The bedroom door stayed wide open that night. Light from the corridor spilled in like dirty yellow water. Anyone walking past could see inside—see everything. Voices from other flats drifted through—TV noise, a baby crying somewhere, footsteps on the stairs. No one stopped. Yet.

Inside, the room was lit only by two red lamps on the nightstands. The bed had no sheets—just a black plastic cover that stuck to sweaty skin. Karan stood at the foot of the bed, shirt off, belt in hand doubled over. Aisha knelt on the mattress—naked, wrists cuffed to the headboard chains, legs spread wide by ropes tied to the bedposts. Her pussy dripped slow—clear threads hanging from swollen lips down to the plastic. Boobs hung forward, heavy, already marked with faint pink lines from past nights.