Rewrite following and include more dialogue from interrogation scene, redo Kareen's outfit: Beyond Kolkata’s clamorous core, Rahul’s motorcycle churned through the dusky outskirts, where the raw pulse of the city gave way to an expanse of quietude. Here, the clandestine arena revealed itself, secretive amongst abandoned warehouses and skeletal remains of forgotten industry. Moonlight bathed the decrepit façades in an ethereal glow, casting long shadows that whispered of unseengames.

He navigated the sea of motorcycles and cars that bristled the field serving as an improvised parking lot. The structure, gray and nondescript by daylight, was now alive with the low thrum of avid spectators, the location revered for hosting the underground’s fiercest combatants.

The makeshift stage was set—an elevated platform of weathered timber and steel, as sturdy as it was unassuming. The space around it burgeoned with rows of ragtag seating, collecting a mosaic of faces ravenous for the sport’s unfettered savagery. Sparse lighting fought against the darkness, carving out a spotlight that held the promise of violent ballet.

As Kareen’s form took to the stage, a collective breath hitched. She moved with the certainty of one born to tread upon this plane of existence, the embodiment of raw strength dressed in allure. Tonight, her attire was deceptively simple—a pair of charcoal compression shorts that traced her muscular contours, juxtaposed with a crimson sports bra that paid homage to her signature red streak. Light sheen of perspiration embellished her skin, making her appear almost ethereal amidst the gritty backdrop.

Her opponent, a local favorite, postured with vigor, matched with respect for the titan she faced. The fight was a vortex of motion and heft, Kareen’s prowess evident as she balanced precision with the theatrics the crowd craved. When the decisive blow landed, her adversary crumbled—respectfully vanquished as the count tolled to ten.

Rahul’s gaze, entranced by the spectacle, was captured by the victor’s uplifting arms. In that fleeting moment, their eyes met across the distance. Recognition flickered, an invisible tether drawn taut between them.

As the audience erupted in exultation, he slipped away, threading through the dissipating crowd to make his unnoticed departure. But fate, it seemed, would not grant him that anonymity.

Two imposing figures closed the distance, the unmistakable bulk of event security. Intimidation coiled in their stance, they ushered him into the labyrinthine belly of the arena. Rahul’s heart galloped—his ruse unraveled.

The locker room door swung open, and steam curled out like vagrant spirits, slipping into the cooler air. Kareen stood there, amidst a cloud of post-fight euphoria, her figure now draped in attire crafted for leisure rather than combat. A loose, off-shoulder gray top clung to her just enough to intimate her sculpted form beneath, ending abruptly to bare her midriff; paired with low-slung sweatpants that hung from her hips, suggestive of the power they concealed. Her hair, slick from the shower, framed her face in dark waves, and droplets of water graced her collarbone, inviting unintended glimpses of temptation.

Her manager, a study in consummate professionalism, remained quietly observant at her side, his sharp gaze assessing.

“Leave us,” she commanded, her voice touching the room like a velvet caress. The guards hesitated, then acquiesced, closing the door behind them on silent hinges.

Silence burgeoned, heavy with unsaid inquiries.

“Rahul,” she began, the syllables of his name hung between them as she crossed her arms under her chest. “It’s unusual to find a trainer from another club skulking around, especially when his fighter is on another continent. Care to explain?”

Her eyes locked onto his, a gray hazel tempest that promised no easy clemency.

Rahul’s resolve solidified. “I came for you,” he confessed, raw honesty stripping away any guise he might have worn. Heat suffused his cheeks as admission played upon his lips, his own brown eyes alight with a distinct clarity.

Kareen’s expression softened, surprisingly intrigued by this twist, her head tilting with a potent mix of curiosity and caution. “For me?” she echoed, his words painting strokes of unexpected warmth across the cool canvas of her poise.

“Yes.” Rahul dared to step closer. “Ever since the announcement of your match with Mishaali, I found myself… captivated. And tonight,” he gestured to the now-quieted stage outside, “I witnessed more than just your strength. There’s something about you that’s… magnetic.”

The manager cleared his throat, interjecting a note of reality, “Kareen, we need to be careful.”

Kareen held up a hand, silencing him. She continued to study Rahul, ablaze with a newfound attention that blazed trails along his skin. “You’re bold, Rahul. Perhaps too bold. But I appreciate honesty, and I respect talent. I’ve seen how you handle your fighters. They’re lucky.”

Her words danced dangerously close to flattery, the acknowledgment an echo of the pulse that quickened in their veins.

“And what will you do now, Kareen?” Rahul ventured, the undercurrent of his attraction adding a tremulous depth to his voice. “What do we do about this… tension?”

She stepped towards him until mere inches separated their bodies, the electric charge of proximity arcing between them. Rahul’s breath hitched, captivated by the play of light in her eyes, their proximity tangling his senses like vines.

In that locker room cocooned by shadow and steam, filled with the remnants of battle and the whisper of forbidden desires, Kareen and Rahul stood at the precipice of an unknown journey. The night, now a cocoon of secrets wrapped around them, holding their shared breath—a collision of force and finesse, of duty and longing, simmered to the quiet pitch of a potentially dangerous heat.