Our NLU Delhi University bus stops in front of Delhi Central Jail, outside it's massive complex. The weather was cold outside but the jail looks even more colder.

The selected research students sit in stiff silence, adjusting their ID cards or sneaking anxious glances at the looming gray walls outside. We all are wearing Law University's formal uniforms- black coats, black trousers, white shirts, and, black ties.

I exhale slowly, pressing my lips together. No matter how much I mentally prepare, the reality of where I am crashes down like a gavel in a courtroom.

Central Jail of India. Asia's largest prison complex. The walls stretch endlessly, thick concrete topped with layers of barbed wire. Gun towers stand at intervals, where armed guards watch from above like silent sentinels. The main iron gates are massive-designed to keep monsters in and the world out.

Even though the morning sun hangs above us, the place feels gray, like it absorbs light instead of reflecting it.

A few hundred meters away, I can make out a second gate, leading deeper into the high-security zones. The scent of rust, metal, and something stale and unwashed clings to the cold air.

I glance around and the other nine students who were selected seem just as much as overwhelmed and awkward like me.

The last time I walked through these gates, I was thirteen. A victim. A girl seeking for justice. I clearly remembered I was shaking with rage, fear, and something worst. I was gripping my Chachi's hand so tightly that my nails were biting her skin and my stomach was twisted as I was led through these very corridors. That time, I was here because of him- a boy who thought he could take what wasn't his and live happily after. A monster I send to jail. But now, I return- not as a victim, not as a girl begging for justice, but as a law student.

Five years later, now I am walking through these same gates, not clutching Chachi's hand but a notebook. Not searching for justice but research. This time, my spine is straight, my hands steady. I have no personal vendetta against anyone inside these walls or so I tell myself. Because the truth is, I still hate this place. The thick, metallic scent of rust and sweat, the suffocating air of unrepentant crimes and lost souls-it makes my skin crawl. And now, I am here willingly.

I don't know if that's make me brave or just stupid.

"And we're here," Professor Agnihotri announced while standing near the front. His sharp features, neatly combed hair, and white shirt make him look straight out of a high-budget courtroom drama.
While stepping down from the bus that's when I glance at my phone as a notification pops up and I already regret opening it.

Group Chat:

DIXIT'S BIG DECK 🍆💦 HAREM

[Admin: Dixit; Members: Nahella, Aisha]

Dixit: NLU is a scam, bruh. Where were they trippin' when they forgot to select me? Well, my 6-inch d!ck doesn't give a cum.🍼

Me: Makes sense.

Dixit: EXCUSE ME??? 🤡🥵👅

Aisha: They didn't pick me either, and I have real talent, smartness, and a brain. Nahella, check the list and tell me which a-ss-hole stole my spot.

Dixit: AH~ FOR REAL, CHAT. Tell me more-ah huh 🌬️🍑🦍💨

Me: Agastya.

Dixit: This guy also has 99.9% attendance. What is he? A sort of Germs? 🐽🦠

Aisha: Knew it. Hate this guy even more from my core now, thanks to my uni.

Dixit: 🔥🥶😈💅🏻

Me: Dixit, Stop.

Dixit: BOOM BLAST 💥🎈🤺 Told ya that guy likes you. 🙊🤫

Aisha: @/Dixit Can you stop this nonsense emoji spam?

Dixit: I AM BLOCKING YOU. 🚫📵

Me: You literally can't. It's our group chat.

Dixit: THEN I'M BLOCKING MYSELF. 😭🏃🏻💨

Dixit: Wait, I am the ADMIN. 💀🗿💪🏻

Aisha: Nahella, if you come back from Central Jail talking about "He's just misunderstood," we're gonna have a problem.

Dixit: If I hear "He's not like the others," I'M SENDING YOUR AADHAAR CARD TO RAW. 🛂💣👁️👁️

Aisha: If you post "Not all criminals 🥺," consider yourself an orphan. We disown you.

Dixit: But if you do marry a prisoner... can I steal his shoes in the chappal chori rasam? Or do I have to steal his handcuffs??? 👉🏻👈🏻💍🩹🤕

Me: I HATE YOU BOTH.
...

I sigh, shoving my phone into my pocket.

But before I can fully process there stupidity, one senior approaches me with a low whistle, "Damnn," Rohan said stuffing his hands inside his pockets. "They really don't want people leaving this place huh. No jail break."

