observe, listen, and report. You're smart. You'll manage." Subhadra gave her a dramatic squint. "This feels like child labor but with more danger and fewer benefits."

"Fine," she added with a sigh. "But I want compensation. A new phone. The fancy kind. With the camera that makes your skin look like butter." Krishna immediately nodded. "Done." "And a pair of noise-cancelling headphones. And bubble tea every day for a week."

Before Krishna could agree again, Rukmini cut in. "You're doing this for the welfare of the student body. You should feel proud to be a part of something meaningful." Subhadra blinked. "I'd feel prouder with financial incentives." Rukmini rolled her eyes and muttered, "You'll get a chocolate."

Subhadra stared at her like she'd just offered her a pebble. "One chocolate? I'm risking my GPA for this operation!"

"You were already skipping class tomorrow," Ram pointed out.

"That's not the point!" she cried. "It's about principles!"

Krishna chuckled, reaching over to tousle her hair. "Welcome to the resistance, Agent Subhadra. Code name: Snack Panther." Subhadra groaned loudly and shoved his hand away. "You're all unhinged. Fine. I'll do it. But if I get caught, I'm telling them I was brainwashed with chocolate."

Rukmini smiled. "As long as you get us what we need, I'll even give you two."

Subhadra paused, suspicious. "Is this good chocolate or the shady off-brand one that tastes like betrayal?"

Krishna stood up, stretching. "That depends on your performance. May the cocoa gods be with you."

Subhadra finally stormed off—grumbling about injustice, underpaid espionage, and the chronic disrespect of her snacking rights—leaving behind a trail of teenage fury and the faint slam of a bedroom door. The room fell silent for all of five seconds.

Krishna leaned back against the edge of the table, arms crossed, a satisfied smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "You know," he began lazily, "if she wants something expensive, I'll just buy it. What's the problem?"

Rukmini, who had just opened her notepad, snapped it shut with a decisive thud. "The problem is not money. The problem is that you think you can solve everything by throwing cash at it."

"Well, I can," Krishna said with a shrug that was far too casual for someone who had once bought a drone just to deliver biryani to the rooftop. "It's faster. Cleaner. And let's be honest—more effective than your motivational speeches about 'doing it for the people.'"

She gave him a sharp look. "She's not some spoiled heiress from one of your board meetings. She's a student—your sister. You can't just wave a platinum card and expect patriotism."

He scoffed. "It's not patriotism. It's espionage. If I'm sending her into a fake riot orchestrated by my psychotic extended family, the least I can do is buy her a designer smartwatch and a year's supply of bubble tea."

Rukmini rolled her eyes so hard they nearly left the mansion. "You're enabling her. One day she'll sell us all to the enemy just for a limited-edition eyeshadow palette."

Krishna grinned. "Only if I don't outbid them first."

"You're unbelievable."

"And you're dramatic."

"You're reckless."

"And you're stingy."

Just then, Ram, who had been spectating from the couch with a half-eaten samosa and the haunted look of a man who'd seen this play out too many times, finally cleared his throat. "Look, I'm just saying... if you two ever want to pretend you're not married, this conversation is not helping."

Rukmini blinked. Then glared. Then grabbed her notepad, spun around, and marched out of the room with the kind of fiery grace that made her heels echo like war drums. The door shut with a click, far too gentle for the storm she was bottling up.

Krishna watched her go, then casually turned to Ram. "She's totally getting me back for this later, right?"

Ram popped the rest of his samosa in his mouth. "With interest."

Rukmini barged into the living room, heels clacking like thunder against the wooden floor, hair flying with every sharp turn of her head. She looked like a storm in motion—elegant, furious, and absolutely done with Krishna's nonsense. Tossing her notepad onto the coffee table like it had personally offended her, she paced the length of the room, muttering to herself until finally the muttering turned into a full-blown outburst.

"I cannot believe him!" she snapped to absolutely no one, though the air itself seemed to shrink back nervously. "He thinks the solution to everything is just pulling out his stupid credit card like he's some kind of modern-day genie with a black card and a bad habit of talking over people!"

She spun around, pointing a dramatic finger toward the general direction of the hallway Krishna had stayed behind in. "Espionage? Designer smartwatches? Bubble tea bribes? What kind of strategy is that?! This isn't a mall sale, this is a student riot being manipulated by his lunatic uncle!"

