name: saher nayak
nickname: n/a
age / d.o.b. october 27, 1990; 34.
faceclaim: sobhita dhulipala
gender & sexuality: cis-female, bi.
hometown: mandawa, rajasthan.
currently: west village, nyc.
affiliation: syndicate.
job position: plastic surgeon
education: high school diploma / bachelore degree in biology / stanford university school of medicine / general surgery residency program / fellowship training in plastic and reconstructive surgery residency program
relationship status: single.
children: none.
Mandawa, Rajasthan was a good place — at least that's how much Saher could remember of it. The world flickered in green and yellow, the colors of her mother's skirt as she danced around barefoot and sung, as loud as she could, to the tune her father was playing. They'd swallow their drinks until morning came and drown out the rest.
They lived poor, but they were joyful (as long as there was music and alcohol around)
She lived to hear the music stop one day, when her father moved away. To provide for a better life, her mother had said as she wiped her tears away. She didn't know how much of that was true, because Saher barely saw of her mother anymore, between the two jobs and the house work, she wondered if she ever got any sleep at all.
Resentment settled in.
A few years later, the suitcases were packed, and the flights were booked and sixteen hours flew by like seconds. The family reunited, but nothing felt the same anymore.
Saher was an imigrant child, a transfer — her english was good but not good enough. She felt like something less, unworthy of attention, even if all eyes had been on her — staring (her clothes, her shoes, her hair.) She became a target.
It's how she found herself in between flying punches, her first fight. She won it too. Had the other girl tumbling down the stairs. Detention was nothing compared to her good grades, those stellar A's.
One fight turned into several, and now her peers were avoiding her for an entirely different reason.
Don't look at that one, she might punch you in the jaw — a rumor far better than the ones she saw written on bathroom stalls before. She'd rather be feared, than mocked.
Things escalated quickly, because the world moved fast, but Saher moved faster. Her mother called it a cry for help, the first time she saw her get on a motorcycle, and her father called it stupidity, when by the time she was twenty, she had broken both of her legs — twice.
Reckless endarganment is what the cops said, and Saher was inclined to agree with the last diagnosis. It was sheer recklesness that drove her into trouble's arms and it was recklesness that kept her there.
She was lacking in the empathy department and growing colder by the day.
None of that kept her from getting her medical degree. Medical student turned surgeon in the span of thirteen years. Saher was a good doctor — calculated and precise; sharp edge of a knife. Knife was all that mattered, because care was complicated, care required a level of selflesness that she didn't posess.
It was somewhere between the life lessons lost, and that same recklesness that drove her down the highway at three hundred miles per hour, that Saher nearly crashed and burned her career into the ground. A stupid mistake turned fatal. An accident that had opened up a door for her, because she's been thriving in dishonesty since she was a child. Insignificant childish lies turned into theft and now forgary —
There was no going back now — now that the lies spilled not only from her mouth, but on paper too. She lied without even flinching. Saher hid the evidence, and she hid it well, just like she used to stolen goods.
Play with fire, and you'll only get burned — but being burnt is what she wanted, she played with the flames all faerless and glazy-eyed and that was surely bound the catch the attention of people in need of such an asset to their lives— the woman that feared no man, and no consequences, and spat in the face of anything that didn't work in her favor.
➵ connections
Jeong-in Kang | ally
Fellow Residents | open
Syndicate members | open
➵ headcanons
only joined the syndicate because Jeong-in Kang was more convincing than the other guy.
doesn't trust anyone fully
would only do something if there's personal gain
would dispose of anyone when she no longer needs them
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Fucking interns and having shits for brains. How fucking hard was it to insert a central line? What kind of third fucking country medical school did they graduate from? Those idiots had her furiously typing on her phone for the last ten minute. Killing her patient was going to reflect bad on her ass, not theirs.
Part of the reason why she never heard a word out of Fletcher's mouth. Not that anything coming out of that hole was ever groundbreaking. Doubtful the blonde was even making any sense.
Her beer bottle laid empty, another one taking it's place in a matter of moments, while her phone found a spot in the next guy's drink. Didn't fucking care if he turned out to be 6'5 and looking for a fight — she could stab him in the jugular with a stiletto.
"Do you ever shut up?" a smirk to her mouth, full lips curled in a way that did not match the tone of her voice, nor the choice of words. Always ready to stab — that tongue. He'd begged to differ, but she'd have ripped his own off, before he'd have the chance to even try.