I glance at him. "Ofcourse it's a prison afterall, Rohan."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. But still..." He gestures towards the gray wall with the barbed wire and the gun towers. "Tell me this doesn't look like the setting of a dystopian film where society collapses."

He is right I can feel that.

There are ten of us selected for this research project-seven LLB students (our batch) and three LLM students (seniors). Some are here because they're passionate about criminal law. Others just want the research credit.

Rohan, surprisingly, falls into the first category. He jokes around, but his interest in prison reform is genuine. Agastya Rajawat, on the other hand, is in a category of his own. One year senior, NLU Delhi's top student. The kind of guy who excels at everything without making a big deal about it. If Rohan is the sarcastic overthinker, Agastya is the intense overachiever.

He's standing near the entrance, arms crossed, completely unaffected. While everyone else shifts uncomfortably, their eyes darting around at the intimidating surroundings, Agastya just stands there like he's walked into a library instead of one of India's most high-security prisons.

He glances at me, eyes unreadable. "You look like you're regretting this already."

I scoff. "I don't regret things."

His lips twitch slightly, almost amused. "Sure."

Dixit and Aisha swear he has a thing for me, which is ridiculous. He talks to me, yes, but not in a way that means anything. We've worked on projects together, exchanged notes, had the occasional sarcastic debate in class, but that's it. No hidden glances, no dramatic tension. If anything, he just seems mildly entertained by me.

I don't believe them. And even if it were true? I don't care. Agastya is just another batch topper with a superiority complex.

"So," Rohan leans closer, whispering. "Who do we think will cry first?" I roll my eyes. "No one is going to cry, Rohan."

"Bold assumption. Some of these kids look like they've only seen criminals in Bollywood movies." He's not wrong. One girl is gripping her notebook so tightly, her knuckles are white. Agastya, without looking up from his ID card, says in a flat, voice-"The guards are staring at you."

Rohan freezes. "Wait, really?"

Agastya finally glances at him, face blank. "No. But if you keep talking like an idiot, they might."

Professor Agnihotri snap his finger once, gathering our attention. "Alright, listen up." His sharp gaze sweeps over the ten of us, assessing. "You're here because you were selected. That means I expect professionalism, discipline, and respect for the institution you're about to step into. This is not a field trip. You are not here to gawk at inmates or indulge in 'prison tourism.' If you're here for that, leave now. Out."

No one moves, but I see a few people straighten their backs.

"You've all been briefed on the research framework" he continues. "We'll be observing the prison education program, speaking with inmates, and compiling data on its effectiveness. Your reports will contribute to a larger study on rehabilitation versus recidivism." He pauses, then adds, "That means you will be interacting with convicted criminals. Murderers, thieves, those serving life sentences. If you are not comfortable with that, say it now."

Silence.

I fold my arms. The unease in the group is palpable-one girl is shifting on her feet, and a guy at the back swallows audibly. Even Rohan, usually so relaxed, presses his lips together. Agastya looks completely unaffected.

Professor Agnihotri nods. "Good. Then let's move."

A uniformed officer steps forward to brief us on the rules-strict no-contact policies, designated areas we're allowed in, and a reminder that this is Nation's biggest Central Jail, not some lower-security correctional facility.

"You do not wander" the officer warns. "You do not talk to inmates outside the designated interviews. And if you are uncomfortable at any point, you inform a supervisor immediately. Understood?"

A chorus of quiet nods. As we move forward, passing through the security checkpoint, I feel the weight of it all settle in. The clank of reinforced gates. The low murmur of voices from beyond thick walls. The ever-present watch of the CCTV cameras and armed guards.

A prison isn't just a building. It's a system, a living, breathing entity, filled with people who were once free.

And in the middle of it all, I am about to meet one. One of them.

"Listen carefully" professor's voice cuts through the murmurs. "Your research will be conducted through direct interviews with inmates. Each of you will be assigned a prisoner, but this is not a casual conversation. Every question you ask must have a legal or psychological basis. No unnecessary inquiries. No personal involvement. You are here to study, not to sympathize."

"Though solo interviews weren't common, Dr. Agnihotri had secured special permissions for one-on-one interactions under strict monitoring." The officer said.

"Pairings have been decided based on the complexity of the cases and your academic strengths."

My stomach knots at that. Complexity?

Professor Agnihotri glances at his clipboard and begins listing names. Some I recognize, some I don't.

Rohan with an inmate serving a sentence for financial fraud. One girl with a man convicted of arson. Agastya with a former police officer imprisoned for misconduct. Any the list goes on until it landed on my name.