Her voice only got sharper with each word, her volume rising like she was giving an angry TED talk to the gods. "You know what he said? 'It's faster, cleaner, more effective.' Oh, I'm sorry, Krishna, should we outsource Subhadra's conscience to Amazon next? Should we just auction off our entire plan on a luxury bidding site because apparently that's how you solve revolutions in Krishna-land?"

She threw her hands up in exasperation and kept pacing, furious energy radiating from her like heat off pavement. "And the worst part—the worst part—he smirks through it all. With that irritatingly calm face, like he's the protagonist of a soap commercial and nothing can touch him. 'I'll buy her a smartwatch,' he says. Great! Let's throw in a diamond pen while we're at it. Maybe some guilt-flavoured macarons."

She finally collapsed onto the couch, but even sitting down she radiated the energy of a woman who was seconds away from launching a pillow at someone's head. "I swear to Rukmini Devi herself, one of these days I am going to strangle him with one of his overpriced silk ties."

And just as she leaned back with a deep, calming breath, Krishna's voice floated in from the other room: "I heard that!"

Rukmini's head shot up like she'd been rebooted by rage. "Good. Let it simmer."

From the very next morning, Rukmini entered a new era of icy vengeance. A silent, calculated cold war. She didn't yell, she didn't roll her eyes—no, she'd already ascended past that. What she delivered now was far worse: lethal sarcasm coated in honey, delivered with the smile of someone who could absolutely destroy your confidence in under ten words.

Krishna, for once, was blissfully unaware—until he wasn't.

It started at breakfast.

He had entered the dining room, tousled hair, sleep in his eyes, and asked with harmless curiosity, "Rukmini, have you seen my phone charger?"

She didn't even look up from her toast. "Oh, I thought the richest man in the country powered his phone with arrogance and entitlement."

Ram, mid-bite of his paratha, choked.

Krishna blinked. "Okay, uh... I'll take that as a no."

Later that day, in the living room, he cautiously approached her again—this time with actual peace offerings: coffee, and that weird almond biscotti she pretended not to like but always finished. "Hey... I was wondering if—"

"Oh wow," Rukmini cut him off, her voice coated in faux wonder, "you were wondering? Do they allow thinking in your golden-boy rulebook, or is that just for decoration?"

He stared at her like he'd just been hit with a snowball in July.

"Is this about yesterday?" he tried.

She gave him a mock-sweet smile. "Yesterday? What happened yesterday? Did someone flash their wallet and try to solve a political conspiracy with a smartwatch again? Oh, no, wait—that's every day."

It became a routine. Krishna would speak, and Rukmini would deliver a taunt sharp enough to be studied in fencing classes. He'd ask if she wanted anything from the café on his way back. She'd reply with, "Why? You buying the café this time, or just bribing the barista to give you compliments?"

The worst part? She did it all with elegance and poise, not a single hair out of place. She was a thunderstorm in a silk blouse, and Krishna—Krishna was starting to realise that maybe, just maybe, he'd pushed her too far.

But even then, he couldn't help but smirk at how dramatic she was being about it.

Bad idea.

She caught the smirk, narrowed her eyes, and whispered under her breath just loud enough for him to hear, "I hope your smartwatch runs out of battery during a meeting."

Krishna gulped. Even Ram, from across the hall, muttered, "Yeah, you're on your own, bro."

And so it continued—Rukmini's reign of taunting elegance and Krishna's slow descent into "What did I even do?" land.

But beneath all that sarcasm?

She was waiting.

Waiting for him to get it. Waiting for him to show, not just say, that her anger wasn't just about Subhadra or smartwatches—it was about being taken seriously.

But until then?

Welcome to the Rukmini Cold Front™. Forecast: 100% shade.

It was 3:07 a.m., and Rukmini was officially done pretending she could fall asleep. No amount of tossing, turning, or trying to count the number of times Krishna had annoyed her in a day (she had stopped at twelve, her blood pressure couldn't handle more) was helping. Her stomach rumbled dramatically, adding insult to injury.

With a grumble and a flick of her blanket, she padded out of her room, wrapped in her fluffy hoodie like a sleepy, vengeful burrito. Her destination? The sacred space of comfort—the kitchen. And tonight, nothing but her favourite instant noodles would do. Spicy, extra masala, a pinch of cheese—her custom chaotic concoction.