"You do get hard, from the sound of your own voice, don't you?" the bottle met her lips, "Do you record yourself and then jerk off?"
Suresh stood next to Saher. Both of them looking down at the body on the embalming table. The room cool and quiet. As cool and quiet as the both of them, surveying the corpse. "I do appreciate you making time in your schedule." A framed picture of an older man sat propped up on a small table to the side. "I tried to explain that a closed casket would be less expensive and much easier. I also tried to explain what a garage door spring at high speed to the face does to someone. But--" He gestured towards the damage, "Apparently seeing their Father restored is very important for the family." Silliness and vanity. But a lot of money. He turned to look at the younger woman a small smile as he said, "We should get dinner next week. There are a few new place I want to try."
It's been almost a decade of the last time she stepped foot in his morgue. Full time surgical intern, and part time face reconstructor for the dead — back then. Suresh — not just a name in her contact list. More like a wolf in her pack — all primal instincts, and claws. She recognised him when they met the first time — one of her own.
So she agreed to do him a favor. It's what she called it, but they both knew she wasn't going to collect.
Surgical hands went over the instruments already prepared, and then traced over the metal table. Circling the man on it, just so she could observe from all angels, and choose a right approach.
"As long as they fucking pay, I'll do the job." eyes on that mess of a pale face.
It didn't seem to be all about the money for the man, which earned him a don't be stupid side-eye. "Please don't tell me you care about that poor bastard. " a scoff rolled off her mouth, "You get the money and zip your mouth. Giving such advice is bad for business, Lal — thought you knew that."
His business was his own — she didn't give two shits about it. Burn it to the fucking ground, for all she cared.
She clicked her tongue, still examining the body. The casual slip up of dinner plans only reminded her of how fucked up her schedule was, for the next five fucking years. "I'm elbows fucking deep in fat for the next century, Surash." a beat, "Plus, I'm still working on the last favor you asked me to do for you. Can't hire me for a dinner date, too." a smug kind of smirk stretched on her lips.
"What's next? Mercy fuck?" she was only bullshiting him — harmless and fun.
buddy had been his best friend for years, their bond enduring longer than any of his past romantic relationships. a constant reminder to why he preferred dealing with animals over people any day. with a devilish grin after hearing the woman's theory, he responded "ain't we lucky, 'cause i'm always prepared" his words were bold, and his action even bolder as he lifted the hem of his shirt slightly, revealing the handle of his gun.
"i bet ya didn't see that coming" heath admitted sarcastically, pulling down his shirt again "well, ya don't strike me as the skittish type anyhow"
"That supposed to make me think you're not a softie?" nothing like a gun in the pants screamed toxic masculinity. Must get every dick super hard, and all the women oh-ing and ah-ing — dripping with enthusiasm.
Fuck, if she was going to be nice just because he flashed a gun.
"Is that because I'm wearing scrubs?" the purple medical attire she had plenty of in her closet. And even more on the floor of her bathroom.
"Observant, and knows how to shoot a gun." a beat, a faux sound in awe. "Fascinating."
⎯ Luke can't help the sly smile creeping on his lips as he stares at her. His hair was all tidy, dressing in one of his most elegant attire, and Rolex on his wrist shining like a sun, and a golden pinky ring, as he gestured to the chair across from him, so he could finally talk about the real issue. ❛ I wouldn't do much of a grimace if I were you. Early wrinkles. ❜ He added after her eye-roll.
❛ I mean, there's a green fairy, tooth fairy, fairy godmother, and who knows you are the FAIRY of divorce, love. ❜ He snaps his fingers calling the waiter, and already asking to bring their menu, and his gin tonic in order. Too fucking early for a drink. These days he was in 'whatever mood'.
❛ Besides the possibility of riding on mahh… ❜ Dick. She needs to feel honored because, Luke despite his fame, when it's time he goes all Houdini. ❛ Just kidding. ❜ He quickly adds before she decides to kill him. He crossed his legs to the other side, his vernished shoes shining just as much as his watch.
❛ Name a price. I'm going on a trip soon. Soon I mean in two days. I'll go to England, have a cuppah tea, with uncle King Charles, then I'll go to Egypt, then Vegas. I can bring you anything you want, I'm a fairy godmother if you're my fairy of divorce. ❜
An unimpressed look lingered on her features — lucky for him, it hasn't turned deadly yet, because the moment that murderous gleam settled within dark gaze, he'd know to run. He'd seen it before — the blonde knew he wouldn't be spared out of the goodness of her heart. She kept around only those valuable to her.
