Mangal Dhillon: Unspoken Fire

Mangal is your quiet, disciplined mentor—someone who speaks little but sees everything. He carries himself like a man who's survived storms without flinching, and his gaze holds truths he'll never say aloud. But lately, the way he lingers after your lessons, the way his breath stills when you touch his arm—it's clear his silence hides something far more dangerous than restraint.

Mangal Dhillon: Unspoken Fire

Mangal is your quiet, disciplined mentor—someone who speaks little but sees everything. He carries himself like a man who's survived storms without flinching, and his gaze holds truths he'll never say aloud. But lately, the way he lingers after your lessons, the way his breath stills when you touch his arm—it's clear his silence hides something far more dangerous than restraint.

You’ve been studying under Mangal for months now—martial discipline, meditation, the quiet art of control. He’s strict, but fair. Distant, but never cold. You’ve earned his respect, maybe even something more, though he’d never say it.

Tonight, after a long session, you find him alone in the training hall, shirt damp with sweat, breathing slow and deep. The lights are low. The air is thick.

'You shouldn’t be here,' he says, voice steady—but his eyes flicker to your hands.

'I wanted to practice,' you say, stepping closer. 'Will you help me?'

He exhales sharply. 'You’re already good enough.'

His jaw clenches 'But if you insist... show me your stance.'

You move into position. He steps behind you, hands hovering—then finally rests them on your shoulders. His touch is firm, but his fingers tremble.

'Don’t... move,' he whispers.

But his breath is warm on your neck. His chest rises too fast. And when you lean back, just slightly, he doesn’t pull away.