"Nahella Agarkar" he says, his tone even, but something about the pause after my name makes me uneasy. I straighten.

"You will be assigned to Prisoner 704."

Prisoner no 704?

A few students glance at me. My brows knit. Why does that number sound... weighted? I clear my throat. "May I ask about his conviction, sir?"

Professor looks up, his expression unreadable. "704 is a high-profile case. You will receive the full file before your interview, but I will say this-" He pauses, choosing his words carefully. "The prisoner is known for his... silence."

Silence?

My grip on my pen tightens. "Meaning?"

"He doesn't talk much, Nahella. He has refused every previous attempt at communication, including psychological evaluations and legal aid. You may not get anything from him at all."

I blink. Then why assign him to me?

As if sensing my question, professor leans back. "You're one of the best in your batch, Nahella. If anyone can get him to speak, it might be you."

A slow exhale leaves my lips. I don't know whether to take that as a compliment or a warning. Either way, it's too late to back out now.

No name. A number? I glance at the others, but no one else seems fazed. Maybe this is normal. Maybe they don't want us using names for security reasons.

"Follow me," the officer says.

We move down a hallway, passing thick metal doors with narrow windows. Every few steps, there's a security camera. The deeper we go, the quieter it gets.

I swallow hard.

This is fine. This is just a study. You're not here to defend anyone. You're just collecting data.

The officer stops in front of a door. He presses a buzzer, and a guard inside unlocks it.

"The interview room is monitored. You will have thirty minutes. No physical contact. No passing of objects. If you feel unsafe at any time, press the button under the table, and security will intervene."

My throat is dry. "Understood."

I step inside.

The room was a simple, empty space. Just a table with two chairs facing each other and a huge glass barrier in between. Nothing less, nothing more. A CCTV camera was mounted in the upper corner, its red light blinking steadily, and a speech recorder was placed on the table-probably to ensure every word exchanged in this room was documented.

I went near the table and took my seat on the right side. Thank God they have this glass barrier; I am too young to die at the hands of a prisoner inside jail. My fingers curled around the edge of the chair as I scanned my surroundings, my knee bouncing slightly.

Shit, I think I am a bit nervous.

Just at that exact moment, the door opposite me cracked open, revealing four guards. Their presence alone was enough to make the air feel heavier. But what truly made my breath hitch was the figure they escorted inside-the tallest among them.

Each step he was getting close... Six-foot-five. He was tall. Even with his shoulders slightly hunched, he towered over everyone in the room.

He was wearing a grey prison uniform, and his right arm had a black strip on it, worn by the most dangerous prisoners inside the cell. His face was covered with a black cloth, and his hands were cuffed, both covered in black leather gloves. Not only that, but his legs were locked with a heavy chain, and his waist had a chain around it. It was in conjunction with his leg irons to further restrict movement.

He is basically caged.

How... how much of a danger is he to be given such things? Is he actually that violent that they chained him up like that? That's rare.

What crime did he commit, though?

The rhythmic clanking of his chains echoed as he walked toward the chair, the guards flanking him with their hands on their batons-on edge, ready. It wasn't just a security protocol; they were genuinely cautious of him. The heavy chair scraped against the floor as one of the guards helped him sit. My eyes immediately flickered to the badge on his chest-Prisoner no. 704.

The guards remained close, their gazes flickering between him and me, their bodies taut as if expecting him to lunge at any second. One of them, the senior-most officer, spoke with a gruff, practiced voice.

"Remain in your seat at all times. Do not attempt to pass anything through the glass." His eyes shifted to me. "If you feel unsafe at any moment, press the buzzer on the table."

I gave a stiff nod. The chair across from me scraped against the floor as two guards guided him into it. They didn't just let him sit; they ensured he was seated properly, his posture restricted by the chains.

One of them turned to me. "Do you want us to remove the glass?"

My stomach twisted. What kind of question is that? I darted my eyes to the prisoner-704-who sat motionless, his cuffed glove hands resting on his lap. He hadn't moved an inch, hadn't said a word. But the sheer presence of him, the way he carried himself despite being restrained, was enough to set my nerves on edge.

"No! Please, no." I said in a strong yet rough tone. I am sure this glass is strong. He can't break the glass, right? The guard nodded, unfazed. "Alright, Miss. Your time starts now."

Without hesitation, one of them reached forward and removed the black cloth covering the prisoner's face.