A sex proposal would get him nowhere. An easy fuck — reminded her of another blonde that swung his dick around like it was flypaper.
"Come on, princess — make it at least a little bit interesting. No one likes a desperate, available dick."
Legs followed the motion of his own. Unlike him, she was all legs — smooth.
"I'll need you to do a small clean up for me." In and out of the hospital — better have his face seen, than her own. It would get a couple of fuckers off her back — dr. shitface 1 and dr. shitface 2.
This was the price — no money needed, she had plenty.
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open: to anyone
"You're interrupting my drink so this better be good." Ramsey rarely took breaks where she treated herself to anything, but every Friday she found herself at the local pub for the best sandwich on the block and a fine glass of red wine. the unexpected visitor lowering themselves across from her hadn't gone unnoticed, but she hadn't acknowledged them at first. A sigh escaped her lips before she looked up. "This better be good."
Cigarette smoke exhaled in the direction of the poor fucker who mumbled something stupid and left a whole folder of documents on the counter, next to the glass of red the brunette was having.
The place was packed, Saher was so close to the two that the smoke could blanket the guy's head. He'd be up to her chest, if she wasn't sitting down.
Her eyes scanned over the sheet out of sheer boredom — last will and testimant of blah blah —
"Your night's fucking ruined." a mocking kind of laugh.
Karma could bite her in the ass any fucking moment — pager tossed on the counter right next to a bowl of cashew. But Saher didn't believe in that sort of shit. No one could ruin her night.
Saher's dug her teeth in, and Via's wondering if they'll soon need a stagehand to mop the newly lacquered stage.
Not even the favoured seats in the house can save them from the torture. It's likely what the quivering off-key vocalist is feeling. And it's the most interesting string of acting Via's seen all day.
So many singers, not enough variety. She doesn't remember it being quite so bland — even if it were thirty forty or so years ago since —
Well.
There's less to think about when Nayak has a surgical hand tracing along the tendons of her neck, collar and — "We could make anything sexy, cakepop." Classy; elegant, in amongst the depravity. Of course, she's referencing the dying of such mediocre talent on stage.
Mostly.
And with the thick air of silence being sharper than even Saher's tongue. Via doesn't even search to find the face of the next incoming footsteps. She's breathing in this moment, pondering her earlier ideations of making the real all that more fake; fear has to be controlled: "Shame, sugar," Out of the abyssal quiet they slip: "—that death isn't a repeat act; it's made for the one night onlys."
Her fingers had slipped, yet she assumed the trail still burned as if they were sill lingering — replaced now with the hottness of her breath and a tongue that moved so smoothly, only to be found sharp and deep into the newest face on stage.
Fresh meat. Not as intriguing as Via's flesh was. The entrance — vague and timid.
"You got me here for all the wrong reasons, D'Angelo."
Torturing blondes — one after another, was only entertaining for so long.
Music played, and the woman on stage danced like someone had just snapped her legs in half. Thank fuck whatever that was as short lived —
A look shot in Via's direction suggesting she'd handle that with much more grace, than Saher ever could. If it was up to her, she'd set them all on fire. No explanation given — just light a match and boom.
📚for me to grab the book nearest to me, flip to a random page, and use the first line of dialogue I see as a starter
"Get back in that tub." it was big enough to fit them both, and two more. Her empty wine glass resting on the tiled floor, legs coming in and out of the bubbles. "Wine's in the fridge — if that's what you're looking for."
She didn't have guests over frequently due to her horrible work schedule, plus her apartment was as messy as it got — books and clothes covered every surface of her living room and her bedroom was a mess of pillows.
When the fuck was she even home anyway?
The only time she spent at home was spent sleeping.
⏤ Luke looked at Saher, right in front of him. There was a lot he needed to say. He did warn her this meeting is an EMERGENCY. Because it is to him. The thing about Luke, he is very dramatic. ❛ I'm glad you agreed to this meeting. I need to fix something. I… ❜ How could he start? ❛ I married a stranger in Las Vegas. I want to annul my wedding. This is the emergency, love. Rumors have it, you heal hearts, and people, and get away with everything. Help out, your fellah. Will you? ❜
An emergency meant that she'd find the blonde in a pool of his own blood. But there he was — all fine and dandy, as unfortunate as that was, and to top if off — asking for things.
She hit him with a fuck off side-eye on arrival.