She had just opened the packet and was humming under her breath, a rare little off-beat tune that sounded suspiciously like the jingle of the noodle brand, when it happened.

She knocked over the pepper container. Not just a little spill. No. It flew dramatically off the counter, hit the edge of the sink, bounced off a pan, and exploded like confetti across the entire kitchen. For a second, she just stared. The world stood still. A cloud of pepper particles hung in the air like a poorly directed musical number.

And right then, from the dark hallway, Krishna appeared.

He blinked at the pepper apocalypse, then at Rukmini, still frozen in place, holding a fork like it was a weapon of defence. And then—he laughed. A full, rich, can't-hold-it-in laugh that echoed around the kitchen like karma come alive.

Rukmini turned slowly, eyes squinting, her glare so sharp it could slice his Amex card in half.

He immediately stopped laughing, holding his hands up like she was pointing a frying pan at him. "I—okay, that was a terrible moment for me to laugh, and I'm sorry, but—" He sniffled, still holding back a grin. "It was funny."

"Try laughing one more time," Rukmini said, "and I'll season your fancy watch with this pepper."

"...Noted." He walked in sheepishly, opening a drawer. "You know, since I'm already awake, I'm kind of hungry too."

She rolled her eyes, but she didn't stop him.

They stood side by side at the counter, preparing their respective noodle bowls like culinary competitors. Rukmini tossed in her chaos of spice, cheese, and butter. Krishna, of course, being the eccentric prince he was, added olives, a dash of peri-peri, and—was that a lemon slice?

"What even is that?" she asked.

"It's art," he said solemnly.

"It's a stomach ache."

Still, she didn't complain when he passed her the pan. He helped stir hers when she reached for the cheese. It was the most civilised they'd been in days.

Once the noodles were done, they both sat on opposite sides of the kitchen island, steam curling up between them. Krishna took a deep breath and finally said, "You didn't come to learn driving from me."

Rukmini blinked. The noodles were halfway to her mouth.

"I wanted to teach you," he continued. "You know..." he started, his tone quieter now, stripped of his usual teasing lilt, "I've been thinking about what you said. About how I just... throw money at everything."

Rukmini glanced up but didn't say anything. Her expression wasn't as sharp as earlier, just cautious. Listening.

"I don't always do that," Krishna said, "at least, I don't mean to. With Subhadra, it's different. She only started living with me a couple of years ago. Before that, we didn't really grow up together properly. There's this whole chunk of her life I missed... and now that she's here, I just—can't say no to her. She's loud and persistent and she knows it, and sometimes the easiest way to calm the storm is to hand her a credit card."

Rukmini raised a brow. "That doesn't exactly make it better, you know."

"I know," he admitted, smiling sheepishly. "But it's not about spoiling her. I think I'm just... trying to make up for lost time. Maybe I overcompensate. I get carried away thinking money fixes things because sometimes it does. But you were right. Not always. Not with you."

She paused, fork midway to her mouth. The way he said "not with you" lingered in the air, softer than the steam curling off their bowls.

"I don't expect you to forgive me instantly," he added. "But I just wanted you to know it's not that I don't understand where you're coming from. I do now. I should've asked, not assumed."

Rukmini didn't look directly at him, but her grip on the fork loosened. She let out a long breath, quiet but telling.

"I didn't say you're a bad person, Krishna," she said, keeping her voice low. "Just that sometimes, it feels like you're trying to solve everything with a price tag."

He nodded. "Fair enough. Maybe next time, I'll just offer her a chocolate too."

Rukmini smirked, finally meeting his eyes. "Please. She'd demand Belgian truffles."

"She has. Multiple times."

That made her laugh—just a small, surprised one, but it was real. And suddenly, things didn't feel so heavy anymore.

"So," Rukmini said, "yours tastes weird."

"Yours tastes like a fire hazard."

Still, she passed him a forkful.

He tried it. "Oh wow. That's... intense."

She tried his. "Yours tastes like pizza went swimming in confusion."

They looked at each other and grinned. Something softened between them. The ice cracked, not fully melted, but definitely warm around the edges.

And just like that, the 3 a.m. kitchen turned into a little peace treaty zone.

It wouldn't last forever. But for now?

They had noodles, mismatched flavours, and a temporary truce.

And for now, that was more than enough.

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