His face. I-unexpected.

Dark brown eyes that are so dreamy yet holds mystery. He has a small cut on his right eyebrow which looks like an eyebrow slit but perhaps it's an old scar. Great posture, lean, with jet black hair that is a bit long and messy in the front, resting infront of his forehead. Sharp and perfect facial features. His whole vibe are anything but criminal. His presence is so calm and collected. He looks anything but a Criminal. I don't say this but he look effortlessly... attractive? No. That was the wrong word. Intimidating. Captivating.

There was an unsettling kind of calmness about him, the kind that made me more nervous than if he had looked outright violent. He didn't glare. He didn't smirk. He simply observed.

He is looking at me. I am looking at him.

We just stare at each other for God knows how many minutes, the silence stretching taut between us, until I finally break it.

"Nahella Agarkar" I said, grabbing the pen and starting to note down the reasearch questions while waiting for his reply.

There was a few beats of silence. Then he finally spoke "Are you my visitor?"

My pen stopped mid-word. Voice. His voice. It was deep. Rich. Slow, like he weighed each word before letting it leave his mouth. Smooth, but with a rough undertone, like it had been sanded down by life itself. When he said my visitor, it didn't sound like a simple question. It sounded personal.

"No" I cleared my throat, shifting slightly. "I am a second year law student from NLU. I'm here to ask you few questions for a case study report of our research."

Something in his expression shifted. It was so subtle that I almost missed it, but I swear the warmth in his eyes flickered-like my words hurt him but at the same time didn't. Then, just as quickly, a small, amused smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

"Not my visitor?" His head tilted slightly. "I apologize."

Why did that sound like he actually meant it? "No, it's alright" I said quickly, trying to steer the conversation back on track. "May I get your name, 704?" I asked.

His eyes remained locked onto mine. Not in a threatening way, but in a way that made it impossible to look away. "No name" he said finally.

"Just 704."

A small frown tugged at my brows. "You do have a name, though." I asked but no reply. A pause. A long one.

"Say it, then."

My breath hitched. "What?"

"My name" his voice was slow, deliberate, "say it." and then that smile again, "If I have a name, I should know."

My fingers tightened around the pen. This man. This-this criminal. He wasn't just answering. He was playing. Toying. But not in an obvious, arrogant way. It was... calculated. Like he was testing something.

"I don't know your name" I muttered.

His smile widened-not much, just a ghost of amusement-but it was there.

"Then I guess I'm just 704 to you."

A beat. I exhaled, rolling my shoulders back. "Fine. 704, let's begin."

He hummed, leaning back slightly, as much as the chains allowed. "Tell me, I'm listening to you."

I ignored the way my stomach flipped with anxiety. I am scared for crying out loud. This is going to be a long interview. I cleared my throat. "I'm here to ask a few questions. Can you answer them? I'll make it quick."

He put his black leather gloved hands on the table, his posture relaxing slightly. Why does he wear black leather gloves? It's definitely not standard jail attire. Is he hiding something?

His dark brown eyes met mine, and he gave a single nod, signaling me to continue.

"How does the jail education system work?" I questioned.

"The jail education system?" He tilted his head slightly, his gaze flickering to my notepad. "You didn't write today's date."

I blinked. "No, it's useless to write down dates everyday. Today's date is nothing special."

"Some dates are important, my-" He stopped abruptly, staring into my eyes. Then he asked, "How do you want me to refer to you?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?" He raised an eyebrow. "It's rude to call you by your name. You're not my visitor, and you're not my lawyer either."

Something about his tone irritated me. "It was pretty rude when you refused to say your name when I asked."

"I don't have a name."

What? Is he insane, or is he trying to erase his past? Thinking hos name will be clear after his released. Typical criminals.

After a long silence, he continued, "To answer your question, the jail education system is designed to help inmates earn degrees or vocational training. The National Institute of Open Schooling (NIOS) and Indira Gandhi National Open University (IGNOU) run distance learning programs inside the prison. Prisoners can complete their 10th and 12th grades or pursue higher education, including diplomas, bachelor's, and master's degrees."

I wrote that down. "So, you're saying inmates have access to proper courses?"

"Yes, but it depends on the jail. Central Jail has one of the best education programs in India. Some prisons even have tie-ups with law universities for legal education programs. But many smaller jails don't have structured education at all."

I hummed in response. "And you? What are you studying?"

"Mechanical Engineering" he said casually.

