The humidity of the chawl felt like a physical weight, a suffocating blanket that pressed the scent of lye, damp stone, and copper into the very pores of the concrete walls. The monsoon outside had slowed to a rhythmic, mocking drizzle, the sound of water hitting the corrugated metal roof like a million tiny needles. Ananya sat in her corner, the moldy mat biting into the raw skin of her knees. Her body was curled in a defensive ball, her heart hammering a frantic, uneven rhythm against her ribs.

Deep within the torn, grime-caked pocket of her seafoam silk gown—a dress that now felt like a leaden shroud—her fingers brushed against a cold, filigreed surface. It was the one thing she had managed to hide during the frantic arrest, the humiliating trek through the mud, and the subsequent scrubbing rituals that had left her hands weeping and raw.