Raja, fresh from cracking the Seattle Strangler case, lounged in his Villa, sipping Dobby's espresso.
Craving some LA vibes, he dialed Prudence's New house in L.A.
Cheryl Ann picked up, chirping, "Pru's swamped—her pop video's a hit! She's the teen heartthrob, drowning in offers."
Raja grinned, proud as a peacock. "My girl's killing it!"
He called the 2 Broke Girls now rich —Max and Caroline were knee-deep in a pastry contest, bickering over frosting in London.
"Pass," Raja muttered, cruising to the Nine-Nine Precinct to bug Amy and Rosa.
MAYA: "Master, you're a chaos magnet."
At the precinct, Amy bounced like a kid on sugar, clutching an email. "Dr. Kevin Michael Cozner invited me to his birthday party!"
Jake, slurping a slushie, snorted, "Cozner? Sounds like a knockoff wizard."
Raja, strutting in, rolled his eyes. "It's Captain Holt's husband, Peralta. You're a detective—learn your squad's spouses and addresses. Basic stuff!"
Amy and Rosa lit up, tackling Raja with hugs and cheek kisses.
Jake pouted, "I'm jealous and weirded out."
Rosa smirked, "Get used to it, loser."
Amy gushed, "Holt's house! I'm gonna learn everything about him!"
Charles piped up, "It'll be Beauty and the Beast fancy!"
Captain Holt marched in, deadpan. "My husband invited you to my birthday. Rules: no parking, no gifts, no singing 'Happy Birthday.'"
The whole Nine-Nine squad was in—Jake, Amy, Rosa, Charles, Terry, Gina, Scully, Hitchcock.
Jake whined, "Holt doesn't want me there."
Terry, flexing dad vibes, drilled etiquette: "Don't be late, no phones, bring wine, no shorts!"
Jake, plotting to wow Kevin with cop tales, nodded, already ignoring half the list.
Party night at Holt's swanky brownstone, Raja arrived early—early—shocking the squad. Kevin and Holt had specially invited him.
Raja owned the room, serving whitewashed Indian dishes—butter chicken sliders, naan tacos—that had guests drooling. His tailored suit screamed money, and his witty banter had academics chuckling.
Rosa whispered to Amy, "Raja's Bond getup is hotter than his bad boy getup."
Amy nodded, "I'm stealing his tailor."
Raja spotted the squad stumbling in, Jake 35 minutes late with the same cheap merlot as everyone else.
MAYA: "Peralta's a walking disaster."
Raja swooped over, voice sharp. "No cop talk, got it? This ain't a precinct barbecue."
Jake deflated, "But my stories!"
Raja shut him down, assigning safe topics:
Amy, art history;
Boyle, food;
Scully, opera;
Gina, psychology;
Rosa, weapons and sports cars;
Jake and Hitchcock, "Shut up and nod."
Jake sulked but obeyed, eyeing Kevin chatting about The New Yorker. Desperate to impress, Jake butted in, faking literary vibes.
Raja materialized, hissing, "Peralta, zip it—stick to nodding!" Jake grumbled, retreating.
Charles, meanwhile, nerded out with Vivian Ludley, Kevin's author pal, over artisanal cheeses.
Raja steered Gina to a psychologist posse, who geeked out over her wild psyche, calling her "a case study in chaos."
Amy, on a mission to bond with Holt, snooped through his kitchen, sniffing spices, then crept upstairs to his room, rifling through books.
Jake, hunting The New Yorker article, slunk through hallways, dodging guests.
Holt caught him red-handed, sighing, "Peralta, stop trying so hard." Upstairs, Terry nabbed Amy mid-snoop, just as Holt arrived, eyebrow raised. "Santiago, really?"
Kevin, spotting the chaos, argued with Holt. "Your Squad are inappropriate!"
Holt snapped back, "They're my team!"
The squad slunk downstairs, party vibe tanked. Next day, they pieced it together: Kevin's cop grudge stemmed from Holt facing discrimination as a gay Black officer.
Raja, ever the fixer, confronted Kevin, charm dialed to eleven. "Let's do a redo dinner Nine-Nine Style—clear the air." Kevin, disarmed, agreed.
The squad planned the make-up dinner:
Amy picked a chic bistro,
Terry chose a fancy Pinot,
Boyle and Vivian curated a menu (truffle risotto, anyone?),
and Gina begrudgingly returned some of Holt's pilfered knickknacks.
At the dinner, Kevin softened, laughing at Boyle's food rants and Scully's shockingly decent opera serenade.
"Call me Kev," he said, raising a glass. As the squad left Holt and Kevin to their date, Scully belted Pagliacci, Terry dragging him out.
Raja smirked, "That's my cue."
Hopping to MacLaren's bar, Raja joined Ted, Robin, Barney, Lily, and Marshall for drinks.
He regaled them with the Strangler case, dropping, "Caught the killer—shipyard cage, bam!"
The gang gasped, jaws on the floor. "You're nineteen?!" Lily squeaked.
They swapped weekly chaos tales—Barney's suit and new girl saga, Marshall's lawyering woes—partying hard, shots flowing.
Raja drove Robin home, her tipsy grin flirty. At her door, she pulled him in, kissing him deep. "No strings, just fun—deal?"
Raja smirked, kissing back, "My kinda contract."
They tumbled inside, Raja started of slowly caressing, kissing, and gentlely squzeeing her assets and started to slowly fuck her making comfortable for robin and after that a night of no-holds-barred passion leaving the apartment a wreck.
MAYA: "You're a walking soap opera."
Morning hit, and Raja craved more chaos. "Time for a movie world—adventure, mayhem, the works!"
He strutted to his forbidden forest in the night, sliding into his enchanted pod in his chaos adobe.
Dobby, in his mobster shades, stood guard, saluting, "Don't die, boss!"
Raja grinned, "Do you think anybody can touch me."
He called MAYA, "Fire up the soul transfer—new world, let's roll!"
The Maya hummed, ready to sling him into cinematic madness.