I blinked. A STEM student?

"Wait-how are you studying engineering in jail?"

"IGNOU offers Bechalors of Science programs and other tech related diploma or short courses. I study through distance learning. Every few months, we get study material, and we take exams inside the jail under supervision. Professors sometimes come for lectures, but mostly, it's self-study. I am ban from practical workshop classes."

That was actually impressive. A man locked behind bars was still studying one of the toughest degrees.

I raised an eyebrow. "Next question. What motivates prisoners to join or not join prison education?" I asked, and I am really eager to know the reason because there are fewer students here.

"They would rather commit arson than read a book and sit for exams. And what motivates them? I would say their freedom."

"Freedom?" I questioned in confusion.

"Yes, freedom. When you know you will be out of here one day, you might want to change. So when a juvenile prisoner sees he still has time to change, he studies."

"So why are there so few juvenile prison students here? Don't they want to change? I know most of them will be free one day."

Suddenly, my eyes went a bit wide in shock. Wait-did he smile a bit, or am I seeing too much? I don't know, but then he replied, "I apologize; I don't know, as I was from the adult cell block."

"Aren't you a juvenile yourself at that time? You were below 18 at that time." I frowned.

Silence.

"Were you not kept in juvenile detention camp?"

No answer. He went completely silent, then gave a quick glance at the CCTV before he pointed his chin at the speech record box near our table. What is he trying to say?

"Excuse me, I didn't get it-"

I was stopped when he put his left index finger on top of his lip.

"I just-"

Is he telling me to keep quiet? What-? I hesitated. Is he implying he wasn't kept in a juvenile home? That's illegal.

"Shall we move to the next question of yours? I am eager to answer all your questions," he asked as he put his index finger down and rested his back on his chair.

"Ah yes, are books available for the students here? Or any other books?" I put my pen down.

"No. Not that much; most books are banned here for us prisoners to read." I frowned at him. "Are you talking about those kinds of books...?" I hesitated, but he smiled at me. He actually smiled this time, and maybe I was right when I said he looks anything but a bloodthirsty criminal.

"I am totally talking about sane books."

I nodded and noted that down, but then he proceeded to say, "We are both too young to read insane books." My pen stopped at his words, and a plunge of guilt occupied my neck. F-ck! Let's not think about the fact that I do read romantic books that should be read beyond my age. Nobody knows that, and nobody should.

"What book do you think should be provided to prison students for better education?" I changed the topic a bit.

"Coding books, if possible, higher-level programing books."

"Why are there only fewer coding books available in the prison library?"

"I want to read them for my studies, but they are banned here, maybe because they think a prisoner might crack a code and run away."

To be honest, I don't know if this guy is joking or being serious. Did he just joke right now, or is it his twisted sarcasm?

I squinted. "Are you serious?"

He shrugged. "Central Jail's prison library bans certain tech books because they worry about hacking or cybercrime. Prisoners aren't allowed access to personal computers unless it's for an approved educational course. Even then, internet access is strictly controlled."

That made sense.

"Are you good at coding?" I asked.

"To answer that, the jail security system wouldn't want me near it." He smiled.

The urge to ask him how he ended up in jail with such a brilliant mind is real. He could've been the next big thing, but he chose to become a "criminal."

His expression dropped as he heard what I said. I realized too late that my words sounded judgmental. I didn't mean to say it loud. F-ck, Nahella.

"Criminal." He repeated that word, but his voice cracked as if something was stabbing him in the chest. As he further spoke, he said, "You called me a criminal?"

My voice was gone because I seriously didn't know what to say. I just didn't know. His head slowly bent down a little when he whispered, looking at his cuffed hand, "Yes, you are right. Maybe I am a criminal." He then put his head up and looked at me as he muttered,

"My Ella."

"What-did you say something?"

The siren bell started to buzz loudly as I was about to ask him what he meant by my Ella. The door cracked open, and the guards rushed in and grabbed his arms forcefully. Even though he stood the tallest in the room, somehow right now he looked vulnerable, as if there was nothing left inside him.

I quickly got up from my seat and took a big step backward, but I was surprised when he looked at me with an intense gaze-not with hatred or anything, but sometimes I don't know how to interpret it. His eyes were on me until one of the guards put a black cloth over his face to cover him.

"Miss, the time is up" one police officer said, and I nodded. I looked at prisoner no. 704 for one last time before they completely took him out of the interrogation room.

He called me, my Ella.