The building’s main lift had never felt smaller than it did at 11:15 p.m. the next night. The fluorescent ceiling panel hummed faintly, casting a sickly pale light over the mirrored walls. The air inside was stale—recycled, warm, carrying the faint ghost of someone’s dinner spices from earlier. The emergency stop button had already been pressed between the 7th and 8th floors. The lift hung motionless, a metal box suspended in the shaft, giving the illusion of privacy in a building full of sleeping strangers.

Karan leaned against one mirrored wall, arms crossed, black shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest. Aisha stood in the center—trench coat open and hanging off her shoulders like dark wings. Underneath: nothing but the leather collar and the short chain cuffs linking her wrists in front of her body. Her boobs hung heavy and free, nipples still faintly marked from the basement clamps two nights ago, now dark and erect from the cool draft seeping through the lift vents. Between her thighs, the silver clit chain dangled, swaying gently with every shift of her hips.