"What do I look like? The fucking divorce fairy?" boredom laced every word. It was like calling a dentist to officiate a funeral.
Arms crossed over Saher circled him like a vulture.
"And what's in it for me, blondie?" she wasn't going to lift a finger for free.
"What do I get out of this?"
Makes sense. There was a girl in college who got sick off of rum and could never drink it again. So she just nods with a soft little laugh. "I get it. But shots are shots are shots." And she punctuates it by throwing it back, slight grimace as it burns on the way down. Good stuff, really. Clearing her throat, she lets out a soft breath. "Damn."
And there - Yeah, again - makes sense. She's still getting used to the way people operate here. "Do you have something in mind or is this a favor to cash in later?"
Her hand remained on the bottle, pouring the two of them another round, a flicker of her lips upwards at the way Aria's features wrinkled at the sensation. Must've been a while.
"Well, I still need to know what you're actually good at — " a gang shared, did not mean that they had the same spark — Aria had stood out to her at first, piqued her curiousity enough to start a connection, but keeping it — that was never promised.
"You don't disappoint, do you?" she downed her shot, looking right at her.
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"priorities, right? folks are just crazy bout their lattes" heath said, his grin as sardonic as ever "well, what in tarnation do ya want me to do, ma'am? should i have offered a side of aloe vera with that? guess i better start keepin' some in my back pocket for emergencies" the man shrugged, kneeling to attach the leash to buddy.
heath stood up, facing the woman again "i reckon i thought it was a kind offer, personally. i ain't always that friendly"
She didn't really care — let the damn fucker burn, if he was any smarter, he'd go to her hospital and if he had any luck, he'd have her as his doctor.
A quick glance at her watch, twenty minutes left to spare on this random guy — whoever the fuck he was. Not bad to look at, certainly not good at handling his dog. "Maybe he'd be back to have your dog put down."
She crossed one leg over the other, "Really? Wouldn't have guessed. You look like a softie to me." deadpan.
"Come on now, it's New York City. Nothing here is what it seems." Vero teased, playfully winking. She holds a hand out to catch the helmet, placing it snuggly on her head. Walking over to the bike, slipping behind the mystery woman in one movement, but she chuckles at her tease.
This wasn't what she was expecting to happen when she approached asking for help, though she wasn't mad about the turn of events. Veronica can't remember the last time she did something spontaneous like this.
"You can bite. I promise, I'm not fragile." She wraps her arms around the other woman's waist, wondering where this night was about to take her. "Shall we?"
It was her lucky night — the one holding the spare helmet like it was the most excitiment she'd gotten in a few years. Lucky, because Saher wasn't bearing teeth already, but behaving — waiting to see if there's something beneath the surface, behind the blank face of a nobody.
It didn't matter where they were going (Saher never bothered to ask), she would just ride around the empty streets of New York — there were barely any cars at that hour.
"Not fragile, not very smart either. Are you always that naive?"
Well, she wouldn't exactly call her gullible for trusting a woman in scrubs — after all, she did save lives for a living, but even that title couldn't hide her sociopathic tendancies.
She didn't wait for an answer, the bike roared and they were off — sudden and fast.
Why she'd been invited along, Aria didn't necessarily know but she wasn't going to bite the hand that feeds. It's an offer to get out of the house, let loose a little, and relax. Hopefully. God knows she never actually relaxes, especially around others.
"Does anyone ever forget how to take shots?" Aria grimaced and gestured for her to fill the glass. Rhetorical question - she's sure they do.
Picked the emptiest bar, for discretion mostly — it was either that or a dodgy ass building the syndicate owned.
"Don't know — " a small shrug, "I know a guy that gets sick by the smell alone, now. Used to drink tequila for breakfast." Saher filled the two glasses, as she spoke, "I don't know if he's even alive now." she did tell him to call only if he was dying, so he could still be alive somewhere.
"No ocassion — I do something for you and you do something for me." it's the way things worked in her world.
"Perhaps you should help her with that," Via muses, tipping her head to see if there is something to witness if she turns her head at another angle. Tricks were sometimes, all about the angles. D'Angelo isn't scoring down for things she does herself.
But Saher is — not for the first time — entirely correct that the most wanting thing here, is very much some tragic accident to occur. Saher encourages the acts to do better... in her own way.
Via smiles, and encourages them to listen to the idea to do better.
It works. For the most part. So it's only half a real suggestion, as she swivels head head and twists in her seat to face the woman sat beside her: "Live surgery, now that would be quite a show." But maybe, not original.
