The Mumbai afternoon simmered like fever. Heat pressed against the tall iron gates of the Sharma bungalow, thick with the smell of diesel, frying pakoras from distant carts, and the faint metallic promise of coming rain. Inside the cool marble-veined palace, Raj Sharma—26, lean, restless, perpetually half-hard from too many late-night porn tabs—paced his study like a caged animal. His parents were gone again, continents away. The house echoed. Empty. Hungry.

The old maid had finally left. A new one was coming. Raj hadn't cared until the auto-rickshaw coughed to a stop outside and she stepped out.