The hunger in the chawl had become a living thing, a silent sixth tenant that sat in the center of the damp room and gnawed at the brothers' pride with more ferocity than it bit at their stomachs. Shaurya's regal cheekbones had become sharp enough to cut, his tailored tuxedo shirt hanging off a frame that was beginning to cave. Vivaan's artistic hands, once capable of the most delicate linework, now shook with the rhythmic tremors of low blood sugar. But for Ananya, the hunger was no longer a symptom of her fall; it was a tool. It was a cold, driving force that pushed her out of the room at 2:00 AM, moving with the silence of a vapor while the five men who had "executed" her lay in a fitful, starving sleep, dreaming of the empires they had lost.

--- ✧ ---