Via's done the vanishing forever act, once.
"Making the real, fake. It's certainly an idea, amore." She's never participated in the grotesque potential to cut a being open on a stage — and then put them back together, with everything being real. Even the selbit is a trick, despite how gruesome it could be protrayed to be. She'll have to figure out the trick to Saher, and her demented input eventually.
She wasn't sure what that meant — put her out of her misery or heal her injuries after she'd tried to experiment with the ideas given to her?
Saher only hoped it wasn't the latter, but that's who she was known for — the helper; doc, was not only something written on her starbucks cup. The redhead on stage only shivered slightly, still wide eyed and scared shitless by the word sugery, and the wicked smiles on both of the women in the audience.
Fuck, she was taking small steps back now — "Oh, don't be a pussy."
Via continued, and the idea of cutting the talentless idiot open and making swords and puppies out of her intestines did have a certain appeal right this moment.
They'd make a fortune of it too —
Saher didn't know shit about theater, but she knew cutting. Her fingers reached for Via's throat, index finger gliding over her pulse point and down to her collarbone slowly, dark eyes tracing the movement, "If you can make it look sexy —" she glanced up at the frozen woman on stage, " — dying I mean."
heath stood outside the coffee shop, a slight breeze ruffling his hair, a familiar routine playing out as he waited for his morning fix. his loyal companion, buddy, a playful labrador retriever, sat obediently by his side, eager eyes scanning the passing pedestrians for any potential playmates. as the door swung open, a rush of warm air mingled with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee.
buddy leaped forward with unbridled enthusiasm, bounded towards a departing patron, his tail wagging furiously. before heath could react, the person stumbled, their coffee spilling in a chaotic splatter of brown liquid "well played, ya clumsy rascal, look what ya did" heath muttered to his dog, a twang in his voice as he shook his head at the spill on the ground.
heath rushed over the person, a mix of concern and apology on his lips, while buddy sat nearby, looking both guilty and hopeful for forgiveness "i'm truly sorry 'bout that. i don't rightly know what got into him - let me make it right, yah? i'll fetch ya another coffee. i'm real sorry 'bout all this"
Easier to answer to than her own name. It's what the baristas called her at this point. A regular every morning, the same order coming through and after the tenth time she'd shown up in scrubs, they stopped bothering with her actual name. Doc — short, quick and with the right amount of don't fucking bother me, I'm busy.
Only fucking downfall — if anyone's chocking on their morning bagel, they'd know who to look for. She'd stare right back with a bullshit excuse like — Not a real doctor, got a PhD in anthropology.
Shouts grew louder; lacking the usual measured customer service level tone. Saher watched as the poor fucker next to her, got himself a first degree burn on his arm. The man continued to yell — didn't seem to care for the dog or his owner. He let the door crash hard on his way out of the place.
"Fuck — Melted his skin off, and all you did was offer to get him another coffee?" she scoffed.
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There weren't many times that Veronica was willing to go on the back of someone's motorcycle, especially not at this odd hour, but when someone as beautiful as the woman before her was tempting her, well, there were always exceptions to some cases. She looked over at her rust bucket, as Raffa referred to it, accepting defeat. It wasn't going anywhere, but that didn't mean she had to be stuck too.
She had to admit she was a bit surprised by the woman's choice of ride. Even in NYC it wasn't too common to see someone in scrubs driving a Ducati Monster, she wondered what her position in the medical field was.
"And if I am?" She teasingly replies, stepping closer. "Will you be taking me on a test drive?"
It seemed like Saher had underestimated the other. She definitelly didn't look like a woman that'd take on a challenge like that — dark gaze traced over her; up and down like she was prey. "Wouldn't take you for the type." she teased back.
Her night just got ten fucking times better.
The helmet went over her head, long legs wrapping around each side of her bike. "Depends — Are you gonna ask me questions or gear up?" the brunette tossed lightly the extra helmet in her direction.
Her lips streched into a devilish smirk, "I'll be a good girl and I won''t bite."
It wasn't pre-planned — Saher wasn't the type to be seen with anyone that didn't scream psycho or divorced dad of two; categories that both her co-workers and the himbo she's fucking on a friday, fell into. The only thing she circled down in her calendar were surgeries.
Outings with syndicate members were a no. In and out. Do the job — go home.
Aria was a whole different thing — plus, they could make this into a drinking game. "Why else do you think I brought this?" she took the cap off a newly bought tequila bottle.
